THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


I 


/ 


EDITED,  WITH 

CAREFUL  REVISIONS  AND  NEW  TRANSLATIONS, 

BY 

CHARLES  J.  HEMPEL,  M.D. 


WITH  PREFACE  TO  THE  READER ;  NOTES  AND  APPENDIX 

'  TO 


“WIREMAN'S  POEMS  OF  SCHILLER” 


COMPLETE  IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  II. 


|jjjifl|  |ttustrali<m$  %  iltc  Ijimin 


PHILADELPHIA: 

I.  KOHLER,  911  ARCH  STREET. 

1881. 


1 


~x 

\ 


. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18Sl,by  IGNATZ  KOHLER,  in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian 

of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


CAXTON  PRESS  OF 
S&ERMAN  A  CO<,  PHILADELPHIA. 


m  “»•»<(*** 


CONTENTS. 


8-33S33 
TH  ' 

v.2. 


History  op  the  Revolt  of  the  United  Nether¬ 
lands .  9 

The  Author’s  Preface .  9 

Introduction .  10 

Earlier  History  of  the  Netherlands  up  to 

the  Sixteenth  century .  15 

The  Netherlands  under  Charles  the  Fifth..  20 

Philip  the  Second,  Ruler  of  the  Netherlands.  24 

Tribunal  of  the  Inquisition .  25 

Other  Encroachments  on  the  Constitution 

of  the  Netherlands .  29 

William  of  Orange,  and  Count  Egmont .  30 

Margaret  of  Parma,  Regent  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands .  33 

Cardinal  Granvella .  36 

The  Council  of  State .  47 

Count  Egmont  in  Spain .  51 

Sevei’er  Religious  Edicts — Universal  Oppo¬ 
sition  of  the  Nation . . .  53 

Conspiracy  of  the  Nobles .  57 

The  Gueux .  63 

Public  Preaching .  67 

The  Iconoclasts .  73 

Civil  War . 82 

Resignation  of  William  of  Orange .  89 

Decay  and  Dispersion  of  the  Geusen  League.  92 
Alva’s  Armament  and  Expedition  to  the 

Netherlands .  96 

Alva’s  First  Measures,  and  Departure  of 

the  Duchess  of  Parma .  101 

Trial  and  Execution  of  Counts  Egmont  and 

Horn .  105 

Siege  of  Antewrp  by  the  Prince  of  Parma. 

In  the  years  1584  and  1585 .  108 

History  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War  in  Ger¬ 
many . . .  123 

Prosaic  Writings .  252 

First  Period .  252 

On  the  Connection  of  Man’s  Animal  and 

Spiritual  Natures .  252 

Introduction .  252 

1.  Physical  Connection.  The  Animal  Na¬ 
ture  Fortifies  the  Activity  of  the  Mind...  252 

2.  Organism  of  Soul-Action — Nutrition — 

Generation .  252 

3.  The  Body .  253 

4.  Animal  Life .  253 

5.  Animal  Sensations .  253 

6.  Objections  against  the  Connection  of 
the  Two  Natures  suggested  by  Morality..  254 
Philosophical  Connection.  — Animal  In¬ 
stincts  awaken  and  develop  the  Mental..  254 

7.  Method .  254 

8  The  Soul  considered,  without  its  Connec¬ 
tion  with  the  Body .  255 

9.  The  Soul  considered,  in  connection 
with  the  Body . . .  255 


\ 

/  \ 


10.  Suggestions  furnished  by  the  History 

of  the  Individual .  255 

11.  Suggestions  drawn  from  the  History 

of  the  Human  Race . 256 

12.  Animal  Sensations  accompanying  the 

Spiritual .  257 

13.  Spiritual  Delight  promotes  the  well¬ 
being  of  the  Organs .  257 

14.  Spiritual  Pain  undermines  the  well¬ 
being  of  the  Organs .  258 

15.  Examples .  258 

16.  Exceptions .  259 

17.  Indolence  of  Soul  retards  the  move¬ 
ments  of  Organs .  259 

18.  Second  Law .  259 

19.  The  State  of  the  Spirit  consequent  upon 

the  State  of  the  Body .  260 

20.  Limitation  of  the  Former  Remarks......  260 

21.  Further  Developments  concerning  the 

Union .  251 

Bodily  Phenomena  Betray  the  Movements 
of  the  Spirit .  261 

22.  Physiognomy  of  Sensations. . .  261 

Even  the  Decrease  of  the  Animal  Life  is  a 

Source  of  Perfection .  262 

23.  It  seems  to  Hinder  this  Perfection .  262 

24.  Necessity  of  a  Remission .  262 

25.  Explanation . 262 

26.  Excellency  of  this  Remission .  263 

27.  Separation  of  the  Connection .  263 

On  the  Present  German  Stage.  From  the 

Wurtemberg  Repertory  of  Literature, 

1782 .  263 

The  Walk  under  the  Linden.  From  the 
Wurtemberg  Repertory  of  Literature, 

1782 .  266 

A  Generous  Act  from  Modern  History. 
From  the  Wurtemberg  Repertory  of 

Literature,  1782 .  .268 

The  Stage  considered  as  a  Moral  Institu¬ 
tion . . . 269 

Second  Period .  272 

The  Criminal  from  Lost  Honor.  A  True 

Story .  272 

Sport  of  Destiny.  A  Fragment  of  a  True 

Story .  279 

The  Ghost-Seer ;  or,  Apparitionist.  From 

the  Papers  of  Count  O  *  *  *  * .  283 

Philosophical  Letters .  322 

Preliminary  Remarks .  322 

Julius  to  Raphael . ,323 

Julius  to  Raphael .  324 

Julius  to  Raphael .  324 

Julius  to  Raphael .  325 

Theosophy  of  Julius .  325 

The  Universe  and  the  Thinking  Being .  325 

Idea’ .  326 


i 


(51 


6 


CONTENTS. 


Love . 

Sacrifice . 

God . 

Raphael  to  Julius . 

Letters  on  Don  Carlos . 

Wliat  Means,  and  for  What  Purpose,  do 

we  Study  Universal  History . 

An  Academical  Introductory . 

Thoughts  Concerning  the  First  Human  So¬ 
ciety  : — Suggested  by  the  Mosaic  Record... 
Man’s  Transition  to  Freedom  and  Human¬ 
ity  . 

Domestic  Life . . . 

Different  Modes  of  Life . . 

Cessation  of  Equality  of  Condition . 

First  Distinction  of  Ranks . . 

The  First  King . 

Mission  of  Moses . 

Legislation  of  Lycurgus  and  Solon . 

Lycurgus . 

Solon . 

Miscellaneous  Essays.  On  the  Migrations 
of  Nations ;  Crusaders,  and  the  Middle 

Ages, . 

Survey  of  the  Condition  of  Europe  at  the 
time  of  the  First  Crusade.  A  Frag¬ 
ment . . . 

General  Survey  of  the  Most  Memorable 
Political  Events  at  the  Time  of  Fred¬ 
erick  I . 

History  of  the  Disturbances  in  France, 


preceding  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  to  the 

Death  of  Charles  IX .  391 

Duke  Alva  at  Breakfast  in  the  Castle  of 

Rudolstadt,  in  the  year  1547 .  427 

Memorable  Events  in  the  Life  of  Marshal 

Vieilleville . 428 

Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Order  of 

Malta . . . 456 

Preface  to  the  First  Part  of  the  Celebrated 

Causes  of  Pitaval .  458 

On  Loveliness  and  Dignity .  459 

On  the  Pathetic .  478 

On  the  Causes  of  the  Delight  in  Tragic  Sub¬ 
jects .  487 

On  Tragic  Art .  491 

Scattered  Thoughts  on  Various  AEstlietic 

Subjects.... . 499 

On  the  ^Esthetic  Education  of  Man,  in  a 

Series  of  Letters .  505 

On  the  Necessary  Limits  in  the  Use  of 

Beautiful  Forms .  540 

On  Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry .  549 

On  the  Moral  Use  of  AEstlietic  Manners .  580 

On  the  Sublime .  582 

Thoughts  Concerning  the  Use  of  the  Com¬ 
mon  and  Low  in  Art .  588 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Propylsea .  590 

Barger’s  Poems . 594 

On  the  Garden  Almanac  of  1795 .  599 

On  Egmont,  Tragedy  by  Goethe .  601 

On  Matthisson’s  Poems .  605 


327 

327 

328 

330 

332 

346 

346 

352 

352 

353 

354 

355 

356 

357 

358 

365 

368 

370 

376 

380 

383 


\ 


EDITOR’S  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  VOLUME. 


It  is  with  some  diffidence  that  the  second  vol¬ 
ume  of  Schiller’s  Works  is  here  presented  to  the 
public.  It  is  not  an  easy  task  to  clothe  the  ideas 
of  such  an  eminently  transcendental  writer  in  the 
phraseology  of  a  foreign  idiom,  without  impairing, 
or  even  destroying  the  beauty  of  the  original. 
How  far  the  editor  has  succeeded  in  furnishing  a 
truthful  version  of  Schiller’s  exalted  philosophy, 
and  conveying  a  correct  idea  of  his  pure,  com¬ 
prehensive,  and  ennobling  doctrines  of  the  beautiful 
in  art  and  social  life,  can  be  best  estimated  by 
those  who  have  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  Ger¬ 
man  language  to  appreciate  the  vigor  and  rich¬ 
ness  of  Schiller’s  style,  the  melodious  flow  of  his 
sentences,  the  classic  forms  of  his  language,  and 
the  keen  logic  of  his  arguments,  all  of  which  cohere 
as  the  elements  of  one  of  Nature’s  own  indestruc¬ 
tible  series.  If  the  critical  reader  should  discover 
flaws  in  the  present  version,  the  editor  will  be 
thankful  for  every  hint  or  suggestion  that  may  be 
offered  to  him  ;  at  the  same  time  he  has  full  confi¬ 
dence  that  the  reader’s  generosity  will  allow  him 
the  privilege  of  a  second  edition,  to  remove  the 
imperfections  of  style  or  typography  which  may 
have  been  suffered  to  remain  in  this  first  edition, 
in  spite  of  every  care  with  which  this  labor  has 
been  performed. 

Schiller’s  philosophical  and  aesthetical  writings 
are  the  offspring  of  a  pure  imagination,  a  noble 
heart,  and  a  truly  great  and  idealizing  reason. 
Those  in  whom  faith  in  a  better  humanity  is 
still  burning,  will  find  encouragement  in  Schil¬ 
ler’s  eminently  practical  transcendentalism  to 
preserve  their  hopes  of  a  holier  future  of  the  race, 
and  to  warm  their  hearts  with  the  fire  of  a  broad 
and  undying  philanthropy.  In  the  present  age, 
when  all  the  powers  of  the  soul  seem  centred  in 
the  gross  pursuits  of  sensual  delights  or  necessi¬ 
ties  ;  when  the  very  thought  of  man’s  diviner  na¬ 
ture  seems  to  have  become  extinguished  ;  when 
brute  force  is  still  claiming  sovereign  power,  even 
in  ^ur  own  midst ;  when  first  principles  have  been 
lost  sight  of  amid  the  tumult  of  excited  passions, 
of  usulted  rights,  of  struggling  hopes,  of  rebellious 


prejudices,  of  a  universal  conflict  of  conventional¬ 
ism,  selfishness,  and  fierce  hatred  and  revenge, 
the  calm  voice  of  such  a  thinker  and  poet  as 
Schiller  has  been  to  his,  and  will  be  to  all  future 
ages,  may  have  a  tendency  to  counteract  the 
materialism  of  the  present,  and  to  quicken,  like 
heavenly  dew,  the  few  germs  of  life  which  are 
now  struggling  here  and  there  to  break  through 
the  stony  crust  by  which  the  hearts  and  minds  of 
so  many  millions  of  our  Christian  brethren  seem 
to  be  rendered  impervious  to  the  mild  rays  of 
heavenly  truth  and  love. 

We  fondly  believe  that  the  present  attempt  of 
rendering  Schiller’s  Works  accessible  to  the  peo¬ 
ple  of  our  glorious  country,  will  result  in  popular¬ 
izing  the  literature  of  Germany  among  us.  Can 
any  thing  but  good  spring  from  a  closer  union  of 
the  practical  tendencies  of  the  American  mind, 
and  the  speculative  idealism  of  the  Germans  ? 
In  spite  of  all  the  aberrations  of  German  meta¬ 
physicians  in  the  regions  of  skepticism  and  unbe¬ 
lief,  we  venture  to  assert  that  no  class  of  men  are 
more  powerfully  working,  at  the  present  moment, 
in  the  great  cause  of  human  progress  and  universal 
emancipation  from  the  thralldom  of  prejudice  than 
the  leading  minds  of  Germany  in  the  various  de¬ 
partments  of  human  knowledge  and  interest. 
The  inconvenience  resulting  from  the  search  of 
first  principles  in  political  and  philosophical 
science,  is  only  temporary ;  the  positive  good  to 
which  these  bold  inquiries  lead,  will  prove  imper¬ 
ishable,  and  endlessly  progressive  ;  the  most  fasci¬ 
nating  sophisms  will  finally  be  dispelled  by  the 
light  of  truth,  and  a  new  life  will  arise  from  this 
universal  conflict  of  mind  and  matter,  a  life  of 
freedom  sanctified  by  law. 

The  period  when  Schiller  gave  his  inspirations 
to  the  world,  was  an  age  of  mental  greatness  and 
enthusiasm.  The  seed  which  was  then  sown  by 
the  poets  and  philosophers  of  Germany  and 
France,  is  even  now  ripening  in  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  men,  breaking  down  the  stolid  despotism 
of  institutions,  and  realizing  the  glorious  promises 
of  the  prophets  of  the  past,  and  the  living  hopes 

(D 


8 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  VOLUME. 


and  aspirations  of  the  present.  If  our  labors 
should  contribute  ever  so  little  to  excite  a  desire 
for  reading  our  author,  and  the  works  of  his  co¬ 
temporaries  and  friends,  Lessing,  Goethe,  Herder, 
Wieland,  Burger,  Kant,  and  a  host  of  other 
equally  illustrious  names,  in  the  original  language, 
we  shall  consider  ourselves  amply  paid  for  the 
labor  we  have  expended  upon  this  publication. 
The  facilities  for  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the 
German  language  are  so  numerous,  that  any  one 
who  is  desirous  of  being  fully  initiated  into  the 
inexhaustible  treasures  of  its  literature,  can  have 
no  difficulty  in  selecting  proper  means  of  accom¬ 
plishing  this  purpose. 


We  would  call  particular  attention  to  the  his- 
torical  portions  of  this  volume,  which  mu^t  prove 
delightful  reading  to  every  American  whose  heart 
vibrates  with  sympathy  for  political  and  religious 
freedom  struggling  against  the  horrid  despotism 
of  the  Spanish  Inquisition,  and  the  oppressive  rule 
of  German  Emperors. 

Believing  that  this  version  of  Schiller’s  Writings 
will  prove  a  most  useful  addition  to  the  library 
and  household  works  of  every  citizen  of  our  noble 
country,  we  bespeak  for  our  author  the  active 
sympathies  of  a  generous  and  enlightened  public 

Philadelphia,  January,  186i, 


THE  HISTORY 


OF  THE 

REVOLT  OF  THE  UNITED  NETHERLANDS. 


THE  AUTHOR’S  PREFACE. 

_  • 

Some  years  ago,  when  I  read  the  History  of  the 
Belgian  Revolution  in  Watson’s  excellent  de¬ 
scription,  I  was  impressed  with  a  degree  of  en¬ 
thusiasm  which  political  events  but  rarely  excite. 
On  further  reflection,  I  felt  that  this  enthusiasm 
had  arisen  less  from  the  book  itself,  than  from  the 
ardent  workings  of  my  own  imagination,  which 
had  imparted  to  the  imbibed  materials  the  par¬ 
ticular  form  that  so  fascinated  me.  These  powers 
of  imagination,  therefore,  I  felt  desirous  to  ren¬ 
der  permanent,  to  multiply,  and  to  strengthen; 
these  exalted  sentiments  I  was  anxious  to  extend 
and  to  communicate  to  others.  This  was  my  first 
inducement  to  commence  the  present  history, 
my  only  vocation  to  write  it.  The  execution  of 
this  design  carried  me  further  than  I  at  first  in¬ 
tended.  A  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  my 
materials  made  me  perceive  defects,  previously 
unnoticed,  long  waste  tracts  to  be  filled  up,  ap¬ 
parent  contradictions  to  be  removed,  and  iso¬ 
lated  facts  to  be  brought  into  connection  with  the 
rest  of  the  subject.  Not  so  much  with  the  view 
of  enriching  my  history  with  new  facts,  as  to  seek 
a  key  to  old  ones,  I  betook  myself  to  the  original 
sources,  and  thus  what  was  at  first  intended  to  be 
only  a  general  outline,  expanded  into  an  elabo¬ 
rate  history.  The  first  part,  which  concludes  with 
the  departure  of  the  Duchess  of  Parma  from  the 
Netherlands,  must  be  looked  upon  only  as  the 
introduction  to  the  Revolution  itself,  which  did 
not  come  to  an  open  outbreak  till  the  govern¬ 
ment  of  her  successor.  I  devoted  the  more  care 
and  attention  to  this  introductory  period,  because 
the  generality  of  writers,  who  previously  had 
treated  of  it,  seemed  deficient  in  these  qualities  ; 
and  because  I  was  convinced  that  on  this  all  the 
subsequent  events  depended.  If,  then,  this  first 
volume.  should  appear  but  too  meagre  in  impor¬ 
tant  events,  too  prolix  on  trifles,  or  rather,  what 
at  first  sight  seem  trifles,  too  profuse  in  reflections, 
and,  in  general,  too  tediously  minute,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  precisely  out  of  all  small  begin¬ 
nings,  the  Revolution  was  gradually  developed  ; 
and  that  all  the  subsequent  great  results  sprung 
out  of  a  countless  number  of  small  events 


Such  a  nation,  as  the  one  before  us,  ever  takes 
its  first  Steps  with  hesitati on  and  uncertainty;  to 
move  afterward  so  much  the  more  rapidly.  I 
have  proposed  to  myself  to  follow  the  same  method 
in  describing  this  rebellion.  The  longer  the 
reader  delays  on  the  introduction,  the  more  he  fa¬ 
miliarizes  himself  with  the  actors,  and  the  scene 
in  which  they  took  a  part ;  and  the  more  rapidly 
and  surely  shall  I  be  able  to  conduct  him  through 
the  subsequent  periods,  where  the  accumulation 
of  materials  forbids  a  slow  pace,  and  minute  at¬ 
tention. 

As  for  authorities  for  our  history,  there  is  not 
so  much  reason  to  complain  of  their  paucity,  as 
of  their  extreme  abundance ;  since  it  is  indispen¬ 
sable  to  read  them  all  to  obtain  that  clear  view 
of  the  subject,  which  is  frequently  disturbed  by 
the  perusal  of  a  part,  however  large.  From  such 
unequal,  partial,  and  often  contradictory  narra¬ 
tives  of  the  same  occurrences,  it  is  often  extremely 
difficult  to  seize  the  truth,  which,  in  all,  is  alike 
partly  concealed,  and  to  be  found  complete  in  none. 
In  this  first  volume,  besides  De  Thou,  Strada, 
Reyd,  Grotius,  Meteren,  Burgundius,  Meursius, 
Bentivoglio,  and  some  moderns ;  the  Memoirs  of 
Counselor  Hopperus,  the  life  and  correspondence 
of  his  friend  Viglius,  the  records  of  the  trials  of 
the  Counts  of  Hoorne  and  Egmont,  the  defeuse 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  some  few  others, 
have  been  my  guides.  I  must  here  acknowledge 
my  obligations  to  a  work,  compiled  with  much 
industry  and  critical  acumen,  and  written  with 
singular  truthfulness  and  impartiality.  Besides 
many  original  documents  which  I  could  not 
otherwise  have  had  access  to,  it  has  abstracted 
all  that  is  valuable  in  the  excellent  works  of  Bos, 
Hooft,  Bandt,  Le  Clerc,  which  either  were  im¬ 
possible  for  me  to  procure,  or  were  not  available 
to  my  use,  as  being  written  in  Dutch,  which  I  do 
not  understand.  I  allude  to  the  General  History 
of  the  United  Netherlands,  which  was  published 
in  Holland  during  the  present  century.  An 
otherwise  ordinary  writer,  Richard  Dinoth,  has 
also  been  of  service  to  me,  by  the  many  extracts 
he  gives  from  the  pamphlets  of  the  day,  which 
have  been  long  lost.  I  have  in  vain  endeavored 
to  procure  the  Correspondence  of  Cardinal  Gran- 


10 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


vella,  which  also  would,  no  doubt,  have  thrown 
much  light  upon  the  history  of  these  times.  The 
lately  published  work  on  the  Spanish  Inquisition, 
by  my  excellent  countryman,  Professor  Spittler 
of  Gottingen,  reached  me  too  late  for  its  saga¬ 
cious  and  important  contents  to  be  available  for 
my  purpose. 

The  more  I  am  convinced  of  the  importance 
of  the  French  history,  the  more  I  lament,  that  it 
was  not  in  my  power  to  study,  as  I  could  have 
wished,  its  copious  annals,  in  the  original  sources 
and  cotemporaneous  documents,  and  to  repro¬ 
duce  it,  abstracted  of  the  form  in  which  it  was 
transmitted  to  me  by  the  more  intelligent  of  my 
predecessors,  and  thereby  emancipate  myself  from 
the  influence,  which  every  talented  author  exer¬ 
cises  more  or  less  upon  his  readers.  But  to  ef¬ 
fect  this,  the  work  of  a  few  years  must  have  be¬ 
come  the  labor  of  a  life.  My  aim  in  making  this 
attempt  will  be  more  than  attained,  if  it  should 
convince  a  portion  of  the  reading  public,  of  the 
possibility  of  writing  a  history  with  historic  truth, 
without  making  a  trial  of  patience  to  the  reader; 
and  if  it  should  extort  from  another  portion  the 
confession,  that  history  can  borrow  from  a  cog¬ 
nate  art,  without  thereby,  of  necessity,  becoming 
a  romance. 

Weimar,  Michaelmas  Fair,  1788. 


INTRODUCTION. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  political  events 
which  have  rendered  the  16th  century,  among  the 
brightest  of  the  world’s  epochs,  appears  to  me  to 
be  the  foundation  of  the  freedom  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands.  If  the  glittering  exploits  of  ambition,  and 
the  pernicious  lust  of  power,  claim  our  admira¬ 
tion,  how  much  more  should  an  event,  in  which 
oppressed  humanity  struggles  for  its  noblest 
rights,  where  with  the  good  cause  unwonted 
powers  are  united,  and  the  resources  of  resolute 
despair  triumph  in  unequal  contest  over  the  ter¬ 
rible  arts  of  tyranny. 

Great  and  encouraging  is  the  reflection,  that 
there  is  a  resource  left  us  against  the  arrogant 
usurpations  of  regal  power ;  that  its  best  con¬ 
trived  plans  against  the  liberty  of  mankind  may 
be  rendered  abortive  ;  that  resolute  opposition  can 
weaken  even  the  outstretched  arm  of  a  tyrant; 
and  that  heroic  perseverance  can  eventually  ex- 
hausi  its  fearful  resources.  Never  did  this  truth 
penetrate  me  so  sensibly,  as  in  the  history  of  that 
memorable  rebellion,  which  forever  severed  the 
United  Netherlands  from  the  Spanish  Crown — 
and  therefore  I  thought  it  not  unworthy  the  at¬ 
tempt,  to  exhibit  to  the  world  this  grand  memo¬ 
rial  of  social  union,  that  it  may  awaken  in  the 
breast  of  my  reader  a  spirit-stirring  conscious¬ 
ness  of  his  own  powers,  and  give  a  new  and  ir¬ 
refragable  example  of  what  men  dare  venture 
in  a  good  cause,  and  what  they  may  accomplish 
by  union.  It  is  not  that  which  is  extraordinary 
or  heroic  in  this  event,  which  induces  me  to  de¬ 
scribe  it.  The  annals  of  the  world  have  recorded 
similar  enterprises,  which  appear  even  bolder  in 
the  conception,  and  more  brilliant  in  the  execu¬ 


tion.  Some  states  have  fallen  with  a  more  im¬ 
posing  convulsion,  others  have  risen  with  more 
exalted  strides.  Nor  are  we  here  to  look  for  pro¬ 
minent  heroes,  colossal  personages,  or  those  mar¬ 
velous  exploits  which  the  history  of  past  times 
present  in  such  rich  abundance.  Those  times  are 
gone,  the  men  are  no  more.  In  the  soft  lap  of 
refinement,  we  have  suffered  the  powers  to  relax, 
which  those  ages  exercised  and  made  necessary. 
With  admiring  awe,  we  wonder  at  these  gigantic 
images,  as  a  feeble  old  man  gazes  on  the  athletic 
sports  of  youth. 

Not  so,  however,  in  the  history  before  us.  The 
people  here  presented  to  our  notice,  were  the 
most  peaceful  in  this  quarter  of  the  globe,  and 
less  capable  than  their  neighbors  of  that  heroic 
spirit,  which  imparts  a  higher  character  to  the 
most  insignificant  actions.  The  pressure  of  cir¬ 
cumstances  surprised  them  with  its  peculiar 
power,  and  forced  a  transitory  greatness  upon 
them,  which  they  never  should  have  possessed, 
and  may  perhaps  never  possess  again.  It  is,  in¬ 
deed,  exactly  the  want  of  heroic  greatness,  which 
makes  this  event  peculiar  and  instructive ;  and 
while  others  aim  at  showing  the  superiority  of 
genius  over  chance,  I  present  here  a  picture, 
where  necessity  created  genius,  and  accident 
made  heroes. 

If,  in  any  case,  it  be  permitted  to  acknowledge 
the  interference  of  Providence  in  human  affairs, 
it  is  certainly  allowable  in  the  present  history,  so 
contradictory  does  its  course  appear  to  reason 
and  experience.  Philip  II.,  the  most  powerful 
sovereign  of  his  line,  whose  dreaded  superiority 
menaced  the  independence  of  Europe,  whose  trea¬ 
sures  surpassed  the  collective  wealth  of  all  the 
monarchs  of  Christendom  besides, — whose  ambi¬ 
tious  projects  were  backed  by  numerous  and  well- 
disciplined  armies, — whose  troops,  hardened  by 
long  and  bloody  wars,  and  in  the  recollection  of 
their  own  past  victories,  and  confident  in  the 
irresistible  powers  of  the  nation,  were  eager  for 
any  enterprise  that  promised  glory  and  spoil,  and 
to  second  with  prompt  and  ready  obedience  the 
daring  genius  of  their  leaders, — this  dreaded  poten¬ 
tate  is  here  exhibited  to  us  obstinately  devoted 
to  one  favorite  project,  dedicating  to  it  the  un¬ 
ceasing  efforts  of  a  long  reign,  and  bringing  all 
these  terrible  resources  to  bear  upon  it ;  but 
forced  at  last,  in  the  evening  of  his  days,  to  re¬ 
nounce  it  —  the  mighty  Philip  II.  engaging  in 
combat  writh  a  few  weak  and  powerless  adversa¬ 
ries,  and  retiring  from  it  with  disgrace. 

And  with  what  adversaries  ?  Here,  a  peaceful 
tribe  of  fishermen  and  shepherds,  in  an  almost 
forgotten  corner  of  Europe,  which  with  difficulty 
they  had  rescued  from  the  ocean  ;  the  sea  their 
profession,  and  at  once  their  wealth  and  their 
plague ;  poverty  with  freedom  their  highest  bless¬ 
ing,  their  glory,  their  virtue.  There,  a  harmless, 
moral,  commercial  people,  reveling  in  the  abun¬ 
dant  fruits  of  thriving  industry,  jealous  of  the 
maintenance  of  law7s  which  had  proved  their  bene¬ 
factors.  In  the  happy  leisure  of  affluence,  they 
forsake  the  narrow7  circle  of  immediate  wants,  and 
learn  to  thirst  after  higher  and  nobler  gratifica¬ 
tions.  The  new  view's  of  truth,  whose  gladdening 
dawn  now  broke  over  Europe,  cast  a  fertilizing 


HISTORY  OP  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


11 


beam  on  this  favored  clime,  and  the  free  burgher 
received  with  joy  the  light  which  oppressed  and 
miserable  slaves  shut  out.  A  spirit  of  indepen¬ 
dence  which  is  wont  to  accompany  abundance 
and  freedom,  lured  this  people  on  to  examine  the 
authority  of  antiquated  opinions,  and  to  break  an 
ignominious  chain.  The  severe  rod  of  despotism 
was  held  suspended  over  them  ;  an  arbitrary 
power  threatened  to  tear  away  the  foundation  of 
their  happiness;  the  guardian  of  their  laws  be¬ 
came  their  tyrant.  Simple  in  their  state-craft, 
as  in  their  manners,  they  dared  to  appeal  to  an¬ 
cient  treaties,  and  to  remind  the  Lord  of  both 
Indies  of  the  rights  of  nature.  A  name  decides 
the  whole  issue  of  things.  In  Madrid  that  was 
called  rebellion,  which  in  Brussels  was  styled 
only  a  lawful  remonstrance.  The  complaints  of 
Brabant  required  a  prudent  mediator;  Philip  II. 
sent  an  executioner,  and  the  signal  for  war  was 
given.  An  unparalleled  tyranny  assailed  both 
property  and  life.  The  despairing  citizens,  to 
whom  the  choice  of  death  was  all  that  was  left, 
chose  the  nobler  one  on  the  battle-field.  A 
wealthy  and  luxurious  nation  loves  peace,  but  be¬ 
comes  warlike  as  soon  as  it  becomes  poor.  Then 
it  ceases  to  tremble  for  a  life  which  is  deprived 
of  every  thing  that  had  made  it  desirable.  In  a 
moment,  the  rage  of  rebellion  seized  the  most 
distant  provinces;  trade  and  commerce  are  at  a 
stand-still,  the  ships  disappear  from  the  harbors, 
the  artisan  abandons  his  workshop,  the  rustic  his 
uncultivated  fields.  Thousands  fled  to  distant 
lands,  a  thousand  victims  fell  on  the  bloody  field, 
and  fresh  thousands  pressed  on  ;  for  divine  indeed 
must  that  doctrine  be,  for  which  men  could  die  so 
joyfully.  All  that  was  wanting  was  the  last 
achieving  hand,  the  enlightened,  enterprising 
spirit,  to  seize  on  this  great  political  crisis,  and 
to  mature  the  offspring  of  chance  to  the  designs 
of  wisdom.  William  the  Silent  devoted  himself, 
a  second  Brutus,  to  the  great  cause  of  liberty. 
Superior  to  a  timorous  selfishness,  he  sent  in  to 
the  throne  his  resignation  of  offices  which  de¬ 
volved  on  him  objectionable  duties,  and  magnani¬ 
mously  divesting  himself  of  all  his  princely  dig¬ 
nities,  he  descended  to  a  state  of  voluntary  pov¬ 
erty,  and  became  but  a  citizen  of  the  world.  The 
cause  of  justice  was  staked  upon  the  hazardous 
game  of  battle ;  but  the  sudden  levies  of  merce¬ 
naries  and  peaceful  husbandmen  could  not  with¬ 
stand  the  terrible  onset  of  an  experienced  force. 
Twice  did  the  brave  William  lead  his  dispirited 
troops  against  the  tyrant,  twice  was  he  abandoned 
by  them,  but  not  by  his  courage. 

Philip  II.  sent  as  many  reinforcements  as  the 
dreadful  importunity  of  his  viceroy  begged  for. 
Fugitives,  whom  their  fatherland  rejected,  sought 
a  new  country  on  the  ocean,  and  turned  to  satisfy, 
on  the  ships  of  their  enemy,  the  demon  of  venge¬ 
ance  and  of  want.  Naval  heroes  were  now 
formed  out  of  corsairs,  and  a  marine  collected 
out  of  piratical  vessels,  and  out  of  morasses  arose 
a  Republic.  Seven  provinces  threw  off  the  yoke 
at  the  same  time,  to  form  a  new,  youthful  state, 
powerful  by  its  waters,  and  its  union,  and  despair. 
A  solemn  decree  of  the  whole  nation  deposed  the 
tyrant,  and  the  Spanish  name  disappeared  from 
all  the  laws. 


For  wliat  had  now  been  done,  no  forgiveness 
remained  ;  the  Republic  became  formidable,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  her  to  retrace 
her  steps ;  faction  distracted  her  within  ;  hor  ter¬ 
rible  element,  the  sea  itself,  leaguing  with  her 
oppressors,  threatened  her  very  infancy  with  a 
premature  grave.  She  felt  herself  succumb  to  the 
superior  force  of  the  enemy,  and  cast  herself  a  sup¬ 
pliant  before  the  most  powerful  thrones  of  Eu¬ 
rope,  begging  them  to  accept  a  dominion  which 
she  herself  could  no  longer  protect.  At  last,  but 
with  difficulty — so  despised  at  first  was  this  sta  e, 
that  even  the  rapacity  of  foreign  monarchs  spurned 
her  opening  bloom — a  stranger  deigned  to  accept 
their  importunate  offer  of  a  dangerous  crown. 
New  hopes  began  to  revive  her  sinking  courage; 
but  in  this  new  father  of  his  country,  destiny 
gave  her  a  traitor ;  and  in  the  critical  emergency, 
when  the  implacable  foe  was  in  full  force  before 
her  very  gates,  Charles  of  Anjou  invaded  the 
liberties  which  he  had  been  called  to  protect. 
The  assassin’s  hand,  too,  tore  the  steersman  from 
the  rudder,  and  with  William  of  Orange  the  ca¬ 
reer,  seemingly,  of  the  infant  Republic,  and  all 
her  guardian  angels,  fled:  but  the  ship  continued 
to  scud  along  in  the  storm,  and  the  swelling 
canvas  carried  her  safe  without  the  steersman’s 
help. 

Philip  II.  missed  the  fruits  of  a  deed,  which 
cost  him  his  royal  honor,  and  perhaps,  also,  his 
self-respect.  Liberty  struggled  on  still  with  des¬ 
potism,  in  the  obstinate  and  dubious  contest ; 
sanguinary  battles  were  fought ;  a  brilliant  array 
of  heroes  succeeded  each  other  on  the  field  of 
glory  ;  and  Flanders  and  Brabant  were  the  schools 
which  educated  generals  for  the  coming  cen¬ 
tury.  A  long,  devastating  war  laid  waste  the  open 
country;  victor  and  vanquished  alike  were  bathed 
in  blood  ;  while  the  rising  republic  of  the  waters 
gave  a  welcome  to  fugitive  industry,  and  out  of 
the  ruins,  erected  the  noble  edifice  of  its  own 
greatness.  For  forty  years  a  war  lasted,  whose 
happy  termination  was  not  to  bless  the  dying  eye 
of  Philip;  which  destroyed  one  Paradise  in  Eu¬ 
rope,  to  create  a  new  one  out  of  its  shattered 
fragments  ;  which  destroyed  the  choicest  flowers 
of  military  youth,  and  while  it  enriched  more 
than  a  quarter  of  the  globe,  impoverished  the 
possessor  of  the  golden  Peru.  This  monarch,  who, 
even  without  oppressing  his  subjects,  could  ex¬ 
pend  nine  hundred  tons  of  gold,  but  who  by  ty¬ 
rannical  means  extorted  far  more,  heaped  on  his 
depopulated  kingdom  a  debt  of  one  hundred  and 
forty  millions  of  ducats.  An  implacable  hatred 
of  liberty,  swallowed  up  all  these  treasures,  and 
consumed  in  fruitless  labor  his  royal  life.  But 
the  Reformation  throve  amidst  the  devastation 
of  his  sword,  and  over  the  blood  of  her  citizens  the 
banner  of  the  new  republic  floated  victorious. 

This  improbable  turn  of  affairs  seems  to  border 
on  a  miracle;  much,  however,  combined  to  break 
the  power  of  Philip,  and  to  favor  the  progress  of 
the  infant  state.  Had  the  whole  weight  of  his 
power  fallen  on  the  United  Provinces,  there  had 
been  no  hope  for  their  religion,  or  their  liberty. 
His  own  ambition  came  to  the  assistance  of  their 
weakness,  by  tempting  him  to  divide  his  strength. 
The  expensive  policy  of  maintaining  traitors  in 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


every  cabinet  of  Europe ;  the  support  of  the 
League  in  France;  the  revolt  of  the  Moors  in 
Granada;  the  conquest  of  Portugal;  and  the 
magnificent  fabric  of  the  Escurial,  drained  at  last 
his  apparently  inexhaustible  treasures,  and  pre¬ 
vented  his  acting  in  the  field  with  spirit  and  en¬ 
ergy.  The  German  and  Italian  troops,  who  were 
allured  to  his  banner  only  by  the  hope  of  gain, 
mutinied  when  he  could  no  longer  pay  them,  and 
faithlessly  abandoned  their  leaders  in  the  decisive 
moment  of  action.  These  terrible  instruments 
of  oppression  now  turned  their  dangerous  power 
against  their  employer,  and  wreaked  their  vindic¬ 
tive  rage  on  the  provinces  which  remained  faith¬ 
ful  to  him.  The  unfortunate  armament  against 
England,  on  which,  like  a  desperate  gamester,  he 
had  staked  the  whole  strength  of  his  kingdom, 
completed  his  ruin  :  with  the  Armada  sank  the 
wealth  of  the  two  Indies,  and  the  flower  of  Span¬ 
ish  chivalry. 

But  in  the  very  same  proportion  that  the  Span¬ 
ish  power  declined,  the  Republic  acquired  fresh 
vigor.  The  breaches  which  the  new  religion,  the 
tyranny  of  the  Inquisition,  the  furious  rapacity 
of  the  soldiery,  and  the  devastations  of  a  long  war, 
unbroken  by  any  interval  of  peace,  made  in  the 
provinces  of  Brabant,  Flanders,  and  Hainault,  at 
once  the  arsenals  and  the  magazines  of  this  ex¬ 
pensive  contest,  naturally  rendered  it  every  year 
more  difficult  to  support  and  recruit  the  royal 
armies.  The  Catholic  Netherlands  had  already 
lost  a  million  of  citizens,  and  the  trodden  fields 
maintained  their  husbaudmen  no  longer.  Spain 
itself  had  but  few  more  men  to  spare.  That 
country,  surprised  by  a  sudden  affluence,  which 
brought  idleness  with  it,  had  lost  much  of  its 
population,  and  could  not  long  support  these  con¬ 
tinual  drafts  of  men,  both  for  the  New  World  and 
the  Netherlands.  Of  these  conscripts,  few  ever 
saw  their  country  again  ;  and  these  few  having 
left  it  as  youths,  returned  to  it  infirm  and  old. 
Gold,  which  had  become  more  common,  made 
soldiers  proportionately  dearer ;  the  growing 
charm  of  effeminacy  enhanced  the  price  of  opposite 
virtues.  Wholly  different  was  the  posture  of 
affairs  with  the  rebels.  The  thousands  whom  the 
cruelty  of  the  Viceroy  expelled  from  the  southern 
Netherlands,  the  war  of  the  Huguenots  from 
France,  as  well  as  all  whom  the  constraint  of  con¬ 
science  drove  from  the  other  parts  of  Europe,  all 
these  flocked  to  unite  themselves  with  them.  The 
whole  Christian  world  was  their  recruiting  ground. 
The  fanaticism  both  of  the  persecutor  and  the  per¬ 
secuted,  worked  in  their  behalf.  'J£he  enthusiasm 
of  a  doctrine  newly  embraced,  revenge,  want, 
and  hopeless  misery,  drew  to  their  standard 
adventurers  from  every  part  of  Europe.  All 
whom  the  new  doctrine  had  won,  all  who  had  al¬ 
ready  suffered,  or  had  still  cause  of  fear  from  des¬ 
potism,  linked  their  own  fortunes  with  those  of  the 
new  Republic.  Every  injury  inflicted  by  a  tyrant, 
gave  a  right  of  citizenship  in  Holland.  Men  pressed 
toward  a  country,  where  liberty  raised  her  inspirit¬ 
ing  banner,  where  respect  and  security  were  in¬ 
sured  to  a  fugitive  religion,  and  even  revenge  on 
the  oppressors.  If  we  consider  the  conflux  of  all 
people  to  Holland,  in  the  present  day,  who  on 
their  entrance  upon  the  territory  are  reinvested 


in  their  rights  as  men,  what  must  it  have  been 
then,  when  the  rest  of  Europe  groaned  under  a 
heavy  bondage,  when  Amsterdam  was  nearly  the 
only  free  port  for  all  opinions  ?  Many  hundred 
families  sought  a  refuge  for  their  .wealth,  in  aland 
which  the  ocean  and  domestic  concord  powerfully 
combined  to  protect.  The  republican  army  main¬ 
tained  its  full  complement,  without  the  plow  be¬ 
ing  stripped  of  hands  to  work  it.  Amid  the  clash 
of  arms,  trade  and  industry  flourished  ;  and  the 
peaceful  citizen  enjoyed  in  anticipation  all  the 
fruits  of  liberty,  which  foreign  blood  must  first 
purchase.  At  the  very  time  when  the  Republic 
of  Holland  was  struggling  for  existence,  she  ex¬ 
tended  her  dominions  beyond  the  ocean,  and  was 
quietly  occupied  in  erecting  her  East  Indian  em¬ 
pire. 

Moreover,  Spain  maintained  this  expensive  war 
with  dead,  unfructifying  gold,  that  never  returned 
into  the  hand  which  gave  it  away,  while  it  raised 
the  price  of  all  necessaries.  The  treasuries  of 
the  Republic  were  industry  and  commerce.  Time 
lessened  the  one,  whilst  it  multiplied  the  other 
Exactly  in  the  same  proportion  that  the  resource* 
of  the  Spanish  Government  became  exhausted  by 
the  long  continuance  of  the  war,  the  Republic 
began  to  reap  a  richer  harvest.  The  field  was 
sown  sparingly  with  choice  seed,  and  it  bore  fruit, 
though  late,  yet  a  hundred-fold  ;  but  the  tree  from 
which  Philip  gathered  fruit,  was  a  fallen  trunk, 
which  never  again  became  verdant. 

Philip’s  adverse  destiny  decreed,  that  all  the  trea¬ 
sures  which  he  lavished  for  the  oppression  of  ths 
Provinces,  contributed  to  enrich  them.  The  in¬ 
cessant  outlay  of  Spanish  gold  had  diffused  riches 
and  luxury  throughout  Europe;  but  the  increasing 
wants  of  Europe  were  supplied  chiefly  by  the 
Netherlanders,  who  were  masters  of  the  commerce 
of  the  known  world,  and  who,  by  their  dealings, 
fixed  the  price  of  all  merchandise.  Even  during 
the  wTar,  Philip  could  not  prohibit  his  own  sub¬ 
jects  from  trading  with  the  Republic  ;  nay,  he 
could  not  even  desire  it.  He  himself  paid  the 
rebels  the  expenses  of  their  own  defense  ;  for  the 
very  war  which  was  to  ruin  them,  increased  the 
sale  of  their  goods.  The  enormous  sums  expended 
on  his  fleets  and  armies  flowed,  for  the  most  part, 
into  the  exchequer  of  the  Republic,  which  was 
more  or  less  connected  with  the  commercial 
places  of  Flanders  and  Brabant.  Whatever 
Philip  attempted  against  the  rebels  operated 
directly  in  their  favor. 

The  sluggish  progress  of  this  war  did  the  king 
as  much  injury  as  it  brought  advantage  to  the 
rebels.  His  army  was  composed,  for  the  most 
part,  of  the  remains  of  those  victorious  troops 
which  had  gathered  their  laurels  under  Charles 
Y.  Old  and  long  services  entitled  them  to  re¬ 
pose  ;  many  of  them,  whom  the  war  had  enriched, 
impatiently  longed  for  their  homes,  and  to  end  in 
ease  a  life  of  hardship.  Their  former  zeal,  their 
heroic  spirit,  and  their  discipline,  relaxed  in  the 
same  proportion  as  they  thought  they  had  re¬ 
deemed  their  honor  and  their  duty,  and  as  they 
began  to  reap  at  last  the  reward  of  so  many  en¬ 
gagements.  Besides,  the  troops,  which  had  been 
accustomed,  by  their  irresistible  impetuosity,  to 
vanquish  all  opponents,  were  necessarily  wearied 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


13 


out  by  a  war  which  was  carried  on,  not  so  much 
against  men  as  against  the  elements  ;  which  exer¬ 
cised  their  patience  more  than  it  gratified  their 
love  of  glory  ;  and  where  there  was  less  of  danger 
than  of  difficulty  and  want  to  contend  with. 
Neither  personal  courage,  nor  long  military  expe¬ 
rience,  were  of  avail  in  a  country  whose  peculiar 
features  gave  the  most  dastardly  the  advantage 
over  them.  In  fine,  a  single  discomfiture  on  for¬ 
eign  ground  did  them  more  injury  than  any  victo¬ 
ries  gained  over  an  enemy  at  home  could  profit 
them.  With  the  rebels,  the  case  was  exactly  the 
reverse.  In  so  protracted  a  war,  in  which  no  de¬ 
cisive  battle  took  place,  the  weaker  party  must 
naturally  learn  at  last  the  art  of  defense  from  the 
stronger ;  slight  defeats  accustomed  him  to  dan¬ 
ger,  slight  victories  animated  his  confidence. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war,  the  republi¬ 
can  army  scarce  dared  to  show  itself  in  the  field  ; 
the  long  continuance  of  the  struggle  practiced 
and  hardened  it.  As  the  royal  armies  grew  wea¬ 
ried  of  victory,  the  confidence  of  the  rebels  rose 
with  their  improved  discipline  and  experience.  At 
last,  at  the  end  of  half  a  century,  master  and 
pupil  separated,  unsubdued,  and  equal  in  the 
fight. 

Again,  throughout  the  war  the  rebels  acted 
with  more  concord  and  unanimity  than  the  royal¬ 
ists.  Before  the  former  had  lost  their  first  leader, 
the  government  of  the  Netherlands  had  passed 
through  as  many  as  five  hands.  The  Duchess  of 
Parma’s  indecision  soon  imparted  itself  to  the 
cabinet  of  Madrid,  which,  in  a  short  time,  ran 
through  nearly  all  the  various  systems  of  state 
policy.  Duke  Alva’s  inflexible  sternness,  the 
mildness  of  his  successor  Requescens,  Don  John 
of  Austria’s  insidious  cunning,  and  the  active  and 
imperious  mind  of  the  Prince  of  Parma,  gave  as 
many  opposite  directions  to  the  war,  while  the 
plan  of  the  rebellion  remained  the  same  in  a  sin¬ 
gle  head,  who,  as  he  saw  it  clearly,  pursued  it 
with  vigor.  The  greatest  evil  for  the  king  was, 
that  the  right  principles  of  action  generally 
missed  the  right  moment  of  application.  In  the 
commencement  of  the  troubles,  when  the  advan¬ 
tage  was  as  yet  clearly  on  the  king’s  side,  when 
prompt  resolution  and  manly  firmness  might  have 
crushed  the  rebellion  in  the  cradle,  the  reins  of 
government  were  allowed  to  hang  loose  in  the 
hands  of  a  woman.  After  the  outbreak  had  come 
to  an  open  revolt,  and  the  strength  of  the  factious 
and  of  the  king  stood  more  equally  balanced,  and 
when  a  skilful  flexibility  could  alone  have  averted 
the  impending  civil  war,  the  government  devolved 
on  a  man,  who  was  deficient  in  this  necessary 
qualification.  So  watchful  an  observer  as  Wil¬ 
liam  the  Silent,  failed  not  to  improve  every  ad¬ 
vantage  which  the  faulty  policy  of  his  adversary 
presented  ;  and  with  silent  industry  he  slowly  ad¬ 
vanced  his  great  undertaking  to  its  accomplish¬ 
ment. 

But  why  did  not  Philip  II.  himself  appear  in 
the  Netherlands?  Why  did  he  prefer  to  employ 
every  other  means,  however  improbable,  rather 
than  make  trial  of  the  only  remedy  which  could 
insure  success?  To  curb  the  overgrown  power 
and  insolence  of  the  nobility,  there  was  no  expe¬ 
dient  more  natural  than  the  presence  of  their 


master.  Before  royalty  itself,  all  secondary  dig¬ 
nity  must  necessarily  have  sunk,  all  other  splen¬ 
dor  be  dimmed.  Instead  of  the  truth  flowing 
slowly  and  obscurely  through  impure  channels,  to 
the  distant  throne,  so  that  procrastinated  mea¬ 
sures  of  redress  gave  time  to  ripen  ebullitions  of 
the  moment  into  acts  of  deliberation,  his  own 
penetrating  glance  would  at  once  have  been  able 
to  separate  truth  from  error ;  and  cold  policy 
alone,  not  to  speak  of  his  humanity,  would  have 
saved  the  land  a  million  of  citizens.  The  nearer 
to  their  source,  the  more  weighty  would  his  edicts 
have  been  ;  the  thicker  they  fell  on  their  object, 
the  weaker  and  the  more  dispirited  the  efforts  of 
the  rebels.  It  costs  infinitely  more  to  commit  an 
evil  toward  an  enemy  in  his  presence  than  in  his 
absence.  At  first,  the  rebellion  appeared  to 
tremble  at  its  own  name,  and  long  sheltered  itself 
under  the  ingenious  pretext  of  defending  the 
cause  of  its  sovereign  against  the  arbitrary  as¬ 
sumptions  of  his  own  viceroy.  Philip’s  appear¬ 
ance  in  Brussels  would  have  put  an  end  at  once 
to  this  juggling.  In  that  case,  the  rebels  would 
have  been  compelled  to  act  up  to  their  pretense, 
or  to  cast  aside  the  mask,  and  so,  by  appearing 
in  their  true  shape,  condemn  themselves.  And 
what  a  relief  for  the  Netherlands  if  the  king’s 
presence  had  only  spared  them  those  evils  which 
were  inflicted  upon  them  without  his  knowledge 
and  contrary  to  his  will.  What  gain  to  himself, 
even  if  it  had  only  enabled  him  to  watch  over  the 
expenditure  of  the  vast  sums,  which,  illegally 
raised  on  the  plea  of  meeting  the  exigencies  of 
the  war,  disappeared  in  the  plundering  hands  of 
his  deputies. 

What  the  latter  was  compelled  to  extort  by  the 
unnatural  expedient  of  terror,  the  nation  would 
have  been  disposed  to  grant  to  the  sovereign 
majesty.  That  which  made  his  ministers  detested, 
would  have  rendered  the  monarch  feared  ;  for  the 
abuse  of  hereditary  power  presses  less  painfully 
than  the  abuse  of  that  which  is  delegated.  His 
presence  would  have  saved  thousands,  had  he  been 
nothing  more  than  an  economical  despot ;  and 
even  had  he  been  less,  the  awe  of  his  person 
would  have  preserved  a  territory,  which  was  lost 
through  hatred  and  contempt  for  his  instru¬ 
ments. 

In  the  same  manner,  as  the  oppression  of  the 
people  of  the  Netherlands  excited  the  sympathy 
of  all  who  valued  their  own  rights,  it  might  have 
been  expected,  that  their  disobedience  and  defec¬ 
tion  would  have  been  a  call  to  all  princes  to 
maintain  their, own  prerogatives  in  the  case  of 
their  neighbors.  But  jealousy  of  Spain  got  the 
better  of  political  sympathies,  and  the  first  powers 
of  Europe  arranged  themselves  more  or  less 
openly  on  the  side  of  freedom. 

Although  bound  to  the  house  of  Spain  by  the 
ties  of  relationship,  the  Emperor  Maximilian  II. 
gave  it  just  cause  to  charge  him  with  secretly 
favoring  the  rebels.  By  the  offer  of  his  mediation 
he  implicitly  acknowledged  the  partial  justice 
of  their  complaints,  which  could  not  but  encour¬ 
age  them  to  a  resolute  perseverance  in  their  de¬ 
mands.  Under  an  emperor  sincerely  devotbd  to 
the  interests  of  the  Spanish  house,  William  of 
Orange  would  scarcely  have  drawn  so  many  troops 


14 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


and  so  mnch  money  from  Germany.  France, 
without  openly  and  formally  breaking  the  peace, 
placed  a  prince  of  the  blood  at  the  head  of  the 
Netherlandish  rebels  ;  and  it  was  with  French 
gold,  and  French  troops,  that  the  operations  of 
the  latter  were  chiefly  conducted.  Elizabeth  of 
England,  too,  did  but  exercise  a  just  retaliation 
and  revenge  in  protecting  the  rebels  against  their 
legitimate  sovereign,  and  although  her  meagre  and 
sparing  aid,  availed  no  farther  than  to  ward  off 
utter  ruin  from  the  republic,  still  even  this  was 
infinitely  valuable,  at  a  moment  when  nothing  but 
hope  could  have  supported  their  exhausted  cour¬ 
age.  With  both  these  powers,  Philip  at  the  time 
was  at  peace,  but  both  betrayed  him.  Between 
the  weak  and  the  strong,  honesty  often  ceases  to 
appear  a  virtue  ;  the  delicate  ties  which  bind 
equals,  are  seldom  beneficial  to  him  whom  all  men 
fear.  Philip  had  banished  truth  from  political 
intercourse  ;  he  himself,  between  kings,  had  dis¬ 
solved  all  morality,  and  had  made  artifice  the  di¬ 
vinity  of  cabinets.  Without  once  enjoying  the 
advantages  of  his  superior  power,  he  had,  through¬ 
out  his  whole  life,  to  contend  with  the  jealousy 
which  it  awakened  in  others.  Europe  made 
him  atone  for  the  possible  abuses  of  a  power,  of 
which  in  fact  he  never  had  the  full  possession. 

If  against  the  disparity  between  the  two  com¬ 
batants  which,  at  first  sight,  is  so  astounding,  we 
weigh  all  the  incidental  circumstances  which  were 
adverse  to  Spain,  but  befriended  the  Netherlands, 
that  which  is  supernatural  in  this  event  will  disap¬ 
pear,  but  that  which  is  extraordinary  remains — 
and  a  just  standard  is  furnished,  by  which  to  esti¬ 
mate  the  real  merit  of  these  republicans  in  work¬ 
ing  out  their  freedom.  It  must  not,  however,  be 
thought  that  so  accurate  a  calculation  of  the  op¬ 
posed  powers  could  have  preceded  the  undertaking 
itself,  or  that,  on  entering  this  unknown  sea,  they 
already  knew  the  shore  on  which  they  would  ulti¬ 
mately  be  landed.  The  work  did  not  present 
itself  to  the  mind  of  its  originator,  in  the  mature 
form  which  it  assumed  when  completed,  any 
more  than  the  mind  of  Luther  foresaw  the  eter¬ 
nal  separation  of  creeds,  when  he  began  to  oppose 
the  sale  of  indulgences.  What  a  difference 
between  the  modest  procession  of  those  suitors  in 
Brussels,  who  prayed  for  a  more  humane  treat¬ 
ment  as  a  favor,  and  the  dreaded  majesty  of  a  free 
state,  which  treated  with  kings  as  equals,  and  in 
less  than  a  century  gave  away  the  throne  of  its 
former  tyrant.  The  unseen  hand  of  fate  gave 
to  the  discharged  arrow  a  higher  flight,  and  quite 
a  different  direction  from  that  which  it  first 
received  from  the  bowstring.  In  the  womb  of 
happy  Brabant,  that  liberty  had  its  birth,  which, 
torn  from  its  mother  in  its  earliest  infancy,  was  to 
gladden  the  so  despised  Holland.  But  the  enter¬ 
prise  must  not  be  less  thought  of,  because  its 
Issue  differed  from  the  first  design.  Man  works 
up,  smooths,  and  fashions  the  rough  stone  which 
sithe  times  bring  to  him,  the  moment  and  the  in¬ 
stant  may  belong  to  him,  but  accident  developes 
•  the  history  of  the  world.  If  the  passions  which 
'co-operated  actively  iu  bringing  about  this  event, 
were  only  not  unworthy  of  the  great  work  to 
which  they  were  unconsciously  subservient — if  the 
powers  which  aided  in  its  accomplishment,  and 


the  single  actions,  ont  of  whose  concatenation  it 
wonderfully  arose,  were  but  intrinsically  noble 
powers,  and  the  actions  beautiful  and  great,  then 
is  the  event  grand,  interesting,  and  fruitful  for  us, 
and  we  are  at  liberty  to  wonder  at  the  bold  off¬ 
spring  of  chance,  or  rather  offer  up  our  admira¬ 
tion  to  a  higher  Intelligence. 

The  history  of  the  world,  like  the  laws  of  na¬ 
ture,  is  consistent  with  itself,  and  simple  as  the 
soul  of  man.  Like  conditions  produce  like  phe¬ 
nomena.  On  the  same  soil,  where  now  the  Neth- 
erlanders  were  to  resist  their  Spanish  tyrants, 
their  forefathers,  the  Batavi  and  Belgse,  fifteen 
centuries  before,  combated  against  their  Homan 
oppressors.  Like  the  former,  submitting  reluc¬ 
tantly  to  a  haughty  master,  and  misgoverned  by 
rapacious  satraps,  they  broke  off"  their  chain  with 
like  resolution,  and  tried  their  fortune  in  a  simi¬ 
lar  unequal  combat.  The  same  pride  of  conquest, 
the  same  national  grandeur  marked  the  Spaniard 
of  the  sixteenth  century  and  the  Roman  of  the 
first ;  the  same  valor  and  discipline  distinguished 
the  armies  of  both,  their  battle  array  inspired  the 
same  terror.  There,  as  here,  we  see  stratagem  in 
combat  with  superior  force,  and  firmness,  strength¬ 
ened  by  unanimity,  weary  out  a  mighty  power 
weakened  by  division ;  then,  as  now,  private  ha¬ 
tred  arms  a  whole  nation  ;  a  single  man,  born  for 
his  times,  reveals  to  them  the  dangerous  secret 
of  their  power,  and  brings  their  mute  grief  to  a 
bloody  announcement.  “  Confess,  Batavians,1 ” 
cries  Claudius  Civilis  to  his  fellow-citizens  in  the 
sacred  grove,  “  we  are  no  longer  treated,  as  for¬ 
merly,  by  these  Romans,  as  allies,  but  rather  as 
slaves.  We  are  handed  over  to  their  prefects  and 
centurions,  who,  when  satiated  with  our  plunder 
and  with  our  blood,  make  way  for  others,  who, 
under  different  names,  renew  the  same  outrages. 
If  even  at  last  Rome  deigns  to  send  us  a  legate, 
he  oppresses  us  with  an  ostentatious  and  costly 
retinue,  and  with  still  more  intolerable  pride. 
The  levies  are  again  at  hand  which  tear  forever 
children  from  their  parents,  brothers  from  broth¬ 
ers.  Now,  Batavians,  is  our  time.  Never  did 
Rome  lie  so  prostrate  as  now.  Let  not  their 
names  of  legions  terrify  you  ;  there  is  nothing  in 
their  camps  but  old  men  and  plunder.  Our  in¬ 
fantry  and  horsemen  are  strong;  Germany  is  allied 
to  us  by  blood,  and  Gaul  is  ready  to  throw  off  its 
yoke.  Let  Syria  serve  them,  and  Asia  and  the 
East,  who  are  used  to  bow  before  kings  ;  many 
still  live  who  were  born  among  us,  before  tribute 
was  paid  to  the  Romans.  The  gods  are  ever  with 
the  brave.”  Solemn  religious  rites  hallow  this 
conspiracy,  like  the  league  of  the  Gueux  ;  like 
that,  it  craftily  wraps  itself  in  the  vail  of  submis¬ 
siveness,  in  the  majesty  of  a  great  name.  The 
cohorts  of  Civilis  swear  allegiance  on  the  Rhine 
to  Vespasian  in  Syria,  as  the  covenant  did  to 
Philip  II.  The  same  arena  furnished  the  same 
plan  of  defense,  the  same  refuge  to  despair.  Both 
confided  their  wavering  fortunes  to  a  friendly  ele¬ 
ment  ;  in  the  same  distress,  Civilis  preserves  his 
islands,  as  fifteen  centuries  after  him,  William  of 
Orange  did  the  town  of  Leyden — through  an  ar¬ 
tificial  inundation.  The  valor  of  the  Batavi  dis¬ 
closed  the  impotency  of  the  world’s  ruler,  as  the 
noble  courage  of  their  descendants  revealed  to  the 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


15 


whole  of  Europe  the  decay  of  Spanish  greatness. 
The  same  fecundity  of  genius  in  the  generals  of 
both  times,  gave  to  the  war  a  similarly  obstinate 
continuance,  and  nearly  as  doubtful  an  issue ;  one 
difference,  nevertheless,  distinguishes  them  ;  the 
Romans  and  Batavians  fought  humanely,  for  they 
did  not  fight  for  religion. 


BOOK  I. 

EARLIER  HISTORY  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS  UP  TO  THE 
SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Before  we  consider  the  immediate  history  of 
this  great  revolution,  it  will  be  advisable  to  go  a 
few  steps  back  into  the  ancient  records  of  the 
country,  and  to  trace  the  origin  of  that  constitu¬ 
tion,  which  we  find  it  possessed  of,  at  the  time  of 
this  remarkable  change. 

The  first  appearance  of  this  people,  in  the  his¬ 
tory  of  the  world,  is  the  moment  of  its  fall ;  their 
conquerors  first  gave  them  a  political  existence. 
The  extensive  region,  which  is  bounded  by  Ger¬ 
many  on  the  east,  on  the  south  by  France,  on  the 
north  and  northwest  by  the  North  Sea,  and  which 
we  comprehend  under  the  general  name  of  the 
Netherlands,  was,  at  the  time  when  the  Romans 
invaded  Gaul,  divided  amongst  three  principal  na¬ 
tions,  all  originally  of  German  descent,  German 
institutions,  and  German  spirit.  The  Rhine 
formed  its  boundaries.  On  the  left  of  the  river 
dwelt  the  Belgae,  on  its  right  the  Frisii,  and  the 
Batavi  on  the  island  which  its  two  arms  then 
formed  with  the  ocean.  All  these  several  nations 
were  sooner  or  later  reduced  into  subjection  by  the 
Romans,  but  their  conquerors  themselves  give  us 
the  most  glorious  testimony  to  their  valor.  The 
Belgse,  writes  Caesar,  were  the  only  people  amongst 
the  Gauls  who  repulsed  the  invasion  of  the  Teu- 
tones  and  Cimbri.  The  Batavi,  Tacitus  tells  us, 
surpassed  all  the  tribes  on  the  Rhine  in  bravery. 
This  fierce  nation  paid  its  tribute  in  soldiers,  and 
was  reserved  by  its  conquerors,  like  arrow  and 
sword,  only  for  battle.  The  Romans  themselves 
acknowledged  the  Batavian  horsemen  to  be  their 
best  cavalry.  Like  the  Swiss  at  this  day,  they 
formed  for  a  long  time  the  body  guard  of  the  Roman 
Emperor ;  their  wild  courage  terrified  the  Da¬ 
cians,  as  they  saw  them,  in  full  armor,  swimming 
across  the  Danube.  The  Batavi  accompanied 
Agricola  in  his  expedition  against  Britain,  and 
helped  him  to  conquer  that  island.  The  Frieses 
were,  of  all,  the  last  subdued,  and  the  first  to  re¬ 
gain  their  liberty.  The  morasses  among  which 
they  dwelt,  attracted  the  conquerors  later,  and 
enhanced  the  price  of  conquest.  The  Roman 
Drusus,  who  made  war  in  these  regions,  had  a 
canal  cut  from  the  Rhine  into  the  Flevo,  the  pre¬ 
sent  Zuyder  Zee,  through  which  the  Roman  fleet 
penetrated  into  the  North  Sea,  and  from  thence, 
entering  the  mouths  of  the  Ems  and  the  Weser, 
found  an  easy  passage  into  the  interior  of  Ger¬ 
many. 

Through  four  centuries,  we  find  Batavian  troops 
in  the  Roman  armies,  but  after  the  time  of  Hono- 
rius,  their  name  disappears  from  history.  Pre¬ 


sently  we  discover  their  island  overrun  by  the 
Franks,  who  again  lost  themselves  in  the  adjoin¬ 
ing  country  of  Belgium.  The  Frieses  threw  off 
the  yoke  of  their  distant  and  powerless  rulers,  and 
again  appeared  as  a  free,  and  even  a  conquering 
people,  who  governed  themselves  by  their  own 
customs  and  a  remnant  of  Roman  laws,  and  ex¬ 
tended  their  limits  beyond  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine.  Of  all  the  provinces  of  the  Netherlands, 
Friesland,  especially,  had  suffered  the  least  from  the 
irruptions  of  strange  tribes,  and  foreign  customs; 
and  for  centuries  retained  traces  of  its  original  in¬ 
stitutions, of  its  national  spirit  and  manners,  which 
have  not,  even  at  the  present  day,  entirely  disap¬ 
peared. 

The  epoch  of  the  immigration  of  nations  de¬ 
stroyed  the  original  form  of  most  of  these  tribes  ; 
other  mixed  races  arose  in  their  place,  with  other 
constitutions.  In  the  general  devastation,  the 
towns  and  encampments  of  the  Romans  disap¬ 
peared,  and  with  them,  the  memorials  of  their 
wise  government,  which  they  had  employed  the 
natives  to  execute.  The  neglected  dikes  once 
more  yielded  to  the  violence  of  the  streams,  and 
to  the  encroachments  of  the  ocean.  Those  won¬ 
ders  of  labor,  and  creations  of  human  skill,  the 
canals,  dried  up,  the  rivers  changed  their  course, 
the  continent  and  the  sea  confounded  their  olden 
limits,  and  the  nature  of  the  soil  changed  with  its 
inhabitants.  So,  too,  the  connection  of  the  two 
eras  seems  effaced,  and  with  a  new  race  a  new  his¬ 
tory  commences. 

The  monarchy  of  the  Franks,  which  arose  out 
of  the  ruins  of  Roman  Gaul,  had,  in  the  6th  and 
7th  centuries,  seized  all  the  provinces  of  the  Ne¬ 
therlands,  and  planted  there  the  Christian  faith. 
After  an  obstinate  war,  Charles  Martel  subdued 
to  the  French  crown  Friesland,  the  last  of  all  the 
free  provinces,  and  by  his  victories,  paved  a  way 
for  the  gospel.  Charlemagne  united  all  these 
countries,  and  formed  of  them  one  division  of  the 
mighty  empire,  which  he  had  constructed  out  of 
Germany,  France,  and  Lombardy.  As  under  his 
descendants,  this  vast  dominion  was  again  torn 
into  fragments,  so  the  Netherlands  became  at 
times  German,  at  others  French,  or  then  again 
Lotharingian  Provinces,  and  at  last  we  find  them 
under  both  the  names  of  Friesland  and  Lower 
Lotharingia. 

With  the  Franks,  the  feudal  system,  the  off¬ 
spring  of  the  North,  also  came  into  these  lands, 
and  here,  too,  as  in  all  other  countries,  it  degene¬ 
rated.  The  more  powerful  vassals  gradually 
made  themselves  independent  of  the  crown,  and  the 
royal  governors  usurped  the  countries  they  were 
appointed  to  govern.  But  the  rebellious  vassals 
could  not  maintain  their  usurpation,  without  the 
aid  of  their  own  dependents,  whose  assistance 
they  were  compelled  to  purchase  by  new  conces¬ 
sions.  At  the  same  time,  the  church  became 
powerful  through  pious  usurpations  and  dona¬ 
tions,  and  in  its  abbey  lands  and  episcopal  sees 
acquired  an  independent  existence.  Thus  were 
the  Netherlands,  in  the  tenth,  eleventh,  twelfth, 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  split  up  into  several 
small  sovereignties,  whose  possessors  did  homage, 
at  one  time  to  the  German  Emperor,  at  another 
to  the  Kings  of  France.  By  purchase,  mar- 


16 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


riages,  legacies,  and  also  by  conquest,  several  of 
these  provinces  were  often  united  under  one  suze¬ 
rain,  and  thus  in  the  fifteenth  century,  we  see 
the  House  of  Burgundy  in  possession  of  the 
chief  part  of  the  Netherlands.  With  more  or 
less  right,  Philip  the  Good,  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
had  united  as  many  as  eleven  provinces  under 
his  authority,  and  to  these  his  son,  Charles  the 
Bold,  added  two  others,  acquired  by  force  of  arms. 
Thus  imperceptibly  a  new  state  arose  in  Europe, 
which  wanted  nothing  but  the  name,  to  be  the 
most  flourishing  kingdom  in  this  quarter  of  the 
edobe.  These  extensive  possessions  made  the 
Dukes  of  Burgundy  formidable  neighbors  to 
France,  and  tempted  the  restless  spirit  of  Charles 
the  Bold  to  devise  a  scheme  of  conquest,  em¬ 
bracing  the  whole  line  of  country  from  the  Zuy- 
der  Zee  and  the  mouth  of  the  Rhine  down  to  Al¬ 
sace.  The  almost  inexaustible  resources  of  this 
prince,  justify  in  some  measure  this  bold  project. 
A  formidable  army  threatened  to  carry  it  into 
execution.  Already  Switzerland  trembled  for 
he-r  liberty;  but  deceitful  fortune  abandoned  him 
in  three  terrible  battles,  and  the  infatuated  hero 
was  lost  in  the  melee  of  the  living  and  the 
dead.* 

The  sole  heiress  of  Charles  the  Bold,  Maria,  at 
once  the  richest  princess  and  the  unhappy  Helen 
of  that  time,  whose  wooing  brought  misery  on 
her  inheritance,  was  now  the  centre -of  attraction 
to  the  whole  known  world.  Among  her  suitors 
appeared  two  great  princes,  King  Louis  XI.  of 
France,  for  his  son,  the  young  Dauphin,  and 
Maximilian  of  Austria,  son  of  the  Emperor 
Frederick  III.  The  successful  suitor  was  to  be¬ 
come  the  most  powerful  prince  in  Europe;  and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  this  quarter  of  the  globe 
began  to  fear  for  its  balance  of  power.  Louis, 
the  more  powerful  of  the  two,  was  ready  to  back 
his  suit  by  force  of  arms ;  but  the  people  of  the 
Netherlands,  who  disposed  of  the  hand  of  their 
princess,  passed  by  this  dreaded  neighbor,  and 
decided  in  favor  of  Maximilian,  whose  more  re¬ 
mote  territories,  and  more  limited  power,  seemed 
less  to  threaten  the  liberty  of  their  country.  A 
deceitful,  unfortunate  policy,  which,  through  a 
strange  dispensation  of  heaven,  only  accelerated 
the  melancholy  fate  which  it  was  intended  to  pre¬ 
vent. 

To  Philip  the  Fair,  the  son  of  Maria  and  Maxi¬ 
milian,  a  Spanish  bride  brought,  as  her  portion, 
that  extensive  kingdom  which  Ferdinand  and  Isa¬ 
bella  had  recently  founded  ;  and  Charles  of  Aus¬ 
tria,  his  sou,  was  born  lord  of  the  kingdoms  of 

*  A  page  who  had  seen  him  fail,  a  few  days  after  the 
battle  conducted  the  victors  to  the  spot,  and  saved  his 
remains  from  an  ignominious  oblivion.  His  body  was 
dragged  from  out  of  a  pool  in  which  it  was  fast  frozen, 
naked,  and  so  disfigured  with  wounds,  that  with  great 
difficulty  he  was  recognized,  by  the  well-known  defi¬ 
ciency  of  some  of  his  teeth,  and  by  remarkably  long 
finger  nails.  But  that,  notwithstanding  these  marks, 
there  were  still  incredulous  people  who  doubted  his 
death,  and  looked  for  his  re-appearance,  is  proved  by 
the  missive,  in  which  Louis  XI.  called  upon  the  Burgun¬ 
dian  States  to  return  to  their  allegiance  to  the  Crown  of 
France.  “If,”  the  passage  runs,  “Duke  Charles  should 
still  be  living,  you  shall  be  released  from  your  oath  to 
me.”  Comines,  t.  iii.,  Preuves  des  Memoires,  495,  497. 


Spain,  of  the  two  Sicilies,  of  the  New  World,  and 
of  the  Netherlands.  In  the  latter  country,  the 
commonalty,  emancipated  themselves  much  ear¬ 
lier  than  in  other  feudal  states,  and  quickly  at¬ 
tained  to  an  independent  political  existence.  The 
favorable  situation  of  the  country  on  the  North 
Sea,  and  on  great  navigable  rivers,  early  awakened 
the  spirit  of  commerce,  which  rapidly  peopled 
the  towns,  encouraged  industry  and  the  arts,  at¬ 
tracted  foreigners,  and  diffused  prosperity  and 
affluence  amongst  them.  However  contemptu¬ 
ously  the  warlike  policy  of  those  times  looked 
down  upon  every  peaceful  and  useful  occupation, 
the  rulers  of  the  country  could  not  fail  altogether 
to  perceive  the  essential  advantages  they  derived 
from  such  pursuits.  The  increasing  population 
of  their  territories,  the  different  imposts  which 
they  extorted  from  natives  and  foreigners,  under 
the  various  titles  of  tolls,  customs,  highway  rates, 
escort  money,  bridge  tolls,  market  fees,  escheats, 
and  so  forth,  were  too  valuable  considerations  to 
allow  them  to  remain  indifferent  to  the  sources 
from  which  they  were  derived.  Their  own  rapa¬ 
city  made  them  promoters  of  trade,  and  as  often 
happens,  barbarism  itself  rudely  nursed  it,  until, 
at  last,  a  healthier  policy  assumed  its  place.  In 
the  course  of  time,  they  invited  the  Lombard 
merchants  to  settle  among  them,  and  accorded  to 
the  towns  some  valuable  privileges,  and  an  inde¬ 
pendent  jurisdiction,  by  which  the  latter  acquired 
uncommon  respectability  and  influence.  The  nu¬ 
merous  wars  which  the  counts  and  dukes  carried 
on  amongst  one  another,  or  with  their  neighbors, 
made  them  in  some  measure  dependent  on  the 
good  will  of  the  towns,  who,  by  their  wealth,  ob¬ 
tained  weight  and  consideration,  and  for  the  sub¬ 
sidies  which  they  afforded,  failed  not  .to  extort 
important  privileges  in  return.  These  privileges 
of  the  commonalties  increased,  as  the  crusades 
with  their  expensive  equipment  augmented  the 
necessities  of  the  nobles ;  as  a  new  road  to  Eu¬ 
rope  was  opened  for  the  productions  of  the  East ; 
and  as  wide-spreading  luxury  created  new  wants 
to  their  princes.  Thus,  as  early  as  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries,  we  find  in  these  lands  a 
mixed  form  of  government,  in  which  the  preroga¬ 
tive  of  the  sovereign  is  greatly  limited  by  the  pri¬ 
vileges  of  the  States,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  nobi¬ 
lity,  the  clergy,  and  the  municipalities.  These, 
under  the  name  of  States,  assembled  as  often  as 
the  wants  of  the  province  required  it.  Without 
their  consent,  no  new  laws  were  valid,  no  war 
could  be  carried  on,  and  no  taxes  levied,  no 
change  made  in  the  coinage,  and  no  foreigner  ad¬ 
mitted  to  any  office  of  government.  Ali  the  pro¬ 
vinces  enjoyed  these  privileges  in  common  ;  others 
were  peculiar  to  the  various  districts.  The  su¬ 
preme  government  was  hereditary,  but  the  son 
did  not  enter  on  the  rights  of  his  father,  before 
he  had  solemnly  sworn  to  maintain  the  existing 
constitution. 

Necessity  is  the  first  lawgiver:  all  the  wants 
which  had  to  be  met  by  this  constitution,  were 
originally  of  a  commercial  nature.  Thus  the 
whole  constitution  was  founded  on  commerce,  and 
the  laws  of  the  nation  were  adapted  to  their  pur¬ 
suits.  The  last  clause,  which  excluded  foreigners 
from  all  offices  of  trust,  was  a  natural  conse- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


17 


quence  of  the  preceding  articles.  So  complicated 
and  artificial  a  relation  between  the  sovereign 
and  his  people,  which  in  many  provinces  was  far¬ 
ther  modified,  according  to  the  peculiar  wants  of 
each,  and  frequently  of  some  single  city,  required 
for  its  maintenance  the  liveliest  zeal  for  the  liber¬ 
ties  of  the  country,  combined  with  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  them.  From  a  foreigner, 
neither  could  well  be  expected.  This  law  besides 
was  enforced  reciprocally  in  each  particular  pro¬ 
vince  ;  so  that  in  Brabant  no  Fleming,  in  Zealand 
no  Hollander,  could  hold  office;  and  it  continued 
in  force,  even  after  all  these  provinces  were  united 
under  one  government. 

Above  all  others,  Brabant  enjoyed  the  highest 
degree  of  freedom.  Its  privileges  were  esteemed 
so  valuable,  that  many  mothers  from  the  adjacent 
provinces  removed  thither  about  the  time  of  their 
accouchment,  in  order  to  entitle  their  children  to 
participate,  by  birth,  in  all  the  immunities  of  that 
favored  country  ;  just  as,  says  Strada,  one  im¬ 
proves  the  plants  of  a  rude  climate  by  removing 
them  to  the  soil  of  a  milder. 

After  the  House  of  Burgundy  had  united  seve¬ 
ral  provinces  under  its  dominion,  the  separate 
provincial  assemblies  which,  up  to  that  time,  had 
been  independent  tribunals,  were  made  subject  to 
a  supreme  couit  at  M alines,  which  incorporated 
the  various  judicatures  into  one  body,  and  decided 
in  the  last  resort  all  civil  and  criminal  appeals. 
The  separate  independence  of  the  provinces  was 
thus  abolished,  and  the  supreme  power  vested  in 
the  senate  at  M alines. 

After  the  death  of  Charles  the  Bold,  the  states 
did  not  neglect  to  avail  themselves  of  the  embar¬ 
rassment  of  their  Duchess,  who,  threatened  by 
France,  was  consequently  in  their  power.  Hol¬ 
land  and  Zealand  compelled  her  to  sign  a  great 
charter,  which  secured  to  them  the  most  impor¬ 
tant  sovereign  rights.  The  people  of  Ghent  car¬ 
ried  their  insolence  to  such  a  pitch,  that  they 
arbitrarily  dragged  the  favorites  of  Maria,  who 
had  the  misfortune  to  displease  them,  before  their 
own  tribunals,  and  beheaded  them  before  the  eyes 
of  that  princess.  During  the  short  government 
of  the  Duchess  Maria,  from  her  father’s  death  to 
her  marriage,  the  commons  obtained  powers 
which  few  free  states  enjoyed.  After  her  death, 
her  husband,  Maximilian,  illegally  assumed  the 
government  as  guardian  of  his  son.  Offended  by 
this  invasion  of  their  rights,  the  states  refused  to 
acknowledge  his  authority,  and  could  only  be 
brought  to  receive  him  as  viceroy  for  a  stated 
period,  and  under  conditions  ratified  by  oath.  . 

Maximilian,  after  he  became  Roman  Emperor, 
fancied  that  he  might  safely  venture  to  violate 
the  constitution.  He  imposed  extraordinary 
taxes  on  the  provinces,  gave  official  appointments 
to  Burgundians  and  Germans,  and  introduced 
foreign  troops  into  the  provinces.  But  the  jeal¬ 
ousy  of  these  republicans  kept  pace  with  the 
power  of  their  regent.  As  he  entered  Bruges 
with  a  large  retinue  of  foreigners,  the  people  flew 
to  arms,  made  themselves  masters  of  his  person, 
and  placed  him  in  confinement  in  the  castle.  In 
spite  of  the  intercession  of  the  imperial  and  Ro¬ 
man  courts,  he  did  not  again  obtain  his  freedom, 
Vol.  II.— 2. 


until  security  had  been  given  to  the  people  on 
all  the  disputed  points. 

The  security  of  life  and  property,  arising  from 
mild  laws,  and  an  equal  administration  of  justice, 
had  encouraged  activity  and  industry.  In  con¬ 
tinual  contest  with  the  ocean  and  rapid  rivers, 
which  poured  their  violence  on  the  neighboring 
lowlands,  and  whose  force  it  was  requisite  to 
break  by  embankments  and  canals,  this  people 
had  early  learned  to  observe  the  natural  objects 
around  them  ;  by  industry  and  perseverance  to 
defy  an  element  of  superior  power;  and  like  the 
Egyptian,  instructed  by  his  Nile,  to  exercise  their 
inventive  genius  and  acuteness  in  self-defense. 
The  natural  fertility  of  their  soil,  which  favored 
agriculture  and  the  breeding  of  cattle,  tended  at 
the  same  time  to  increase  the  population.  Their 
happy  position  on  the  sea  and  the  great  navigable 
rivers  of  Germany  and  France,  many  of  which 
debouched  on  their  coasts  ;  the  numerous  artifi¬ 
cial  canals  which  intersected  the  land  in  all  direc¬ 
tions,  imparted  life  to  navigation  ;  and  the  facility 
of  interior  communication  between  the  provinces, 
soon  created  and  fostered  a  commercial  spirit 
among  these  people. 

The  neighboring  coasts,  Denmark  and  Britain, 
were  the  first  visited  by  their  vessels.  The 
English  wool  which  they  brought  back,  employed 
thousands  of  industrious  hands  in  Bruges,  Ghent, 
and  Antwerp  ;  and  as  early  as  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  cloths  of  Flanders  were  exten¬ 
sively  worn  in  France  and  Germany.  In  the 
eleventh  century,  we  find  ships  of  Friesland  in 
the  Belt,  and  even  in  the  Levant.  This  enter¬ 
prising  people  ventured,  without  a  compass,  to 
steer  under  the  North  Pole,  round  to  the  most 
northerly  point  of  Russia.  From  the  Wendish 
towns,  the  Netherlands  received  a  share  in  the 
Levant  trade,  which,  at  that  time,  still  passed 
from  the  Black  Sea,  through  the  Russian  territo¬ 
ries  to  the  Baltic.  When,  in  the  thirteenth  cen¬ 
tury,  this  trade  began  to  decline,  the  Crusades 
having  opened  a  new  road  through  the  Mediter¬ 
ranean  for  Indian  merchandise,  and  after  the 
Italian  towns  had  usurped  this  lucrative  branch 
of  commerce,  and  the  great  Hanseatic  league 
had  been  formed  in  Germany,  the  Netherlands 
became  the  most  important  emporium  between 
the  north  and  south.  As  yet,  the  use  of  the  com¬ 
pass  was  not  general,  and  the  merchantmen  sailed 
slowly  and  laboriously  along  the  coasts.  The 
ports  on  the  Baltic,  were,  during  the  winter 
months,  for  the  most  part  frozen  and  inaccessible. 
Ships  therefore,  which  could  not  well  accomplish 
within  the  year  the  long  voyage  from  the  Medi¬ 
terranean  to  the  Belt,  gladly  availed  themselves 
of  harbors  which  lay  half  way  between  the  two. 
With  an  immense  continent  behind  them,  with 
which  navigable  streams  kept  up  their  communi¬ 
cation,  and  toward  the  west  and  north  open  to 
the  ocean  by  commodious  harbors,  this  country- 
appeared  to  be  expressly  formed  for  a  place  of 
resort  for  different  nations,  and  for  a  centre  of 
commerce.  The  principal  towns  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands  were  established  marts.  Portuguese,  Span¬ 
iards,  Italians,  French,  Britons,  Germans,  Danes, 
and  Swedes,  thronged  to  them  with  the  produce 


18 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


of  every  country  in  the  world.  Competition  in¬ 
sured  cheapness;  industry  was  stimulated,  as  it 
found  a  ready  market  for.  its  productions.  With 
the  necessary  exchange  of  money,  arose  the  com¬ 
merce  in  bills,  which  opened  a  new  and  fruitful 
source  of  wealth.  The  princes  of  the  country, 
acquainted  at  last  with  their  true  interest,  en¬ 
couraged  the  merchant  by  important  immunities, 
and  neglected  not  to  protect  their  commerce  by 
advantageous  treaties  with  foreign  powers. 
W1  len,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  several  provinces 
were  united  under  one  rule,  they  discontinued 
their  private  wars,  which  had  proved  so  injurious, 
and  their  separate  interests  were  now  more  inti¬ 
mately  reconciled  by  a  common  government. 
Then  commerce  and  affluence  prospered  in  the 
iap  of  a  long  peace,  which  the  formidable  power 
of  their  princes  extorted  from  the  neighboring 
monarchs.  The  Burgundian  flag  was  feared  in 
every  sea ;  the  dignity  of  their  sovereign  gave 
support  to  their  undertakings,  and  the  enterprise 
of  a  private  individual  became  the  affair  of  a 
powerful  state.  Such  vigorous  protection  soon 
placed  them  in  a  position  even  to  renounce  the 
Hanseatic  league,  and  to  pursue  this  daring  ene¬ 
my  through  every  sea.  The  Hanseatic  merchants, 
against  whom  the  coasts  of  Spain  were  closed, 
were  compelled  at  last,  however  reluctantly,  to 
visit  the  Flemish  fairs,  and  purchase  their  Span¬ 
ish  goods  in  the  markets  of  the  Netherlands. 

Bruges,  in  Flanders,  was,  in  the  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  centuries,  the  central  point  of  the  whole 
commerce  of  Europe,  and  the  great  market  of  all 
nations.  In  the  year  1468,  a  hundred  and  fifty 
merchant  vessels  were  counted  entering  the  har¬ 
bor  of  Sluys  at  one  time.  Besides  the  rich  facto¬ 
ries  of  the  Hanseatic  league,  there  were  here 
fifteen  trading  companies,  with  their  counting 
houses,  and  many  factories  and  merchants’  fami¬ 
lies  from  every  European  country.  Here  was 
established  the  market  of  all  northern  products 
for  the  south,  and  of  all  southern  and  Levantine 
products  for  the  north.  These  passed  through 
the  Sound,  and  up  the  Rhine,  in  Hanseatic  ves¬ 
sels  to  Upper  Germany,  or  were  transported  by 
land  carriage  to  Brunswick  and  Luneburg. 

As  in  the  common  course  of  human  affairs,  so 
here  also,  a  licentious  luxury  followed  prosperity. 
The  seductive  example  of  Philip  the  Good,  could 
not  but  accelerate  its  approach.  The  court  of 
the  Burgundian  dukes  was  the  most  voluptuous 
and  magnificent  in  Europe,  Italy  itself  not  ex¬ 
cepted.  The  costly  dress  of  the  higher  classes, 
which  afterward  served  as  patterns  to  the  Spa¬ 
niards,  and  eventually,  with  the  Burgundian  cus¬ 
toms,  passed  over  to  the  court  of  Austria,  soon 
descended  t;  the  lower  orders,  and  the  meanest 
citizen  nurseu  his  person  in  velvet  and  silk.* 

*  Philip  the  Good  was  too  profuse  a  prince  to  amass 
treasures;  nevertheless,  Charles  the  Bold  found  accumu¬ 
lated  among  his  effects,  a  greater  store  of  table  services, 
jewels,  carpets,  and  linen  than  three  rich  princedoms  of 
that  time  together  possessed,  and  over  and  above  all,  a 
treasure  of  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  ready  mo¬ 
ney.  The  riches  of  this  prince,  and  of  the  Burgundian 
people,  lay  exposed  on  the  battle  fields  of  Granson,  Mur- 
ten,  and  Nancy.  Here,  a  Swiss  soldier  drew  from  the 
finger  of  Charles  the  Bold  that  celebrated  diamond, 


Comines,  an  author  who  traveled  through  the 
Netherlands,  about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  tells  us  that  pride  had  already  attended 
their  prosperity.  The  pomp  and  vanity  of  dress 
was  carried  by  both  sexes  to  extravagance.  The 
luxury  of  the  table  had  never  reached  so  great  a 
height  among  any  other  people.  The  immoral 
assemblage  of  both  sexes  at  bathing  places,  and 
such  other  places  of  reunion  for  pleasure  and  en¬ 
joyment,  had  banished  all  shame — and  we  are  not 
here  speaking  of  the  usual  luxuriousness  of  the 
higher  ranks  ;  the  females  of  the  common  class 
abandoned  themselves  to  such  extravagances 
without  limit  or  measure. 

But  how  much  more  cheering  to  the  philan¬ 
thropist  is  this  extravagance,  than  the  miserable 
frugality  of  want,  and  the  barbarous  virtues  of 
ignorance,  which  at  that  time  oppressed  nearly 
the  whole  of  Europe!  The  Burgundian  era  shines 
pleasingly  forth  from  those  dark  ages,  like  a  lovely 
spring  day  amid  the  showers  of  February.  But 
this  flourishing  condition,  tempted  the  Flemish 
towns  at  last  to  their  ruin ;  Ghent  and  Bruges, 
giddy  with  liberty  and  success,  declared  war 
against  Philip  the  Good,  the  ruler  of  eleven  pro¬ 
vinces,  which  ended  as  unfortunately  as  it  was 
presumptuously  commenced.  Ghent  alone  lost 
many  thousand  men  in  an  engagement  near  Ha¬ 
vre,  and  was  compelled  to  appease  the  wrath  of 
the  victor  by  a  contribution  of  four  hundred 
thousand  gold  florins.  All  the  municipal  func¬ 
tionaries,  and  two  thousand  of  the  principal  citi¬ 
zens,  went,  stripped  to  their  shirts,  barefooted,  and 
with  heads  uncovered,  a  mile  out  of  the  town  to 
meet  the  duke,  and  on  their  knees  supplicated  for 
pardon.  On  this  occasion,  they  were  deprived  of 
several  valuable  privileges,  an  irreparable  loss  for 
their  future  commerce.  In  the  year  1482,  they 
engaged  in  a  war,  with  no  better  success,  against 
Maximilian  of*  Austria,  with  a  view  to  deprive 
him  of  the  guardianship  of  his  son,  which,  in  con¬ 
travention  of  his  charter,  he  had  unjustly  assumed. 
In  1487,  the  town  of  Bruges  placed  the  Archduke 
himself  in  confinement,  and  put  some  of  his  most 
eminent  ministers  to  death.  To  avenge  his  son, 
the  Emperor  Frederick  III.  entered  their  terri¬ 
tory  with  an  army,  and  blockading  for  ten  years 
the  harbor  of  Sluys,  put  a  stop  to  their  entire 
trade.  On  this  occasion,  Amsterdam  and  Ant¬ 
werp,  whose  jealousy  had  long  been  roused  by  the 
flourishing  condition  of  the  Flemish  towns,  lent 
him  the  most  important  assistance.  The  Italians 
began  to  bring  their  own  silk  stuffs  to  Antwerp 
•for  sale,  and  the  Flemish  cloth-workers  likewise, 
who  had  settled  in  England,  sent  their  goods 
i  thither;  and  thus  the  town  of  Bruges  lost  two 
important  branches  of  trade.  The  Hanse  Union 
had  long  been  offended  at  their  overweening 

which  was  long  esteemed  the  largest  in  Europe,  which, 
even  now,  sparkles  in  the  crown  of  France  as  the  second 
in  size,  but  which  the  unwitting  finder  sold  for  a  florin. 
The  Swiss  exchanged  the  silver  they  found  for  tin,  and 
the  gold  for  copper,  and  tore  into  pieces  the  costly  tents 
of  cloth  of  gold.  The  value  of  the  spoil  of  silver,  gold, 
and  jewels  which  was  taken,  has  been  estimated  at  three 
millions.  Charles  and  his  army  had  advanced  to  the 
combat,  not  like  foes  who  purpose  battle,  but  like  con¬ 
querors  who  adorn  themselves  after  victory. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


19 


pride ;  and  it  now  left  them,  and  removed  its  fac¬ 
tory  to  Antwerp.  In  the  year  1516,  all  the  fo¬ 
reign  merchants  left  the  town,  except  only  a  few 
Spaniards ;  but  its  prosperity  faded  as  slowly  as 
it  had  bloomed. 

Antwerp  received,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the 
trade  which  the  luxuriousness  of  the  Flemish 
towns  had  banished;  and  under  the  government 
of  Charles  V.,  Antwerp  was  the  most  stirring  and 
splendid  city  in  the  Christian  world.  A  stream 
like  the  Scheldt,  whose  broad  mouth,  in  the  im¬ 
mediate  vicinity,  shared  with  the  North  Sea  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide,  and  could  carry  vessels 
of  the  largest  tonnage  under  the  walls  of  Ant¬ 
werp,  made  it  the  natural  resort  for  all  vessels 
which  visited  that  coast.  Its  free  fairs  attracted 
men  of  business  from  all  countries.*  The  indus¬ 
try  of  the  nation  had,  in  the  beginning  of  this 
century,  reached  its  greatest  height.  The  culture 
of  grain,  flax,  the  breeding  of  cattle,  the  chase, 
and  fisheries,  enriched  the  peasant;  arts,  manu¬ 
factures,  and  trade,  brought  wealth  to  burghers. 
Flemish  and  Brabantine  manufactures  were  long  to 
be  seen  in  Arabia,  Persia,  and  India.  Their  ships 
covered  the  ocean,  and,  in  the  Black  Sea,  contend¬ 
ed  with  the  Genoese  for  supremacy.  It  was  the 
distinctive  characteristic  of  the  seaman  of  the 
Netherlands,  that  he  made  sail  at  all  seasons  of 
the  year,  and  never  laid  up  for  the  winter. 

When  the  new  route  by  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  was  discovered,  and  the  East  India  trade  of 
Portugal  undermined  that  of  the  Levant,  the 
Netherlands  did  not  feel  the  blow  which  was  in¬ 
flicted  on  the  Italian  republics.  The  Portuguese 
established  their  mart  in  Brabant,  and  the  spices 
of  Calicut  were  displayed  for  sale  in  the  markets 
of  Antwerp.  Hither  poured  the  West  Indian 
merchandise,  with  which  the  indolent  pride  of 
Spain  repaid  the  industry  of  the  Netherlands. 
The  East  Indian  market  attracted  the  most  cele¬ 
brated  commercial  houses  from  Florence,  Lucca, 
and  Genoa;  and  the  Fuggers  and  Welsers  from 
Augsburg.  Here  the  Hanse  towns  brought  the 
wares  of  the  north,  and  here  the  English  company 
had  a  factory.  Here  art  and  nature  seemed  to 
expose  to  view  all  their  riches  ;  it  was  a  splendid 
exhibition  of  the  works  of  the  Creator  and  of  the 
creatu re. 

Their  renown  soon  diffused  itself  through  the 
world.  Even  a  company  of  Turkish  merchants, 
toward  the  end  of  this  century,  solicited  permis¬ 
sion  to  settle  here,  and  to  supply  the  products  of 
the  East  by  the  way  of  Greece.  With  the  trade 
in  goods,  they  held  also  the  exchange  of  money* 
Their  bills  passed  current  in  the  furthest  parts  of 
the  globe.  Antwerp,  it  is  asserted,  then  trans¬ 
acted  more  extensive  and  more  important  busi- 
hess  in  a  single  month,  than  Venice,  at  its  most 
flourishing  period,  in  two  whole  years. 

In  the  year  1491,  the  Hanseatic  League  held  its 
solemn  meetings  in  this  town,  which  had  formerly 
assembled  in  Lubeck  alone.  In  1531,  the  ex¬ 
change  was  erected,  at  that  time  the  most  splen¬ 
did  in  all  Europe,  and  which  fulfilled  its  proud 

*  Two  such  fairs  lasted  forty  days,  and  all  the  goods 
lold  there  were  duty  free. 


inscription.  The  town  now  reckoned  100,000  in¬ 
habitants.  The  tide  of  human  beings,  which 
incessantly  poured  into  it,  exceeds  all  belief. 
Between  200  and  250  ships  were  often  seen  load¬ 
ing  at  one  time  in  its  harbor;  no  day  passed,  on 
which  the  boats  entering  inward  and  outward, 
did  not  amount  to  more  than  500 ;  on  market 
days,  the  number  amounted  to  800  or  900.  Daily, 
more  than  two  hundred  carriages  drove  through 
its  gates ;  about  two  thousand  loaded  wagons 
arrived  every  week  from  Germany,  France,  and 
Lorraine,  without  reckoning  the  farmers’  carts 
and  corn-vans,  which  were  seldom  less  than  10,000 
in  number.  Thirty  thousand  hands  were  em¬ 
ployed  by  the  English  company  alone.  The  mar¬ 
ket  dues,  tolls,  and  excise,  brought  millions  to  the 
government  annually.  We  can  form  some  idea 
of  the  resources  of  the  nation,  from  the  fact  that 
the  extraordinary  taxes  which  they  were  obliged 
to  pay  to  Charles  V.,  towards  his  numerous  wars, 
were  computed  at  forty  millions  of  gold  ducats. 

For  this  affluence,  the  Netherlands  were  as 
much  indebted  to  their  liberty,  as  to  the  natural 
advantages  of  their  country.  Uncertain  laws, 
and  the  despotic  sway  of  a  rapacious  prineg, 
would  quickly  have  blighted  all  the  blessings, 
which  propitious  nature  had  so  abundantly  lav¬ 
ished  on  them.  The  inviolable  sanctity  of  the 
laws,  can  alone  secure  to  the  citizen  the  fruits  of 
his  industry,  and  inspire  him  with  that  happy 
confidence  which  is  the  soul  of  all  activity. 

The  genius  of  this  people,  developed  by  the 
spirit  of  commerce,  and  by  the  intercourse  with  so 
many  nations,  shone  in  useful  inventions  ;  in  the 
lap  of  abundance  and  liberty,  all  the  noble  arts 
were  carefully  cultivated,  and  carried  to  perfec¬ 
tion.  From  Italy,  to  which  Cosmode  Medici  had 
lately  restored  its  golden  age,  painting,  architec¬ 
ture,  and  the  arts  of  carving  and  of  engraving  on 
copper,  were  transplanted  into  the  Netherlands, 
where,  in  a  new'  soil,  they  flourished  with  fresh 
vigor.  The  Flemish  school,  a  daughter  of  the 
Italian,  soon  vied  with  its  mother  for  the  prize  ; 
and,  in  common  with  it,  gave  laws  to  the  whole 
of  Europe  in  the  fine  arts.  The  manufactures 
and  arts,  on  which  the  Netherlanders  principally 
founded  their  prosperity,  and  still  partly  base  it, 
require  no  particular  enumeration.  The  weaving 
of  tapestry,  oil  painting,  the  art  of  painting  on 
glass,  even  pocket-watches  and  sun-dials,  were,  as 
Guicciardini  asserts,  originally  invented  in  the 
Netherlands.  To  them,  we  are  indebted  for  the 
improvement  of  the  compass,  the  points  of  which 
are  still  known  by  Flemish  names.  About  the 
year  1430,  the  invention  of  typography  is  ascribed 
to  Laurence  Koster,  of  Haarlem  ;  and  whether  or 
not  it  is  entitled  to  this  honorable  distinction, 
certain  it  is  that  the  Dutch  were  among  the  first 
to  engraft  this  useful  art  among  them;  and  fate 
ordained  that  a  century  later  it  should  reward  its 
country  with  liberty.  The  people  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands  united,  with  the  most  fertile  genius  for  in¬ 
ventions,  a  happy  talent  for  improving  the  dis¬ 
coveries  of  others  ;  there  are  probably  few  me¬ 
chanical  arts  and  manufactures  which  they  did 
not  either  produce,  or  at  least  carry  to  a  higher 
degree  of  perfection. 


20 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


THE  NETHERLANDS  UNDER  CHARLES  THE  FIFTH. 

Up  to  this  time,  these  provinces  had  formed 
the  most  enviable  state  in  Europe.  Not  one  of 
the  Burgundian  dukes  had  ventured  to  indulge  a 
thought  of  overturning  the  constitution  ;  it  had 
remained  sacred,  even  to  the  daring  spirit  of 
Charles  the  Bold,  while  he  was  preparing  fetters 
for  foreign  liberty.  All  these  princes  grew  up 
with  no  higher  hope  than  to  be  the  heads  of  a  re¬ 
public,  and  none  of  their  territories  afforded  them 
experience  of  a  higher  authority.  Besides,  these 
princes  possessed  nothing  but  what  the  Nether¬ 
lands  gave  them  ;  no  armies  but  those  which  the 
nation  sent  into  the  field  ;  no  riches  but  what  the 
states  granted  to  them.  Now  all  was  changed. 
The  Netherlands  had  fallen  to  a  master  who  had 
at  his  command  other  instruments  and  other 
resources,  who  could  arm  against  them  a  foreign 
power.* 

*The  unnatural  union  of  two  such  different  nations  as 
the  Belgians  and  Spaniards,  could  not  possibly  be  pros¬ 
perous.  I  cannot  here  refrain  from  quoting  the  compari¬ 
son  which  Grotius,  in  energetic  language,  has  drawn 
between  the  two.  ■  “  With  the  neighboring  nations,”  says 
ne,  “the  people  of  the  Netherlands  could  easily  maintain 
a  good  understanding,  for  they  were  of  a  similar  origin 
with  themselves,  and  had  grown  up  in  the  same  manner. 
But  the  people  of  Spain  and  of  the  Netherlands,  differed 
in  almost  every  respect  from  one  another,  and  therefore, 
when  they  were  brought  together,  clashed  the  more  vio¬ 
lently.  Both  had,  for  many  centuries,  been  distinguished 
in  war,  only  the  latter  had,  in  luxurious  repose,  become 
disused  to  arms,  while  the  former  had  been  inured  to  war 
in  the  Italian  and  African  campaigns;  the  desire  of  gain 
made  the  Belgians  more  inclined  to  peace,  but  not  less 
sensitive  of  offense.  No  people  were  more  free  from  the 
lust  of  conquest,  but  none  defended  its  own  more  zeal¬ 
ously.  Hence,  the  numerous  towns,  closely  pressed 
together  in  a  confined  tract  of  country;  densely  crowded 
with  a  foreign  and  native  population;  fortified  near  the 
sea  and  the  great  rivers.  Hence,  for  eight  centuries  after 
the  northern  immigration,  foreign  armies  could  not  pre¬ 
vail  against  them.  Spain,  on  the  contrary,  often  changed 
its  masters ;  and  when,  at  last,  it  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  Goths,  its  character  and  its  manners  had  suffered 
more  or  less  from  each  new  conqueror.  The  people  thus 
formed,  at  last,  out  of  these  several  admixtures,  is  de¬ 
scribed  as  patient  in  labor,  imperturbable  in  danger, 
equally  eager  for  riches  and  honor,  proud  of  itself  even 
to  contempt  of  others,  devout  and  grateful  to  strangers 
for  any  act  of  kindness,  but  also  revengeful,  and  of  such 
ungovernable  passions  in  victory,  as  to  regard  neither 
conscience  nor  honor  in  the  case  of  an  enemy.  All  this 
is  foreign  to  the  character  of  the  Belgian,  who  is  astute 
but  not  insidious,  who,  placed  midway  between  France 
and  Germany,  combines  in  moderation  the  faults  and 
good  qualities  of  both.  He  is  not  easily  imposed  upon, 
nor  is  he  to  be  insulted  with  impunity.  In  veneration 
for  the  Deity,  too,  he  does  not  yield  to  the  Spaniard  ;  the 
arms  of  the  north-men  could  not  make  him  apostatize 
from  Christianity,  when  he  had  once  professed  it.  No 
opinion  which  the  church  condemns,  had,  up  to  this  time, 
empoisoned  the  purity  of  his  faith.  Nay,  his  pious  ex¬ 
travagance  went  so  far,  that  it  became  requisite  to  curb 
by  laws  the  rapacity  of  his  clergy.  In  both  people, 
loyalty  to  their  rulers  is  equally  innate,  with  this  differ¬ 
ence,  that  the  Belgian  places  the  law  above  kings.  Of 
all  the  Spaniards,  the  Castilians  require  to  be  governed 
with  the  most  caution ;  but  the  liberties  which  they  arro¬ 
gate  for  themselves,  they  do  not  willingly  accord  to 
others.  Hence,  the  difficult  task  to  their  common  ruler, 
so  to  distribute  his  attention  and  care  between  the  two 
nations,  that  neither  the  preference  shown  to  the  Casti- 


Charles  Y.  was  an  absolute  monarch  in  his 
Spanish  dominions:  in  the  Netherlands,  he  was 
no  more  than  the  first  citizen.  In  the  southern 
portion  of  his  empire,  he  might  have  learned  con¬ 
tempt  for  the  rights  of  individuals  :  here,  he  was 
taught  to  respect  them.  The  more  he  there  tasted 
the  pleasures  of  unlimited  power,  and  the  higher 
he  raised  his  opinion  of  his  own  greatness,  the 
more  reluctant  he  must  have  felt  to  descend  else¬ 
where  to  the  ordinary  level  of  humanity,  and  to  • 
tolerate  any  check  upon  his  arbitrary  authority. 

It  requires,  indeed,  no  ordinary  degree  of  virtue  to 
abstain  from  warring  against  the  power  which  im¬ 
poses  a  curb  on  our  most  cherished  wishes. 

The  superior  power  of  Charles  awakened,  at  the 
same  time,  in  the  Netherlanders,  that  distrust 
which  always  accompanies  inferiority.  Never  were 
they  so  alive  to  their  constitutional  rights,  never 
so  jealous  of  the  royal  prerogative,  or  more  ob¬ 
servant  in  their  proceedings.  Under  his  reign, 
we  see  the  most  violent  outbreaks  of  republican 
spirit,  and  the  pretensions  of  the  people  carried  to 
an  excess,  which  nothing  but  the  increasing  en¬ 
croachments  of  the  royal  power  could  in  the  least 
justify.  A  sovereign  will  always  regard  the  free¬ 
dom  of  the  citizen  as  an  alienated  fief,  which  he  is 
bound  to  recover.  To  the  citizen,  the  authority 
of  the  sovereign  is  a  torrent,  which,  by  its  inunda¬ 
tion,  threatens  to  sweep  away  his  rights.  The 
Belgians  sought  to  protect  themselves  against  the 
ocean  by  embankments,  and  against  their  princes 
by  constitutional  enactments.  The  whole  history 
of  the  world  is  a  perpetually  recurring  struggle 
between  liberty  and  the  lust  of  power  and  posses¬ 
sion  ;  as  the  history  of  nature  is  nothing  but  the 
contest  of  the  elements  and  organic  bodies  tor 
space.  The  Netherlands  soon  found  to  their  cost, 
that  they  had  become  but  a  province  of  a  great 
monarchy.  So  long  as  their  tormer  masters  had 
no  higher  aim  than  to  promote  their  prosperity, 
their  condition  resembled  the  tranquil  happiness 
of  a  secluded  family,  whose  head  is  its  ruler. 
Charles  Y.  introduced  them  upon  the  arena  of  the 
political  world.  They  now  formed  a  member  of 
that  gigantic  body,  which  the  ambition  ol  an  indi¬ 
vidual  employed  as  his  instrument.  They  ceased 
to  have  their  own  good  for  their  aim  ;  the  centre 
of  their  existence  was  transported  to  the  soul  of 
their  ruler.  As  his  whole  government  was  but 
one  tissue  of  plans  and  manoeuvres  to  advance  his 
power,  so  it  was,  above  all  things,  necessary  that 
he  should  be  completely  master  of  the  various 
limbs  of  his  mighty  empire,  in  order  to  move  them 
effectually  and  suddenly.  It  was  impossible,  there¬ 
fore,  for  him  to  embarrass  himself  with  the  tire¬ 
some  mechanism  of  their  interior  political  organi¬ 
zation,  or  to  extend  to  their  peculiar  privileges 
the  conscientious  respect  which  their  republican 
jealousy  demanded.  It  was  expedient  for  him  to 
facilitate  the  exercise  of  their  powers,  by  concen¬ 
tration  and  unity.  The  tribunal  at  Malines  had 
been,  under  his  predecessor,  an  independent  court 
of  judicature  ;  he  subjected  its  decrees  to  the  re¬ 
vision  of  a  royal  council,  which  he  established  in 

lian  should  offend  the  Belgian,  nor  the  equal  treatment  of 
the  Belgian  affront  the  haughty  spirit  of  the  Castilian.’* 
Grotii  Annal.  Belg.  L.  1,  4,  5,  seq. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


21 


Brussels,  and  which  was  the  mere  organ  of  his 
will.  He  introduced  foreigners  into  the  most  vital 
functions  of  their  constitution,  and  confided  to 
them  the  most  important  offices.  These  men, 
whose  only  support  was  tlig  royal  favor,  would  be 
but  bad  guardians  of  privileges  which,  moreover, 
were  little  known  to  them.  The  ever-increasing 
expenses  of  his  warlike  government,  compelled 
him  as  steadily  to  augment  his  resources.  In  dis¬ 
regard  of  their  most  sacred  privileges,  he  imposed 
new  and  strange  taxes  on  the  provinces.  To  pre¬ 
serve  their  olden  consideration,  the  states  were 
forced  to  grant  what  he  had  been  so  modest  as  not 
to  extort ;  the  whole  history  of  the  government 
of  this  monarch,  in  the  Netherlands,  is  almost  one 
continued  list  of  imposts  demanded,  refused,  and 
finally  accorded.  Contrary  to  the  constitution, 
he  introduced  foreign  troops  into  their  territories, 
directed  the  recruiting  of  his  armies  in  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  and  involved  them  in  wars  which  could  not 
advance,  even  if  they  did  not  injure  their  interest, 
and  to  which*  they  had  not  given  their  consent. 
He  punished  the  offenses  of  a  free  state  as  a 
monarch  ;  and  the  terrible  chastisement  of  Client, 
announced  to  the  other  provinces  the  great  change 
which  their  constitution  had  already  undergone. 

The  welfare  of  the  country  was  so  far  secured, 
as  was  necessary  to  the  political  schemes  of  its 
master ;  the  intelligent  policy  of  Charles  would 
certainly  not  violate  the  salutary  regimen  of  the 
body,  whose  energies  he  found  himself  necessitated 
to  exert.  Fortunately,  the  opposite  pursuits  of 
selfish  ambition,  and  of  disinterested  philanthropy, 
often  bring  about  the  same  end  ;  and  the  well- 
beiug  of  a  state,  which  a  Marcus  Aurelius  might 
propose  to  himself  as  a  rational  object  of  pursuit, 
is  occasionally  promoted  by  an  Augustus  or  a 
Louis. 

Charles  V.  was  perfectly  aware  that  commerce 
was  the  strength  of  the  nation,  and  that,  the  foun¬ 
dation  of  their  commerce  was  liberty.  He  spared 
its  liberty,  because  he  needed  its  strength.  Of 
greater  political  wisdom,  though  not  more  just 
than  his  son,  he  adapted  his  principles  to  the  exi¬ 
gencies  of  time  and  place,  and  recalled  an  ordi¬ 
nance  in  Antwerp  and  in  Madrid,  which  he  would 
under  other  circumstances  have  enforced  with  all 
the  terrors  of  his  power.  That  which  makes  the 
reign  of  Charles  V.  particularly  remarkable,  in 
regard  to  the  Netherlands,  is  the  great  religious 
revolution  which  occurred  under  it;  and  which, 
as  the  principal  cause  of  the  subsequent  rebellion, 
demands  a  somewhat  circumstantial  notice.  This 
it  was  that  first  brought  arbitrary  power  into  the 
innermost  sanctuary  of  the  constitution  ;  taught 
it  to  give  a  dreadful  specimen  of  its  might ;  and, 

a  measure,  legalized  it,  while  it  placed  republi¬ 
can  spirit  on  a  dangerous  eminence.  And  as  the 
latter  sank  into  anarchy  and  rebellion,  monarchi¬ 
cal  power  rose  to  the  height  of  despotism. 

Nothing  is  more  natural,  than  the  transition 
from  civil  liberty  to  religious  freedom.  Individu¬ 
als,  as  well  as  communities,  who,  favored  by  a 
happy  political  constitution,  have  become  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  rights  of  man,  and  accustomed 
to  examine,  if  not  also  to  create,  the  law  which  is 
to  govern  them  ;  whose  minds  have  been  enlight¬ 
ened  by  activity,  and  feelings  expanded  by  the 


enjoyments  of  life ;  whose  natural  courage  has 
been  exalted  by  internal  security  and  prosperity ; 
such  men  will  not  easily  surrender  themselves  to 
the  blind  domination  of  a  dull  arbitrary  creed,  and 
will  be  the  first  to  emancipate  themselves  from  its 
yoke.  Another  circumstance,  however,  must  have 
greatly  tended  to  diffuse  the  new  religion  in  these 
countries.  Italy,  it  might  be  objected,  the  seat 
of  the  greatest  intellectual  culture,  formerly  the 
scene  of  the  most  violent  political  factions,  where 
a  burning  climate  kindles  the  blood  with  the  wild¬ 
est  passions — Italy,  among  all  the  European  coun¬ 
tries,  remained  the  freest  from  this  change.  But 
to  a  romantic  people,  whom  a  warm  and  lovely 
sky,  a  luxurious,  ever  young  and  ever  smiling  na¬ 
ture,  and  the  multifarious  witcheries  of  art,  ren¬ 
dered  keenly  susceptible  of  sensuous  enjoyment, 
that  form  of  religion  must  naturally  have  been 
better  adapted,  which,  by  its  splendid  pomp  cap¬ 
tivates  the  senses,  by  its  mysterious  enigmas  opens 
an  unbounded  range  to  the  fancy ;  and  which, 
through  the  most  picturesque  forms,  labors  to 
insinuate  important  doctrines  into  the  soul.  On 
the  contrary,  to  a  people  whom  the  ordinary  em¬ 
ployments  of  civil  life  have  drawn  down  to  an 
unpoetical  reality,  who  live  more  in  plain  notions 
than  in  images,  and  who  cultivate  their  common 
sense  at  the  expense  of  their  imagination — to  such 
a  people,  that  creed  will  best  recommend  itself 
which  dreads  not  investigation,  which  lays  less 
stress  on  mysticism  than  on  morals,  and  which  is 
rather  to  be  understood,  than  to  be  dwelt  upon  in 
meditation.  In  few  words  :  the  Homan  Catholic 
religion  will,  on  the  whole,  be  found  more  adapted 
to  a  nation  of  artists,  the  Protestant  more  fitted 
to  a  nation  of  merchants. 

On  this  supposition,  the  new  doctrine  which 
Luther  diffused  in  Germany,  and  Calvin  in  Switz¬ 
erland,  must  have  found  a  congenial  soil  in  the 
Netherlands.  The  first  seeds  of  it  were  sown  in 
the  Netherlands,  by  the  Protestant  merchants, 
who  assembled  at  Amsterdam  and  Antwerp.  The 
German  and  Swiss  troops,  which  Charles  intro¬ 
duced  into  these  countries,  and  the  crowd  of 
French,  German,  and  English  fugitives,  who, 
under  the  protection  of  the  liberties  of  Flanders, 
sought  to  escape  the  sword  of  persecution  which 
threatened  them  at  home,  promoted  their  diffusion. 
A  great  portion  of  the  Belgian  nobility  studied  at 
that  time  at  Geneva,  as  the  University  of  Lou¬ 
vain  was  not  yet  in  repute,  and  that  of  Douai  not 
yet  founded.  The  new  tenets  publicly  taught 
there,  were  transplanted  by  the  students  to  their 
various  countries.  In  an  isolated  people,  these 
first  germs  might  easily  have  been  crushed  ;  but 
in  the  market-towns  of  Holland  and  Brabant,  the 
resort  of  so  many  different  nations,  their  first 
growth  would  escape  the  notice  of  Government, 
and  be  accelerated  under  the  vail  of  concealment. 
A  difference  of  opinion  might  easily  spring  up  and 
gain  ground  amongst  those,  who  already  were 
divided  in  national  character,  in  manners,  cus¬ 
toms,  and  laws.  Moreover,  in  a  country  where 
industry  was  the  most  lauded  virtue,  mendicity 
the  most  abhorred  vice,  a  slothful  body  of  men, 
like  that  of  the  monks,  must  have  been  an  object 
of  long  and  deep  aversion.  Hence,  the  new  reli¬ 
gion,  which  opposed  these  orders,  derived  an  iin- 


22 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


mense  advantage  from  having  the  popular  opinion 
on  its  side.  Occasional  pamphlets,  full  of  bitter¬ 
ness  and  satire,  to  which  the  newly  discovered  art 
of  printing  secured  a  rapid  circulation,  and  several 
bands  of  strolling  orators,  called  Rederiker,  who 
at  that,  time  made  the  circuit  of  the  provinces, 
ridiculing  in  theatrical  representations  or  songs 
t he  abuses  of  their  times,  contributed  not  a  little 
to  diminish  respect  for  the  Romish  Church,  and 
to  prepare  the  people  for  the  reception  of  the  new 
dogmas. 

The  first  conquests  of  this  doctrine  were  asto¬ 
nishingly  rapid.  The  number  of  those  who  in  a 
short  time  avowed  themselves  its  adherents,  espe¬ 
cially  in  the  northern  provinces,  was  prodigious  ; 
but  among  these,  the  foreigners  far  outnumbered 
the  natives.  Charles  V.,  who,  in  this  hostile 
array  of  religious  tenets,  had  taken  the  side  which 
a  despot  could  not  fail  to  take,  opposed  to  the  in¬ 
creasing  torrent  of  innovation  the  most  effectual 
remedies.  Unhappily,  for  the  reformed  religion, 
political  justice  was  on  the  side  of  its  persecutor. 
The  dam  which,  for  so  many  centuries,  had  re¬ 
pelled  human  understanding  from  truth,  was  too 
suddenly  torn  away,  for  the  outbreaking  torrent 
not  to  overflow  its  appointed  channel.  The  re¬ 
viving  spirit  of  liberty  and  of  inquiry,  which  ought 
to  have  remained  within  the  limits  of  religious 
questions,  began  also  to  examine  into  the  rights 
of  kings.  While,  in  the  commencement,  iron  fet¬ 
ters  were  justly  broken  off,  a  desire  was  eventually 
shown  to  rend  asunder  the  most  legitimate  and 
most  indispensable  of  ties.  Even  the  Holy  Scrip¬ 
tures,  which  were  now  circulated  everywhere, 
while  they  imparted  light  and  nurture  to  the  sin¬ 
cere  inquirer  after  truth,  were  the  source  also 
whence  an  eccentric  fanaticism  contrived  to  ex¬ 
tort  the  virulent  poison.  The  good  cause  had 
been  compelled  to  choose  the  evil  road  of  rebel¬ 
lion,  and  the  result  was  what  in  such  cases  it  ever 
will  be,  so  long  as  men  remain  men.  The  bad 
cause,  too,  which  had  nothing  in  common  with 
the  good,  but  the  employment  of  illegal  means, 
emboldened  by  the  slight  point  of  connection, 
appeared  in  the  same  company,  and  was  mistaken 
for  it.  Luther  had  written  against  the  invocation 
of  saints;  every  audacious  varlet  who  broke  into 
the  churches  and  cloisters,  and  plundered  the 
altars,  called  himself  Lutheran.  Faction,  rapine, 
fanaticism,  licentiousness,  robed  themselves  in 
his  colors;  the  most  enormous  offenders,  when 
brought  before  the  judges,  avowed  themselves  his 
followers.  The  Reformation  had  drawn  down 
the  Roman  prelate  to  a  level  with  fallible  hu¬ 
manity  ;  an  insane  band,  stimulated  by  hunger 
and  want,  sought  to  annihilate  all  distinction  of 
ranks.  It  was  natural  that  a  doctrine,  which  to 
the  state  showed  itself  only  in  its  most  unfavora¬ 
ble  aspect,  should  not  have  been  able  to  reconcile 
a  monarch  who  had  already  so  many  reasons  to 
extirpate  it;  and  it  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that 
he  employed  against  it  the  arms  it  had  itself 
forced  upon  him. 

Charles  must  already  have  looked  upon  him¬ 
self  as  absolute  in  the  Netherlands,  since  he  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  extend  to  these  coun¬ 
tries  the  religious  liberty  which,  he  had  accorded 
to  Germany.  While  compelled  by  the  effectual 


resistance  of  the  German  princes,  he  assured  to 
the  former  country  a  free  exercise  of  the  new  reli¬ 
gion,  in  the  latter  he  published  the  most  cruel 
edicts  for  its  repression.  By  these,  the  reading 
of  the  Evangelists  and  Apostles ;  all  open  or 
secret  meetings,  to  which  religion  gave  its  name 
in  ever  so  slight  a  degree;  all  conversations  on 
the  subject  at  home  or  at  the  table ;  were  forbid¬ 
den,  under  severe  penalties.  In  every  province, 
special  courts  of  judicature  were  established  to 
watch  over  the  execution  of  the  edicts.  Whoever 
held  these  erroneous  opinions,  was  to  forfeit  his 
office,  without  regard  to  his  rank.  Whoever 
should  be  convicted  of  diffusing  heretical  doc¬ 
trines,  or  even  of  simply  attending  the  secret 
meetings  of  the  Reformers,  was  to  be  condemned 
to  death,  and  if  a  male,  to  be  executed  by  the 
sword,  if  a  female,  buried  alive.  Backsliding  he¬ 
retics  were  to  be  committed  to  the  flames.  Not 
even  the  recantation  of  the  offender  could  annul 
these  appalling  sentences.  Whoever  abjured  his 
errors,  gained  nothing  by  his  apostacy,  but  at 
furthest  a  milder  kind  of  death. 

The  fiefs  of  the  condemned  were  also  confis¬ 
cated,  contrary  to  the  privileges  of  the  nation, 
which  permitted  the  heir  to  redeem  them  for  a 
trifling  fine  ;  and  in  defiance  of  an  express  and 
valuable  privilege  of  the  citizens  of  Holland,  by 
which  they  were  not  to  be  tried  out  of  their  pro¬ 
vince,  culprits  were  conveyed  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  native  judicature,  and  condemned  by  foreign 
tribunals.  Thus  did  religion  guide  the  hand  of 
despotism,  to  attack  with  its  sacred  weapon,  and 
without  danger  or  opposition,  the  liberties  which 
were  inviolable  to  the  secular  arm. 

Charles  V.,  emboldened  by  the  fortunate  pro¬ 
gress  of  his  arms  in  Germany,  thought  that  he 
might  now  venture  on  every  thing,  and  seriously 
meditated  the  introduction  of  the  Spanish  In¬ 
quisition  in  the  Netherlands.  But  the  terror  of 
its  very  name,  alone  reduced  commerce  in  Ant¬ 
werp  to  a  stand-still.  The  principal  foreign  mer¬ 
chants  prepared  to  quit  the  city.  All  buying  and 
selling  ceased.  The  value  of  houses  fell,  the  em¬ 
ployment  of  artisans  stopped.  Money  disappeared 
from  the  hands  of  the  citizen.  The  ruin  of  that 
flourishing  commercial  city  was  inevitable,  had 
not  Charles  V.,  listened  to  the  representations  of 
the  Duchess  of  Parma,  and  abandoned  this  peril¬ 
ous  resolve.  The  tribunal,  therefore,  was  ordered 
not  to  interfere  with  the  foreign  merchants,  and 
the  title  of  Inquisitor  was  changed  unto  the  milder 
appellation  of  Spiritual  Judge.  But  in  the 
other  provinces,  that  tribunal  proceeded  to  rpge 
with  the  inhuman  despotism  which  has  ever  been 
peculiar  to  it.  It  has  been  computed  that 
during  the  reign  of  Charles  Y.,  50,000  persona 
perished  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner  for  reli¬ 
gion  alone. 

When  we  glance  at  the  violent  proceedings  of 
this  monarch,  we  are  quite  at  a  loss  to  compre¬ 
hend  what  it  was  that  kept  the  rebellion  within 
bounds  during  his  reign,  which  broke  out  with  so 
much  violence  under  his  successor.  A  close  in¬ 
vestigation  will  clear  up  this  seeming  anomaly. 
Charles’s  dreaded  supremacy  in  Europe,  had  raised 
the  commerce  of  the  Netherlands  to  a  height 
which  it  had  never  before  attained.  The  majesty 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


23 


of  his  name  opened  all  harbors,  cleared  all  seas 
for  their  vessels,  and  obtained  for  them  the  most 
favorable  commercial  treaties  with  foreign  powers. 
Through  him,  in  particular,  they  destroyed  the 
dominion  of  the  Hanse  towns  in  the  Baltic. 
Through  him,  also,  the  New  World,  Spain,  Italy, 
Germany,  which  now  shared  with  them  a  com¬ 
mon  ruler,  were,  in  a  measure,  to  be  considered 
as  provinces  of  their  own  country,  and  opened  new 
channels  for  their  commerce.  He  had  moreover, 
united  the  remaining  six  provinces  with  the  here¬ 
ditary  states  of  Burgundy,  and  thus  given  to  them 
an  extent  and  political  importance  which  placed 
them  by  the  side  of  the  first  kingdoms  of  Eu¬ 
rope.* 

By  all  this,  he  flattered  the  national  pride  of 
this  people.  Moreover,  by  the  incorporation  of 
Gueldres,  Utrecht.  Friesland,  and  Groningen  with 
these  provinces,  he  put  an  end  to  the  private  wars 
which  had  so  long  disturbed  their  commerce  ;  an 
unbroken  internal  peace  now  allowed  them  to  en¬ 
joy  the  full  fruits  of  their  industry.  Charles  was 
therefore  a  benefactor  of  this  people.  At  the 
same  time,  the  splendor  of  his  victories  dazzled 
their  eyes  ;  the  glory  of  their  sovereign,  which 
was  reflected  upon  them  also,  had  bribed  their 
republican  vigilarlce  ;  while  the  awe-inspiring  halo 
of  invincibility,  which  encircled  the  conqueror  of 
Germany,  France,  Italy,  and  Africa,  terrified  the 
factious.  And  then,  who  knows  not  on  how 
much  may  venture  the  man,  be  he  a  private  in¬ 
dividual  or  a  prince,  who  has  succeeded  in  enchain¬ 
ing  the  admiration  of  his  fellow  creatures.  His 
repeated  personal  visits  to  these  lands,  which  he, 
according  to  his  own  confession,  visited  as  often 
as  ten  different  times,  kept  the  disaffected 
within  bounds  ;  the  constant  exercise  of  severe 
and  prompt  justice  maintained  the  awe  of  the 
royal  power.  Finally,  Charles  was  born  in  the 
Netherlands,  and  loved  the  nation  in  whose  lap 
he  had  grown  up.  Their  manners  pleased  him, 
the  simplicity  of  their  character  and  social  in¬ 
tercourse  formed  for  him  a  pleasing  recreation 
from  the  severe  Spanish  gravity.  He  spoke  their 
language,  and  followed  their  customs  in  his  pri¬ 
vate  life.  The  burdensome  ceremonies,  which 
form  the  unnatural  barriers  between  king  and 
people,  were  banished  from  Brussels.  No  jealous 
foreigner  debarred  natives  from  access  to  their 
prince,  their  way  to  him  was  through  their  own 
countrymen,  to  whom  he  intrusted  his  person. 
He  spoke  much,  and  courteously  with  them  ;  his 

l!i  He  had,  too,  at  one  time  the  intention  of  raising  it 
to  a  kingdom ;  but  the  essential  points  of  difference  be¬ 
tween  the  provinces,  which  extended  from  constitution 
and  manners  to  measures  and  weights,  soon  made  him 
abandon  this  design.  More  important  was  the  service 
which  he  designed  them  in  the  Burgundian  treaty,  which 
settled  its  relation  to  the  German  empire.  According  to 
this  treaty,  the  seventeen  provinces  were  to  contribute 
to  the  common  wants  of  the  German  empire  twice  as 
much  as  an  electoral  prince ;  in  case  of  a  Turkish  war 
three  times  as  much;  in  return  for  which,  however,  they 
were  to  enjoy  the  powerful  protection  of  this  empiro,  and 
not  to  be  injured  in  any  of  their  various  privileges.  The 
revolution  which  under  Charles’s  son  altered  the  political 
constitution  of  the  provinces,  again  annulled  this  com¬ 
pact,  which,  on  account  of  the  trifling  advantage  that  it 
conferred,  deserves  no  further  notice. 


deportment  was  engaging,  his  discourse  obliging. 
These  simple  artifices  won  for  him  their  love,  and 
while  his  armies  trod  down  their  corn-fields,  while 
his  rapacious  imposts  diminished  their  property, 
while  his  governors  oppressed,  his  executioners 
slaughtered,  he  secured  their  hearts  by  a  friendly 
demeanor. 

Gladly  would  Charles  have  seen  this  affection  of 
the  nation  for  himself  descend  upon  his  son.  On  this 
account,  he  sent  for  him  in  his  youth  front  Spain, 
and  snowed  him  in  Brussels  to  his  future  subjects. 
On  the  solemn  day  of  his  abdication,  he  recom¬ 
mended  to  him  these  lands  as  the  richest  jewel  in 
his  crown,  and  earnestly  exhorted  him  to  respect 
their  laws  and  privileges. 

Philip  II.  was  in  all  the  direct  opposite  of  his 
father.  As  ambitious  as  Charles,  but  with  less 
knowledge  of  men  and  of  the  rights  of  man,  he  had 
formed  to  himself  a  notion  of  royal  authority, 
which  regarded  men  as  simply  the  servile  instru¬ 
ments  of  despotic  will,  and  was  outraged  by  every 
symptom  of  liberty.  Born  in  Spain,  and  educated 
under  the  iron  discipline  of  the  monks,  he.  de¬ 
manded  of  others  the  same  gloomy  formality  and 
reserve  as  marked  his  own  character.  The  cheer¬ 
ful  merriment  of  his  Flemish  subjects  was  as  un¬ 
congenial  to  his  disposition  and  temper  as  their 
privileges  were  offensive  to  his  imperious  will.  He 
spoke  no  other  language  but  the  Spanish,  endured 
none  but  Spaniards  about  his  person,  and  obsti¬ 
nately  adhered  to  all  their  customs.  In  vain  did 
the  loyal  ingenuity  of  the  Flemish  towns  through 
which  he  passed,  vie  with  each  other  in  solemniz¬ 
ing  his  arrival  with  costly  festivities.*  Philip’s 
eye  remained  dark  ;  all  the  profusion  of  magnifi¬ 
cence,  all  the  loud  and  hearty  effusions  of  the 
sincerest  joy,  could  not  win  from  him  one  approv¬ 
ing  smile. 

Charles  entirely  missed  his  aim  by  presenting 
his  son  to  the  Flemings.  They  might,  eventually, 
have  endured  his  yoke  with  less  impatience  if  he 
had  never  set  his  foot  in  their  land.  But  his  look 
forewarned  them  what  they  had  to  expect ;  his 
entry  into  Brussels  lost  him  all  hearts.  The 
Emperor’s  gracious  affability  with  his  people,  only 
served  to  throw  a  darker  shade  on  the  haughty 
gravity  of  his  son.  They  read  in  his  countenance 
the  destructive  purpose  against  their  liberties, 
which,  even  then,  he  already  revolved  in  his  breast. 
Forewarned  to  find  in  him  a  tyrant,  they  were 
forearmed  to  resist  him. 

The  throne  of  the  Netherlands  was  the  first 
which  Charles  Y.  abdicated.  Before  a  solemn 
convention  in  Brussels,  he  absolved  the  States- 
General  of  their  oath,  and  transferred  their  alle¬ 
giance  to  King  Philip,  his  son.  “If  my  death," 
addressing  the  latter  as  he  concluded,  “had  placed 
you  in  possession  of  these  countries,  even  in  that 
case,  so  valuable  a  bequest  would  have  given  me 
great  claims  on  your  gratitude.  But  now  that  of 
my  free  will  I  transfer  them  to  you,  now  that  I 
die  in  order  to  hasten  your  enjoyment  of  them,  I 
only  require  of  you  to  pay  to  the  people  the 
increased  obligation  which  the  voluntary  surrender 
of  my  dignity  lays  upon  you.  Other  princes 

*•  The  town  of  Antwerp,  alone,  expended  on  an  occa¬ 
sion  of  this  kind,  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  gold 
florins. 


24 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


esteem  it  a  peculiar  felicity  to  bequeath  to  their 
children  the  crown  which  death  is  already  ravish¬ 
ing  from  them.  This  happiness  I  am  anxious  to 
enjoy  during  my  life,  I  wish  to  be  a  spectator  of 
your  reign.  Few  will  follow  my  example,  as  few 
have  preceded  me  in  it.  But  this  my  deed  will  be 
praised,  if  your  future  life  should  justify  my  ex¬ 
pectations,  if  you  continue  to  be  guided  by  that 
wisdom  which  you  have  hitherto  evinced,  if  yon 
remain  inviolably  attached  to  the  pure  faith  which 
is  the  main  pillar  of  your  throne.  One  thing  more 
I  have  to  add  : — may  Heaven  grant  you  also  a 
son,  to  whom  you  may  transmit  your  power,  by 
choice,  and  not  by  necessity.” 

After  the  Emperor  had  concluded  his  address, 
Philip  kneeled  down  before  him,  kissed  his  hand, 
and  received  his  paternal  blessing.  His  eyes,  for 
the  last  time,  were  moistened  with  a  tear.  All  pre¬ 
sent  wept.  It  was  an  hour  never  to  be  forgotten. 

This  affecting  farce  was  soon  followed  by  an¬ 
other.  Philip  received  the  homage  of  the  assem¬ 
bled  states.  lie  took  the  oath  administered  in 
the  following  words  :  “I,  Philip,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  Prince  of  Spain,  of  the  Two  Sicilies,  &c., 
do  vow  and  swear  that  I  will  be  a  good  and  just 
lord  in  these  countries,  counties,  and  duchies,  &c. ; 
that  I  will  well  and  truly  hold,  and  cause  to  be 
held,  the  privileges  and  liberties  of  all  the  nobles, 
towns,  commons,  and  subjects  which  have  been 
conferred  upon  them  by  my  predecessors,  and 
also  the  customs,  usages,  and  rights  which  they 
now  have  and  enjoy,  jointly  and  severally,  and 
moreover,  that  I  will  do  all  that  by  law  and  right 
pertains  to  a  good  and  just  prince  and  lord,  so 
help  me  God  and  all  his  saints.” 

The  alarm  which  the  arbitrary  government  of 
the  Emperor  had  inspired,  and  the  distrust  of  his 
son,  are  already  visible  in  the  formula  of  this 
oath,  which  was  drawn  up  in  far  more  guarded 
and  explicit  terms  than  that  which  had  been  ad¬ 
ministered  to  Charles  V.  himself,  and  all  the 
Dukes  of  Burgundy.  Philip,  for  instance,  was 
compelled  to  swear  to  the  maintenance  of  their 
customs  and  usages,  what  before  his  time  had 
never  been  required.  In  the  oath  which  the 
states  took  to  him,  no  other  obedience  was  pro¬ 
mised,  than  such  as  should  be  consistent  with  the 
privileges  of  the  country.  His  officers  were  then 
only  to  reckon  on  submission  and  support,  so 
long  as  they  legally  discharged  the  duties  intrusted 
to  them.  Lastly,  in  this  oath  of  allegiance,  Phi¬ 
lip  is  simply  styled  only  the  natural,  the  heredi¬ 
tary  prince,  and  not,  as  the  Emperor  had  desired, 
sovereign  or  lord  ;  proof  enough,  how  little  con¬ 
fidence  was  placed  in  the  justice  and  liberality  of 
the  new  sovereign. 


PHILIP  THE  SECOND,  RULER  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 

Philip  II.  received  the  lordship  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands  in  the  brightest  period  of  their  prosperity. 
He  was  the  first  of  their  princes  who  united  them 
all  under  his  authority.  They  now  consisted  of 
seventeen  provinces ;  the  duchies  of  Brabant. 
Limburg,  Luxembourg  and  Gueldres,  the  seven 
counties  of  Artois,  Hainault,  Flanders,  Namur, 
Ziitphen,  Holland,  and  Zealand,  the  margravate 


of  Antwerp,  and  the  five  lordships  of  Friesland 
Mechlin  (Malines),  Utrecht,  Overyssel,  and  Gro¬ 
ningen,  which,  collectively,  formed  a  great  and 
powerful  state  able  to  contend  with  monarchies 
Higher  than  it  then  stood,  their  commerce  could 
not  rise.  'The  sources  of  their  wealth  were  abo\e 
the  earth’s  surface,  but  they  were  more  valuable 
and  inexhaustible,  and  richer  than  all  the  mines 
in  America.  These  seventeen  provinces,  which, 
taken  together,  scarcely  comprised  the  fifth  part 
of  Italy,  and  do  not  extend  beyond  three  hundred 
Flemish  miles,  yielded  an  annual  revenue  to  their 
lord,  not  much  inferior  to  that  which  Britain  for¬ 
merly  paid  to  its  kings,  before  the  latter  had  an¬ 
nexed  so  many  of  the  ecclesiastical  domains  to  their 
crown.  Three  hundred  and  fifty  cities,  alive  with 
industry  and  pleasure,  many  of  them  fortified  by 
their  natural  position,  and  secure  without  bul¬ 
warks  or  walls  ;  six  thousand  three  hundred  mar¬ 
ket  towns  of  a  larger  size  ;  smaller  villages,  farms, 
and  castles  innumerable,  imparted  to  this  terri¬ 
tory  the  aspect  of  one  unbroken  flourishing  land¬ 
scape.  The  nation  had  now  reached  the  meridian 
of  its  splendor;  industry  and  abundance  had  ex¬ 
alted  the  genius  of  the  citizen,  enlightened  his 
ideas,  ennobled  his  affections;  every  flower  of  the 
intellect  had  opened  with  the  flourishing  condition 
of  the  country.  A  happy  temperament  under  a 
severe  climate  cooled  the  ardor  of  their  blood, 
and  modulated  the  rage  of  their  passions  ;  equa¬ 
nimity,  moderation,  and  enduring  patience,  the 
gifts  of  a  northern  clime;  integrity,  justice,  and 
faith,  the  necessary  virtues  of  their  profession  ; 
and  the  delightful  fruits  of  liberty,  truth,  benevo¬ 
lence,  and  a  patriotic  pride  were  blended  in  their 
character,  with  a  slight  admixture  of  human  frail¬ 
ties  in  soft  union  with  the  vices  of  humanity.  No 
people  on  earth  was  more  easily  governed  by  a 
prudent  prince,  and  none  with  more  difficulty  by  - 
a  charlatan  or  a  tyrant.  Nowhere,  was  the  popu¬ 
lar  voice  so  infallible  a  test  of  good  government, 
as  here.  True  statesmanship  could  be  tried  in  no 
nobler  school,  and  a  sickly  artificial  policy  had 
none  wTorse  to  fear. 

A  state  constituted  like  this,  could  act  and  en¬ 
dure  with  gigantic  energy,  whenever  pressing 
emergencies  called  forth  its  powers,  and  a  skillful 
and  provident  administration  elicited  its  resources. 

>  Charles  Y.  bequeathed  to  his  successor  an  autho¬ 
rity  in  these  provinces,  little  inferior  to  that  of  a 
•  limited  monarchy.  The  prerogative  of  the  crowm 
had  gained  a  visible  ascendency  over  the  repub- 
,  lican  spirit,  and  that  complicated  machine  could 

■  now  be  set  in  motion,  almost  as  certainly  and  ra¬ 
pidly  as  the  most  absolutely  go\erned  nation, 
The  numerous  nobility,  formerly  so  pow'eiful, 
cheerfully  accompanied  their  sovereign  in  his 
wrars,  or  on  the  civil  charges  of  the  state  coin  ted 

,  the  approving  smile  of  royalty.  The  crafty  policy 
of  the  crown  had  created  a  new  and  imaginary 

■  good,  of  which  it  was  the  exclusive  dispenser. 

,  New  passions  and  new  ideas  of  happiness  sup- 
i  planted,  at  last,  the  rude  simplicity  of  republican 

virtue.  Pride  gave  place  to  vanity,  true  liberty 
.  to  titles  of  honor,  a  needy  independence  to  a  luxu-  . 
i  rious  servitude.  To  oppress  or  to  plunder  their 
,  native  laud,  as  the  absolute  satraps  of  an  absolute 
i  lord,  was  a  more  powerful  allurement  for  the  ava- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


25 


rice  and  ambition  of  the  great,  than  in  the  general 
assembly  of  the  state  to  share  with  the  monarch 
a  hundredth  part  of  the  supreme  power.  A  large 
portion,  moreover,  of  the  nobility,  were  deeply 
sunk  in  poverty  and  debt.  Charles  V.  had  crip¬ 
pled  all  the  most  dangerous  vassals  of  the  crown, 
by  expensive  embassies  to  foreign  courts,  under 
the  specious  pretext  of  honorary  distinctions. 
Thus,  William  of  Orange  was  dispatched  to  Ger¬ 
many  with  the  imperial  crown,  and  Count  Egmont 
to  conclude  the  marriage  contract  between  Philip 
and  Queen  Mary.  Both  also  afterward  accompa¬ 
nied  the  Duke  of  Alva  to  France,  to  negociate 
the  peace  between  the  two  crowns,  and  the  new 
alliance  of  their  sovereign  with  Madame  Eliza¬ 
beth.  The  expenses  of  these  journeys  amounted 
to  three  hundred  thousand  florins,  toward  which 
the  king  did  not  contribute  a  single  penny.  When 
the  Prince  of  Orange  was  appointed  generalis¬ 
simo,  in  the  place  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  he  was 
obliged  to  defray  all  the  necessary  expenses  of 
his  office.  When  foreign  ambassadors  or  princes 
came  to  Brussels,  it  was  made  incumbent  on  the 
nobles  to  maintain  the  honor  of  their  king,  who 
himself  always  dined  alone,  and  never  kept  open 
table.  Spanish  policy  had  devised  a  still  more 
ingenious  contrivance,  gradually  to  impoverish 
the  richest  families  of  the  land.  Every  year,  one 
of  the  Castilian  nobles  made  his  appearance  in 
Brussels,  where  he  displayed  a  lavish  magnifi¬ 
cence.  In  Brussels,  it  was  accounted  an  indelible 
disgrace  to  be  distanced  by  a  stranger  in  such 
munificence.  All  vied  to  surpass  him,  and  ex¬ 
hausted  their  fortunes  in  this  costly  emulation, 
while  the  Spaniard  made  a  timely  retreat  to  his 
native  country,  and  by  the  frugality  of  four  years, 
repaired  the  extravagance  of  one  year.  It  was 
the  foible  of  the  Netherlandish  nobility  to  contest 
with  every  stranger  the  credit  of  superior  wealth, 
and  of  this  weakness  the  government  studiously 
availed  itself.  Certainly,  these  arts  did  not,  in 
the  sequel,  produce  the  exact  result  that  had 
been  calculated  on  ;  for  these  pecuniary  burdens 
only  made  the  nobility  the  more  disposed  for  in¬ 
novation,  since  he  who  has  lost  all,  can  only  be  a 
gainer  in  the  general  ruin. 

The  Romish  Church  had  ever  been  a  main  sup¬ 
port  of  the  royal  power,  and  it  was  only  natural 
that  it  should  be  so.  Its  golden  time  was  the 
bondage  of  the  human  intellect,  and  like  royalty, 
it  had  gained  by  the  ignorance  and  weakness  of 
men.  Civil  oppression  made  religion  more  neces¬ 
sary  and  more  dear ;  submission  to  tyrannical 
power  prepares  the  mind  for  a  blind,  convenient 
faith,  and  the  hierarchy  repaid  with  usury  the 
services  of  despotism.  In  the  states,  the  bishops 
and  prelates  were  zealous  supporters  of  royalty, 
and  ever  ready  to  sacrifice  the  welfare  of  the  citi¬ 
zen  to  the  temporal  advancement  of  the  church, 
and  the  political  interests  of  the  sovereign. 

Numerous  and  brave  garrisons  also  held  the 
cities  in  awe,  which  were  at  the  same  time  di¬ 
vided  by  religious  squabbles  and  factions,  and 
consequently  deprived  of  their  strongest  support' — • 
union  among  themselves.  How  little,  therefore, 
did  it  require  to  insure  this  preponderance  of 
Philip’s  power,  and  how  fatal  must  have  been  the 
folly  by  which  it  was  lost. 


But  Philip’s  authority  in  these  provinces,  how¬ 
ever  great,  did  not  surpass  the  influence  which 
the  Spanish  monarchy  at  that  time  enjoyed 
throughout  Europe.  No  state  ventured  to  enter 
the  arena  of  contest  with  it.  France,  its  most 
dangerous  neighbor,  weakened  by  a  destructive 
war,  and  still  more  by  internal  factions,  which 
boldly  raised  their  heads  during  the  fetble  go¬ 
vernment  of  a  child,  was  advancing  rapidly  to 
that  unhappy  condition,  which,  for  nearly  halt  a 
century,  made  it  a  theatre  of  the  most  enormous 
crimes  and  the  most  fearful  calamities.  In  Eng¬ 
land,  Elizabeth  could  with  difficulty  protect  her 
still  tottering  throne  against  the  furious  storms 
of  faction,  and  her  new  church  establishment 
against  the  insidious  arts  of  the  Romanists.  That 
country  still  awaited  her  mighty  call,  before  it 
could  emerge  from  a  humble  obscurity,  and  had 
not  yet  been  awakened,  by  the  faulty  policy  of 
her  rival,  to  that  vigor  and  energy,  with  which  it 
finally  overthrew  him.  The  Imperial  family  of 
Germany  wTas  united  with  that  of  Spain,  by  the 
double  ties  of  blood  and  political  interest ;  and 
the  victorious  progress  of  Soliman  drew  its  at¬ 
tention  more  to  the  east  than  to  the  west  of  Eu¬ 
rope.  Gratitude  and  fear  secured  to  Philip 
the  Italian  princes,  and  his  creatures  ruled  the 
Conclave.  The  monarchies  of  the  North  still  lay 
in  barbarous  darkness  and  obscurity,  or  only  just 
began  to  acquire  form  and  strength,  and  were  as 
yet  unrecognized  in  the  political  system  of  Eu¬ 
rope.  The  most  skillful  generals,  numerous  armies 
accustomed  to  victory,  a  formidable  marine,  and 
the  golden  tribute  from  the  West  Indies,  which 
now  first  began  to  come  in  regularly  and  certainly 
— what  terrible  instruments  were  these  in  the 
firm  and  steady  hand  of  a  talented  prince  !  Under 
such  auspicious  stars  did  King  Philip  commence 
his  reign. 

Before  we  see  him  act,  we  must  first  look  has¬ 
tily  into  the  deep  recesses  of  his  soul,  and  we 
shall  there  find  a  key  to  his  political  life.'  Joy 
and  benevolence  were  wholly  wanting  in  the  com¬ 
position  of  his  character.  His  temperament,  and 
the  gloomy  years  of  his  early  childhood,  denied  him 
the  former ;  the  latter  could  not  be  imparted  to 
him  by  men  who  had  renounced  the  sweetest  and 
most  powerful  of  the  social  ties.  Two  ideas,  his 
own  self,  and  what  was  above  that  self,  engrossed 
his  narrow  and  contracted  mind.  Egotism  and 
religion  were  the  contents  and  the  title-page  of 
the  history  of  his  whole  life.  He  was  a  King 
and  a  Christian,  and  was  bad  in  both  characters  ; 
he  never  was  a  man  among  men,  because  he  never 
condescended,  but  only  ascended.  His  belief  was 
dark  and  cruel  ;  for  his  divinity  was  a  Being  of 
terror,  from  whom  he  had  nothing  to  hope  but 
every  thing  to  fear.  To  the  ordinary  man,  the 
divinity  appears  as  a  comforter,  as  a  saviour  ; 
before  his  mind  it  was  set  up  as  an  image  of  fear, 
a  painful,  humiliating  check  to  his  human  omni¬ 
potence.  His  veneration  for  this  Being  was  so 
much  the  more  profound  and  deeply  rooted,  the 
less  it  extended  to  other  objects.  He  trembled 
servilely  before  God,  because  God  was  the  only 
being  before  whom  he  had  to  tremble.  Charles  V. 
was  zealous  for  religion,  because  religion  pro¬ 
moted  his  objects.  Philip  was  so  because  he  had 


26 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


real  faith  in  it.  The  former  let  loose  the  fire  and 
the  sword  upon  thousands  for  the  sake  of  a 
dogma,  while  he  himself,  in  the  person  of  the 
Pope,  his  captive,  derided  the  very  doctrine  for 
which  he  had  sacrificed  so  much  human  blood. 
It  was  only  with  repugnance  and  scruples  of  con¬ 
science  that  Philip  resolved  on  the  most  just  war 
against  the  Pope;  and  resigned  all  the  fruits  of 
his  victory,  as  a  penitent  malefactor  surrenders 
his  booty.  The  Emperor  was  cruel  from  calcula¬ 
tion,  his  son  from  impulse.  The  first  possessed  a 
strong  and  enlightened  spirit,  and  was  therefore, 
perhaps,  the  worse  man  ;  the  second,  was  narrow¬ 
minded  and  weak,  but  the  most  upright. 

Both,  however,  as  it  appears  to  me,  might  have 
been  better  men  than  they  actually  were,  and 
still,  on  the  whole,  have  acted  on  the  very  same 
principles.  What  we  lay  to  the  charge  of  per¬ 
sonal  character  of  an  individual  is  very  often  the 
infirmity,  the  necessary  imperfection  of  universal 
human  nature.  A  monarchy  so  great  and  so  pow¬ 
erful,  was  too  great  a  trial  for  human  pride,  and 
too  mighty  a  charge  for  human  power.  To  com¬ 
bine  universal  happiness  with  the  highest  liberty 
of  the  individual,  is  the  sole  prerogative  of  infi¬ 
nite  intelligence,  which  diffuses  itself  omnipre- 
sently  over  all.  But  what  resource  has  man,  when 
placed  in  the  position  of  omnipotence  ?  Man  can 
only  aid  his  circumscribed  powers  by  classifica¬ 
tion  ;  like  the  naturalist,  he  establishes  certain 
marks  and  rules,  by  which  to  facilitate  his  own 
feeble  survey  of  the  whole,  to  which  all  indivi¬ 
dualities  must  conform.  All  this  is  accomplished 
for  him  by  religion.  She  finds  hope  and  fear 
planted  in  every  human  breast ;  by  making  her¬ 
self  mistress  of  these  emotions,  and  directing 
their  affections  to  a  single  object,  she  virtually 
transforms  millions  of  independent  beings  into 
one  uniform  abstract.  The  endless  diversity  of 
the  human  will,  no  longer  embarrasses  its  ruler — 
now  there  exists  one  universal  good,  one  universal 
evil,  which  he  can  bring  forward  or  withdraw  at 
pleasure,  and  which  works  in  unison  with  himself 
even  when  absent.  Now  a  boundary  is  esta¬ 
blished,  before  which  liberty  must  halt ;  a  vene¬ 
rable,  hallowed  line,  toward  which  all  the  various 
conflicting  inclinations  of  the  will  must  finally 
converge.  The  common  aim  of  despotism  and  of 
priestcraft  is  uniformity,  and  uniformity  is  a  ne¬ 
cessary  expedient  of  human  poverty  and  imper¬ 
fection.  Philip  became  a  greater  despot  than  his 
father,  because  his  mind  was  more  contracted,  or, 
in  other  words,  he  was  forced  to  adhere  the  more 
scrupulously  to  general  rules,  the  less  capable  he 
was  of  descending  to  special  and  individual  ex¬ 
ceptions.  What  conclusion  could  we  draw  from 
these  principles,  but  that  Philip  II.  could  not 
possibly  have  any  higher  object  of  his  solicitude, 
than  uniformity  both  in  religion  and  in  laws.,  be¬ 
cause  without  these  he  could  not  reign  ? 

And,  yet,  he  would  have  shown  more  mildness 
and  forbearance  in  his  government,  if  he  had  en¬ 
tered  upon  it  earlier.  In  the  judgment  which  is 
usually  formed  of  this  prince,  one  circumstance 
does  not  appear  to  be  sufficiently  considered  in 
the  history  of  his  mind  and  heart,  which,  how¬ 
ever,  in  all  fairness  ought  to  be  duly  weighed. 
Philip  counted  nearly  thirty  years,  when  lie  as¬ 


cended  the  Spanish  throne,  and  this  evirly  matu¬ 
rity  of  his  understanding  had  anticipated  the  pe¬ 
riod  of  his  majority.  A  mind  like  his,  conscious 
of  its  powers,  and  only  too  early  acquainted  with 
his  high  expectations,  could  not  brook  the  yoke 
of  childish  subjection  in  which  he  stood  ;  the  su¬ 
perior  genius  of  the  father,  and  the  absolute  au¬ 
thority  of  the  autocrat,  must  have  weighed  hea¬ 
vily  on  the  self-satisfied  pride  of  such  a  son. 
The  share  which  the  former  allowed  him  in  the 
government  of  the  empire,  was  just  important 
enough  to  disengage  his  mind  from  petty  pas¬ 
sions,  and  to  confirm  the  austere  gravity  of  his 
character,  but  also  meagre  enough,  to  kindle  a 
fiercer  longing  for  unlimited  power.  When  he 
actually  became  possessed  of  uncontrolled  au¬ 
thority,  it  had  lost  the  charm  of  novelty.  The 
sweet  intoxication  of  a  young  monarch,  in  the 
sudden  and  early  possession  of  supreme  power; 
that  joyous  tumult  of  emotions,  which  opens  the 
soul  to  every  softer  sentiment,  and  to  which  hu¬ 
manity  has  owed  so  many  of  the  most  valuable 
and  the  most  prized  of  its  institutions  ;  this 
pleasing  moment  had  for  him  long  passed  by,  or 
had  never  existed.  His  character  was  already 
hardened,  when  fortune  put  him  to  this  severe 
test,  and  his  settled  principles  withstood  the  col¬ 
lision  of  occasional  emotion.  He  had  had  time, 
during  fifteen  years,  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
change  ;  and  instead  of  youthfully  dallying  with 
the  external  symbols  of  his  new  station,  or  of 
losing  the  morning  of  his  government  in  the  in¬ 
toxication  of  an  idle  vanity,  he  remained  com¬ 
posed  and  serious  enough,  to  enter  at  once  on  the 
full  possession  of  his  power,  so  as  to  revenge 
himself  through  the  most  extensive  employment 
of  it,  for  its  having  been  so  long  withheld  from  him. 

THE  TRIBUNAL  OF  THE  INQUISITION. 

Philip  II.  no  sooner  saw  himself,  through  the 
peace  of  Chauteau-Cambray,  in  undisturbed  en¬ 
joyment  of  his  immense  territory,  than  he  turned 
his  whole  attention  to  the  great  work  of  purify¬ 
ing  religion,  and  verified  the  fears  of  his  Nether¬ 
landish  subjects.  The  ordinances,  which  his 
father  had  caused  to  be  promulgated  against 
heretics,  were  renewed  in  all  their  rigor ;  and 
terrible  tribunals,  to  whom  nothing  but  the  name 
of  inquisition  was  wanting,  were  appointed  to 
watch  over  their  execution.  But  his  plan  ap¬ 
peared  to  him  scarcely  more  than  half  fulfilled, 
so  long  as  he  could  not  transplant  ir. to  these 
countries  the  Spanish  Inquisition  in  its  perfect 
form — a  design  in  which  the  Emperor  had  already 
suffered  shipwreck. 

This  Spanish  Inquisition  is  an  ii  stitution  of  a 
new  and  peculiar  kind,  which  finds  no  prototype 
in  the  whole  course  of  time,  and  admits  of  com¬ 
parison  with  no  ecclesiastical  nor  civil  tribunal. 
Inquisition  has  existed  from  the  time  when  reason 
meddled  with  what  is  holy,  and  from  the  very 
commencement  of  skepticism  and  innovation ; 
but  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
after  some  examples  of  apostasy  had  alarmed  the 
hierarchy,  that  Innocent  III.  first  erected  for  it 
a  peculiar  tribunal,  and  separated,  in  an  unnatu¬ 
ral  manner,  ecclesiastical  superintendence  and  in* 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


27 


struction  from  its  judicial  and  primitive  office. 
In  order  to  be  the  more  sure  that  no  human  sen¬ 
sibilities,  or  natural  tenderness,  should  thwart  the 
stern  severity  of  its  statutes,  he  took  it  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  bishops  and  secular  clergy,  who,  by 
the  ties  of  civil  life,  were  still  too  much  attached 
to  humanity  for  his  purpose,  and  consigned  it  to 
those  of  the  monks,  a  half-denaturalized  race  of 
beings,  who  hud  abjured  the  sacred  feelings  of 
nature,  and  were  the  servile  tools  of  the  Roman 
See.  The  Inquisition  was  received  in  Germany, 
Italy,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  France  ;  a  Francis¬ 
can  monk  sat  as  judge  in  the  terrible  court,  which 
passed  sentence  on  the  Templars.  A  few  states 
succeeded  either  in  totally  excluding,  or  else  in 
subjecting  it  to  civil  authority.  The  Netherlands 
bad  remained  free  from  it,  until  the  government 
of  Charles  Y. ;  their  bishops  exercised  the  spiri¬ 
tual  censorship,  and  in  extraordinary  cases,  refe¬ 
rence  was  made  to  foreign  courts  of  inquisition  ; 
by  the  French  provinces  to  that  of  Paris,  by  the 
German  to  that  of  Cologne. 

But  the  Inquisition  which  we  are  here  speaking 
of,  came  from  the  west  of  Europe,  and  was  of  a 
different  origin  and  form.  The  last  Moorish 
throne  in  Granada  had  fallen  in  the  fifteenth  cen¬ 
tury,  and  the  false  faith  of  the  Saracen  had 
finally  succumbed  before  the  fortunes  of  Chris¬ 
tianity.  But  the  gospel  was  still  new,  and  but 
imperfectly  established  in  this  youngest  of  Chris¬ 
tian  kingdoms,  and  in  the  confused  mixture  of 
heterogeneous  laws  and  manners,  the  religions 
had  become  mixed.  It  is  true,  the  sword  of  per¬ 
secution  had  driven  many  thousand  families  to 
Africa,  but  a  far  larger  portion,  detained  by  the 
love  of  climate  and  home,  purchased  remission 
from  this  dreadful  necessity  by  a  show  of  conver¬ 
sion,  and  continued  at  Christian  altars  to  serve 
Mohammed  and  Moses.  So  long  as  prayers  were 
offered  toward  Mecca,  Granada  was  not  sub¬ 
dued  ;  so  long  as  the  new  Christian,  in  the  retire¬ 
ment  of  his  house,  became  again  a  Jew  or  a  Mos¬ 
lem,  he  was  as  little  secured  to  the  throne  as  to 
the  Romish  See.  It  was  no  longer  deemed  suffi¬ 
cient  to  compel  a  perverse  people  to  adopt  the 
exterior  forms  of  a  new  faith,  or  to  wed  it  to  the 
victorious  church  by  the  weak  bands  of  ceremo¬ 
nials  ;  the  object  now  was  to  extirpate  the  roots 
of  an  old  religion,  and  to  subdue  an  obstinate 
bias,  which,  by  the  slow  operation  of  centuries, 
had  been  implanted  in  their  manners,  their  lan¬ 
guage,  and. their  laws,  and  by  the  enduring  influ¬ 
ence  of  a  paternal  soil  and  sky  was  still  main¬ 
tained  in  its  full  extent  and  vigor. 

If  the  church  wished  to  triumph  completely 
over  the  opposing  worship,  and  to  secure  her 
new  conquest  beyond  all  chance  of  relapse,  it  was 
indispensable  that  she  should  undermine  the 
foundation  itself  on  which  the  old  religion  was 
built.  It  was  necessary  to  break  to  pieces  the 
entire  form  of  moral  character,  to  which  it  was 
so  closely  and  intimately  attached.  It  was  requi¬ 
site  to  loosen  its  secret  roots  from  the  hold  they 
had  taken  in  the  innermost  depths  of  the  soul ; 
to  extinguish  all  traces  of  it,  both  in  domestic 
life,  and  in  the  civil  world  ;  to  cause  all  recollec¬ 
tions  of  it  to  perish :  and,  if  possible,  to  destroy 
the  very  susceptibility  for  its  impressions.  Coun¬ 


try  and  family,  conscience  and  honor,  the  sacred 
feelings  of  society  and  of  nature,  are  ever  the  first 
and  immediate  ties  to  which  religion  attaches 
itself,  from  these  it  derives  while  it  imparts 
strength.  This  connection  was  now  to  be  dis¬ 
solved,  the  old  religion  was  violently  to'be  dissev¬ 
ered  from  the  holy  feelings  of  nature  ;  even  at 
the  expense  of  the  sanctity  itself  of  these  emo¬ 
tions.  Thus  arose  that  Inquisition  which,  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  it  from  the  more  humane  tribunals  of  the 
same  name,  we  usually  call  the  Spanish.  Its 
founder  was  Cardinal  Ximenes,  a  Dominican 
monk.  Torquemada  was  the  first  who  ascended 
its  bloody  throne,  who  established  its  statutes, 
and  forever  cursed  his  order  with  \jis  bequest. 
Sworn  to  the  degradation  of  the  understanding, 
and  the  murder  of  intellect;  the  instruments  it 
employed  were  terror  and  infamy.  Every  evil 
passion  was  in  its  pay ;  its  snare  was  set  in  every 
joy  of  life.  Solitude  itself  was  not  safe  from  it ; 
the  fear  of  its  omnipresence  fettered  the  freedom 
of  the  soul  in  its  inmost  and  deepest  recesses. 
It  prostrated  all  the  instincts  of  human  nature 
before  it,  yielded  all  the  ties  which  otherwise  man 
held  most  sacred.  A  heretic  forfeited  all  claims 
upon'  his  race  ;  the  most  trivial  infidelity  to  his 
mother  church  divested  him  of  the  rights  of  his 
nature.  A  modest  doubt  in  the  infallibility  of 
the  pope,  met  with  the  punishment  of  parricide 
and  the  infamy  of  sodomy;  its  sentences  re¬ 
sembled  the  frightful  corruption  of  the  plague, 
which  turns  the  most  healthy  body  into  rapid 
putrefaction.  Even  the  inanimate  things  belong¬ 
ing  to  a  heretic  were  accursed  ;  no  destiny  could 
snatch  the  victim  of  the  Inquisition  from  its  sen¬ 
tence  :  its  decrees  were  carried  in  force  on  corpses 
and  on  pictures  ;  and  the  grave  itself  was  no 
asylum  from  its  tremendous  arm.  The  presump¬ 
tuous  arrogance  of  its  decrees,  could  only  be 
surpassed  by  the  inhumanity  which  executed 
them.  By  coupling  the  ludicrous  with  the  terrible, 
and  by  amusing  the  eye  with  the  strangeness  of 
its  processions,  it  weakened  compassion  by  the 
gratification  of  another  feeling;  it  drowned  sym¬ 
pathy  in  derision  and  contempt.  The  delinquent 
was  conducted  with  solemn  pomp  to  the  place  of 
execution,  a  blood-red  flag  was  displayed  before 
him,  the  universal  clang  of  all  the  hells  accompa¬ 
nied  the  procession.  First  came  the  priests  in  the 
robes  of  the  Mass,  and  singing  a  sacred  hymn ; 
next  followed  the  condemned  sinner,  clothed  in  a 
yellow  vest,  covered  with  figures  of  black  devils. 
On  his  head,  he  wore  a  paper  cap  surmounted  by 
a  human  figure,  around  which  played  lambent 
flames  of  fire,  and  ghastly  demons  flitted.  The 
image  of  the  crucified  Saviour  was  carried  before, 
but  turned  away  from  the  eternally  condemned 
sinner,  for  whom  salvation  was  no  longer  avail¬ 
able.  His  mortal  body  belonged  to  the  material 
fire,  his  immortal  soul  to  the  flames  of  hell.  A 
gag  closed  his  mouth,  and  prevented  him  from 
alleviating  his  pain  by  lamentation,  from  awaken¬ 
ing  compassion  by  his  affecting  tale,  and  from 
divulging  the  secrets  of  the  holy  tribunal.  He 
was  followed  by  the  clergy  in  festive  robes,  by 
the  magistrates  and  the  nobility;  the  fathers,  who 
had  been  his  judges,  closed  the  awful  procession. 
It  seemed  like  a  solemn  funeral  procession,  but 


28 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


on  looking  for  the  corpse  on  its  way  to  the  grave, 
behold  it  was  a  living  body,  whose  groans  are  now 
to  afford  such  shuddering  entertainment  to  the 
people.  The  executions  were  generally  held  on 
the  high  festivals,  for  which  a  number  of  such  un¬ 
fortunate  sufferers  were  reserved  in  the  prisons 
of  the  holy  house,  in  order  to  enhance  the  re¬ 
joicing  by  the  multitude  of  the  victims ;  and  on 
these  occasions,  the  king  himself  was  usually  pre¬ 
sent.  He  sat  with  uncovered  head,  on  a  lower 
chair  than  that  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  to  whom 
on  such  occasions  he  yielded  precedence  ;  who, 
then,  would  not  tremble  before  a  tribunal,  at 
which  majesty  must  humble  itself? 

The  great  revolution  in  the  church  accom¬ 
plished  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  renewed  the  causes 
to  which  this  tribunal  owed  its  first  origin  :  and' 
that  which,  at  its  commencement,  was  invented 
to  clear  the  petty  kingdom  of  Granada  from  the 
feeble  remnant  of  Saracens  and  Jews,  was  now 
required  for  the  whole  of  Christendom.  All  the 
Inquisitions  in  Portugal,  Italy,  Germany,  and 
Prance,  adopted  the  form  of  the  Spanish;  it  fol¬ 
lowed  Europeans  to  the  Indies,  and  established 
in  Goa  a  fearful  tribunal,  whose  inhuman  pro¬ 
ceedings  make  us  shudder  even  at  the  bare  recital. 
Wherever  it  planted  its  foot,  devastation  fol¬ 
lowed  ;  but  in  no  part  of  the  world  did  it  rage  so 
violently  as  in  Spain.  The  victims  are  forgotten, 
whom  it  immolated  ;  the  human  race  renews  itself, 
and  the  lands,  too,  flourish  again,  which  it  has 
devastated  and  depopulated  by  its  fury;  but  cen¬ 
turies  will  elapse,  before  its  traces  disappear  from 
the  Spanish  character.  A  generous  and  enlight¬ 
ened  nation  has  been  stopped  by  it  on  its  road 
to  perfection  ;  it  has  banished  genius  from  a  re¬ 
gion  where  it  was  indigenous,  and  a  stillness 
like  that  which  hangs  over  the  grave,  has  been 
left  in  the  mind  of  a  people  who,  beyond  most 
others  of  our  world,  were  framed  for  happiness 
and  enjoyment. 

The  first  Inquisitor  in  Brabant  was  appointed 
by  Charles  Y.  in  the  year  1522.  Some  priests 
were  associated  with  him  as  coadjutors  ;  but  he 
himself  was  a  lavman.  After  the  death  of  Adrian 
VI.,  his  successor,  Clement  VII.,  appointed  three 
Inquisitors  for  all  the  Netherlands;  and  Paul 
III.  again  reduced  them  to  two,  which  number  I 
continued  until  the  commencement  of  the  trou¬ 
bles.  In  the  year  1530,  with  the  aid  and  appro¬ 
bation  of  the  states,  the  edicts  against  heretics  were 
promulgated,  which  formed  the  foundation  of  all 
that  followed,  and,  in  which,  also,  express  men¬ 
tion  is  made  of  the  Inquisition.  In  the  year  1550, 
in  consequence  of  the  rapid  increase  of  sects, 
Charles  V.  was  under  the  necessity  of  reviving 
and  enforcing  these  edicts,  and  it  was  on  this  oc¬ 
casion  that  the  town  of  Antwerp  opposed  the 
establishment  of  the  Inquisition,  and  obtained  an 
exemption  from  its  jurisdiction.  But  the  spirit 
of  the  Inquisition  in  the  Netherlands,  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  the- genius  of  the  country,  was  more 
humane  than  in  Spain,  and,  as  yet,  had  never 
been  administered  by  a  foreigner,  much  less  by  a 
Dominican.  The  edicts  which  were  known  to 
every  body,  served  it  as  the  rule  of  its  decisions. 
On  this  very  account,  it  was  less  obnoxious;  be¬ 
cause,  however  severe  its  sentence,  it  did  not 


appear  a  tool  of  arbitrary  power,  and  it  did 
not,  like  the  Spanish  Inquisition,  vail  iself  in 
secrecy. 

Philip,  however,  was  desirous  of  introducing 
the  latter  tribunal  into  the  Netherlands,  since  it 
appeared  to  him  the  instrument  best  adapted  to 
destroy  the  spirit  of  this  people,  and  to  prepare 
them  for  a  despotic  government.  He  began, 
therefore,  by  increasing  the  rigor  of  the  religious 
ordinances  of  his  father;  by  gradually  extending 
the  power  of  the  inquisitors  ;  by  making  its  pro¬ 
ceedings  more  arbitrary,  and  more  independent  of 
the  civil  jurisdiction.  The  tribunal  soon  wanted 
little  more  than  the  name,  and  the  Dominicans, 
to  resemble,  in  every  point,  the  Spanish  Inquisi¬ 
tion.  Bare  suspicion  was  enough  to  snatch  a 
citizen  from  the  bosom  of  public  tranquillity,  and 
from  his  domestic  circle ;  and  the  weakest  evi¬ 
dence  was  a  sufficient  justification  for  the  use  of 
the  rack.  Whoever  fell  into  its  abyss,  returned 
no  more  to  the  world.  All  the  benefits  of  the 
laws  ceased  for  him  ;  the  maternal  care  of  justice 
no  longer  noticed  him  ;  beyond  the  pale  of  his 
former  world,  malice  and  stupidity  judged  him  ac¬ 
cording  to  laws  which  were  never  intended  for 
man.  The  delinquent  never  knew  his  accuser, 
and  very  seldom  his  crime,  a  flagitious,  devilish 
artifice,  which  constrained  the  unhappy  victim  to 
guess  at  his  error,  and  in  the  delirium  of  the  rack, 
or  in  the  weariness  of  a  long  living  interment,  to 
acknowledge  transgressions  which,  perhaps,  had 
never  been  committed,  or,  at  least,  had  never  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  his  judges.  The  goods  of 
the  condemned  were  confiscated,  and  the  informer 
encouraged  by  letters  of  grace  and  rewards.  No 
privilege,  no  civil  jurisdiction,  was  valid  against 
the  holy  power  ;  the  secular  arm  lost  for  ever  all 
whom  that  power  had  once  touched.  Its  only 
share  in  the  judicial  duties  of  the  latter  was  to 
execute  its  sentences  with  humble  submissiveness. 
The  consequences  of  such  an  institution  were,  of 
necessity,  unnatural  and  horrible;  the  whole  tem¬ 
poral  happiness,  the  life  itself,  of  an  innocent  man, 
was  at  the  mercy  of  any  worthless  fellow.  Every 
secret  enemy,  every  envious  person,  had  now  the 
perilous  temptation  of  an  unseen  and  unfailing 
revenge.  The  security  of  property,  the  sincerity 
of  intercourse,  were  gone  ;  all  the  ties  of  interest 
were  dissolved  ;  all  of  blood  and  of  affection  were 
irreparably  broken.  An  infectious  distrust  en¬ 
venomed  social  life  ;  the-  dreaded  presence  of  a 
spy  terrified  the  eye  from  seeing,  and  choked  the 
voice  in  the  midst  of  utterance.  No  one  believed 
in  the  existence  of  an  honest  man,  or  passed  for 
one.  himself.  Good  name,  the  ties  of  country, 
brotherhood,  even  oaths,  and  all  that  man  holds 
sacred,  were  fallen  in  estimation.  Such  was  the 
destiny  to  which  a  great  and  flourishing  commer¬ 
cial  town  was  subjected,  where  a  hundred  thou¬ 
sand  industrious  men  had  been  brought  together 
by  the  single  tie  of  mutual  confidence  ;  every  one 
indispensable  to  his  neighbor,  and  yet  every  one 
was  now  distrusted  and  distrustful.  All  attracted 
by  the  desire  of  gain,  and  repelled  from  each  other 
by  fear.  All  the  props  of  society  torn  away, 
where  social  union  was  the  basis  of  life  and  ex¬ 
istence. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


29 


OTHER  ENCROACHMENTS  ON  THE  CONSTITUTION  OF 
THE  NETHERLANDS. 

No  wonder  if  so  unnatural  a  tribunal,  which  had 
.proved  intolerable,  even  to  the  more  submissive 
spirit  of  the  Spaniard,  drove  a  free  state  to  rebel¬ 
lion.  But  the  terror  which  it  inspired  was  in¬ 
creased  by  the  Spanish  troops,  which,  even  after 
the  restoration  of  peace,  were  kept  in  the  coun¬ 
try,  and,  in  violation  of  the  constitution,  garri¬ 
soned  border  towns.  Charles  Y.  had  been  forgiven 
for  this  introduction  of  foreign  armies,  so  long  as 
the  necessity  of  it  was  evident,  and  his  good  inten¬ 
tions  were  less  distrusted.  But  now  men  saw  in 
these  troops  only  the  alarming  preparations  of 
oppression,  and  the  instruments  of  a  detested  hier¬ 
archy.  Moreover,  a  considerable  body  of  cavalry, 
composed  of  natives,  and  fully  adequate  for  the 
protection  of  the  country,  made  these  foreigners 
superfluous.  The  licentiousness  and  rapacity,  too, 
of  the  Spaniards,  whose  pay  was  long  in  arrear, 
and  who  indemnified  themselves  at  the  expense  of 
the  citizens,  completed  the  exasperation  of  the 
people,  and  drove  the  lower  orders  to  despair. 
Subsequently,  when  the  general  murmur  induced 
the  government  to  move  them  from  the  frontiers, 
and  transport  them  into  the  islands  of  Zealand, 
where  ships  were  prepared  for  their  deportation, 
their  excesses  were  carried  to  such  a  pitch,  that 
the  inhabitants  left  off  working  at  the  embank¬ 
ments,  and  preferred  to  abandon  their  native  coun¬ 
try  to  the  fury  of  the  sea,  rather  than  submit  any 
longer  to  the  wanton  brutality  of  these  lawless 
bands. 

Philip,  indeed,  would  have  wished  to  retain 
these  Spaniards  in  the  country,  in  order,  by  their 
presence,  to  give  weight  to  his  edicts,  and  to  sup¬ 
port  the  innovations  which  he  had  resolved  to 
make  in  the  constitution  of  the  Netherlands.  He 
regarded  them  as  a  guarantee  for  the  submission 
of  the  nation,  and  as  a  chain  by  which  he  held  it 
captive.  Accordingly,  he  left  no  expedient  un¬ 
tried,  to  evade  the  persevering  importunity  of  the 
states,  who  demanded  the  withdrawal  of  these 
troops ;  and  for  this  end,  he  exhausted  all  the  re¬ 
sources  of  chicanery  and  persuasion.  At  one 
time,  he  pretended  to  dread  a  sudden  invasion  by 
France,  although,  torn  by  furious  factions,  that 
country  could  scarce  support  itself  against  a  do¬ 
mestic  enemy  ;  at  another  time,  they  were,  he 
said,  to  receive  his  son,  Don  Carlos,  on  the  fron¬ 
tiers  ;  whom,  however,  he  never  intended  should 
leave  Castile.  Their  maintenance  should  not  be 
a  burden  to  the  nation  ;  he  himself  would  dis¬ 
burse  all  their  expenses  from  his  private  purse. 
In  order  to  detain  them  with  the  more  appearance 
of  reason,  he  purposely  kept  back  from  them 
their  arrears  of  pay ;  for  otherwise,  he  would  as¬ 
suredly  have  preferred  them  to  the  troops  of  the 
country,  whose  demands  he  fully  satisfied.  To 
lull  the  fears  of  the  nation,  and  to  appease  the 
general  discontent,  he  offered  the  chief  command 
of  these  troops  to  the  two  favorites  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  Count  Egmont. 
Both,  however,  declined  his  offer,  with  the  noble- 
minded  declaration,  that  they  could  never  make 
up  their  minds  to  serve  contrary  to  the  laws  of 
the  country.  The  more  desire  the  king  showed 


to  have  his  Spaniards  in  the  country,  the  more 
obstinately  the  states  insisted  on  their  removal. 
In  the  following  Diet  at  Ghent,  he  was  compelled, 
in  the  very  midst  of  his  courtiers,  to  listen  to  re¬ 
publican  truth.  “Why  are  foreign  hands  needed 
for  our  defense?”  demanded  the  Syndic  of  Ghent. 
“  Is  it  that  the  rest  of  the  world  should  consider 
us  too  stupid  or  too  cowardly  to  protect  ourselves  ? 
Why  have  we  made  peace,  if  the  burdens  of  war 
are  still  to  oppress  us?  In  war,  necessity  en¬ 
forced  endurance;  in  peace,  our  patience  is  ex¬ 
hausted  by  its  burdens.  Or  shall  we  be  able  to 
keep  in  order  these  licentious  bands,  which  thine 
own  presence  could  not  restrain  ?  Here,  Cam- 
bray  and  Antwerp  cry  for  redress ;  there,  Thion- 
ville  and  Marienburg  lie  waste ;  and,  surely,  thou 
hast  not  bestowed  upon  us  peace,  that  our  cities 
should  become  deserts,  as  they  necessarily  must 
if  thou  freest  them  not  from  these  destroyers  ? 
Perhaps  thou  art  anxious  to  guard  against  sur¬ 
prise  from  our  neighbors  ?  This  precaution  is 
wise ;  but  the  report  of  their  preparations  will 
long  outrun  their  hostilities.  Why  incur  a  heavy 
expense  to  engage  foreigners,  who  will  not  care 
for  a  country  which  they  must  leave  to-morrow? 
Hast  thou  not  still  at  thy  command  the  same 
brave  Netherlanders,  to  whom  thy  father  intrusted 
the  republic  in  far  more  troubled  times  ?  Why 
shouldst  thou  now  doubt  their  loyalty,  which,  to 
thy  ancestors,  they  have  preserved  for  so  many 
centuries  inviolate?  Will  not  they  be  sufficient 
to  sustain  the  war  long  enough  to  give  time  to 
thy  confederates  to  join  their  banners,  or  to  thy¬ 
self  to  send  succor  from  the  neighboring  coun¬ 
try?”  This  language  was  too  new  to  the  king, 
and  its  truth  too  obvious,  for  him  to  be  able  at 
once  to  reply  to  it.  “  I,  also,  am  a  foreigner,”  he 
at  length  exclaimed,  “and  they  would  like,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  to  expel  me  from  the  country !”  At  the 
same  time,  he  descended  from  the  throne,  and 
left  the  assembly ;  but  the  speaker  was  pardoned 
for  his  boldness.  Two  days  afterward,  he  sent  a 
message  to  the  states,  that  if  he  had  been  ap¬ 
prised  earlier  that  these  troops  were  a  burden  to 
them,  lie  would  have  immediately  made  prepara¬ 
tion  to  remove  them,  with  himself,  to  Spain. 
Now  it  was  too  late,  for  they  would  not  depart 
unpaid  ;  but  he  pledged  them  his  most  sacred 
promise,  that  they  should  not  be  oppressed  with 
this  burden  more  than  four  months.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  the  troops  remained  in  this  country  eighteen 
months  instead  of  four;  and  would  not,  perhaps, 
even  then  have  left  it  so  soon  if  the  exigencies  of 
the  state  had  not  made  their  presence  indispensa¬ 
ble  in  another  part  of  the  world. 

The  illegal  appointment  of  foreigners  to  the 
most  important  offices  of  the  country,  afforded 
further  occasion  of  complaint  against  the  govern¬ 
ment.  Of  all  the  privileges  of  the  provinces,  none 
was  so  obnoxious  to  the  Spaniards  as  that  which 
excluded  strangers  from  office,  and  none  they  had 
so  zealously  sought  to  abrogate.  Italy,  the  two 
Indies,  and  all  the  provinces  of  this  vast  empire, 
were  indeed  open  to  their  rapacity  and  ambition  ; 
but  from  the  richest  of  them  all,  an  inexorable 
fundamental  law  excluded  them.  They  artfully 
persuaded  their  sovereign,  that  his  power  in  these 
countries  would  never  be  firmly  established,  so 


30 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


long  as  he  could  not  employ  foreigners  as  his  in¬ 
strument.  The  Bishop  of  Arras,  a  Burgundian 
by  birth,  had  already  been  illegally  forced  upon 
the  Flemings;  and  now  the  Count  of  Feria,  a 
Castilian,  was  to  receive  a  seat  and  voice  in  the 
council  of  state.  But  this  attempt  met  with  a 
bolder  resistance  than  the  king’s  flatterers  had 
led  him  to  expect,  and  his  despotic  omnipotence 
was  this  time  wrecked  by  the  politic  measures  of 
William  of  Orange,  and  the  firmness  of  the  states. 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  AND  COUNT  EGMONT. 

By  such  measures,  did  Philip  usher  in  his  go¬ 
vernment  of  the  Netherlands,  and  such  were  the 
grievances  of  the  nation  when  he  was  preparing 
to  leave  them.  He  had  long  been  impatient  to 
cjuit  a  country  where  he  was  a  stranger,  where 
there  was  so  much  that  opposed  his  secret  wishes, 
and  where  his  despotic  mind  found  such  un¬ 
daunted  monitors  to  remind  him  of  the  laws  of 
freedom.  The  peace  with  France,  at  last  ren¬ 
dered  a  longer  stay  unnecessary  ;  the  armaments 
of  Soliraan  required  his  presence  in  the  south,  and 
the  Spaniards  also  began  to  miss  their  long-absent 
king.  The  choice  of  a  supreme  Stadtholder  for 
the  Netherlands,  was  the  principal  matter  which 
still  detained  him.  Emanuel  Philibert,  Duke  of 
Savoy,  had  tilled  this  place  since  the  resignation 
of  Mary,  Queen  of  Hungary,  which,  however,  so 
long  as  the  king  himself  was  present,  conferred 
more  honor  than  real  influence.  His  absence 
would  make  it  the  most  important  office  in  the 
monarchy,  and  the  most  splendid  aim  for  the  am¬ 
bition  of  a  subject.  It  had  now  become  vacant 
through  the  departure  of  the  duke,  whom  the 
peace  of  Chateau  Cambresis  had  restored  to  his 
dominions.  The  almost  unlimited  power  with 
which  the  supreme  Stadtholder  would  be  in¬ 
trusted,  the  capacity  and  experience  which  so  ex¬ 
tensive  and  delicate  an  appointment  required,  but, 
especially,  the  daring  designs  which  the  govern¬ 
ment  had  in  contemplation  against  the  freedom 
of  the  country,  the  execution  of  which  would  de¬ 
volve  on  him,  necessarily  embarrassed  the  choice. 
The  law,  which  excluded  all  foreigners  from 
office,  made  an  exception  in  the  case  of  the  su¬ 
preme  Stadtholder.  As  he  could  not  be,  at  the 
same  time,  a  native  of  all  the  provinces,  it  was 
allowable  for  him  not  to  belong  to  any  one  of 
them  ;  for  the  jealousy  of  the  man  of  Brabant 
would  concede  no  greater  right  to  a  Fleming, 
whose  home  was  half  a  mile  from  his  frontier, 
than  to  a  Sicilian,  who  lived  in  another  soil  and 
under  a  different  sky.  But  here  the  interests  of 
the  crown  itself  seemed  to  favor  the  appointment 
of  a  native.  A  Brabanter,  for  instance,  who  en¬ 
joyed  the  full  confidence  of  his  countrymen,  if  he 
became  a  traitor,  would  have  half  accomplished 
his  treason,  before  a  foreign  governor  could  over¬ 
come  the  mistrust,  with  which  his  most  insignifi¬ 
cant  measures  would  be  watched.  If  the  govern¬ 
ment  should  succeed  in  carrying  through  its  de¬ 
signs  in  one  province,  the  opposition  of  the  rest 
would  then  be  a  temerity,  which  it  would  be  jus¬ 
tified  in  punishing  in  the  severest  manner.  In 
the  common  whole,  which  the  provinces  now 


formed,  their  individual  constitutions  were,  is  a 
measure,  destroyed  ;  the  obedience  of  one  would 
be  a  law  for  all,  and  the  privilege,  which  one  knew 
not  how  to  preserve,  was  lost  for  the  rest. 

Among  the  Flemish  nobles,  who  could  lay 
claim  to  the  Chief  Stadtholdership,  the  expecta¬ 
tions  and  wishes  of  the  nation  were  divided  between 
Count  Egmont  and  the  Prince  of  Orange,  who 
were  alike  entitled  to  this  high  dignity — by  illus¬ 
trious  birth  and  personal  merits,  and  by  an  equal 
share  in  the  affections  of  the  people.  Their  high 
rank  placed  them  both  near  to  the  throne,  and  if 
the  choice  of  the  monarch  was  to  rest  on  the  wor¬ 
thiest,  it  must  necessarily  fall  upon  one  of  these 
two.  As,  in  the  course  of  our  history,  we  shall 
often  have  occasion  to  mention  both  names,  the 
reader  cannot  be  too  early  made  acquainted  with 
their  characters. 

William  I.,  Prince  of  Orange,  was  descended 
from  the  princely  German  house  of  Nassau,  which 
had  already  flourished  eight  centuries,  had  long 
disputed  the  pre-eminence  with  Austria,  and  had 
given  one  Emperor  to  Germany.  Besides  several 
extensive  domains  in  the  Netherlands,  which 
made  him  a  citizen  of  this  Republic,  and  a  vassal 
of  the  Spanish  monarchy,  he  possessed  also  in 
France  the  independent  princedom  of  Orange. 
William  was  born  in  the  year  1533,  at  Dillenburg, 
in  the  country  of  Nassau,  of  a  Countess  Stolberg. 
His  father,  the  Count  of  Nassau,  of  the  same 
name,  had  embraced  the  Protestant  religion,  and 
caused  his  son  also  to  be  educated  in  it ;  but 
Charles  V.,  who  early  formed  an  attachment  for 
the  boy,  took  him,  when-quite  young,  to  his  court, 
and  had  him  brought  up  in  the  Romish  Church. 
This  monarch,  who  already  in  the  child  discovered 
the  future  greatness  of  the  man,  kept  him  nine 
years  about  his  person,  thought  him  worthy  of 
his  personal  instruction  in  the  affairs  of  govern¬ 
ment,  and  honored  him  with  a  confidence  beyond 
his  years.  He  alone  was  permitted  to  remain  in 
the  Emperor’s  presence,  when  he  gave  audience 
to  foreign  ambassadors — a  proof  that,  even  as  a 
boy,  he  had  already  begun  to  merit  the  surname 
of  the  Silent.  The  Emperor  was  not  ashamed 
even  to  confess  openly,  on  one  occasion,  that  this 
young  man  had  often  made  suggestions  which 
would  have  escaped  his  own  sagacity.  What  ex¬ 
pectations  might  not  be  formed  of  the  intellect 
of  a  man  who  was  disciplined  in  such  a  school ! 

William  was  twenty -three  years  old  when 
Charles  abdicated  the  government,  and  had  al¬ 
ready  received  from  the  latter  two  public  marks 
of  the  highest  esteem.  The  Emperor  had  in¬ 
trusted  to  him,  in  preference  to  all  the  nobles  of 
his  court,  the  honorable  office  of  conveying  to  his 
brother  Ferdinand  the  imperial  crown.  When 
the  Duke  of  Savoy,  who  commanded  the  imperial 
army  in  the  Netherlands,  was  called  away  to  Italy 
by  the  exigency  of  his  domestic  affairs,  the  Em¬ 
peror  appointed  him  commander-in-chief,  against 
the  united  representations  of  his  military  council, 
who  declared  it  altogether  hazardous  to  oppose  so 
young  a  tyro  in  arms  to  the  experienced  generals 
of  France.  Absent,  and  unrecommended  by  any, 
he  was  preferred  by  the  monarch  to  the  laurel- 
crowned  band  of  his  heroes,  and  the  result  gave 
him  no  cause  to  repent  of  his  choice. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


31 


The  marked  favor  which  the  prince  had  en¬ 
joyed  with  the  father,  was,  in  itself,  a  sufficient 
ground  for  his  exclusion  from  the  confidence  of  the 
son.  Philip,  it  appears,  had  laid  it  down  for  him¬ 
self  as  a  rule,  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  the  Spanish 
nobility,  for  the  preference  which  Charles  V.  had, 
on  all  important  occasions,  shown  to  his  Flemish 
nobles.  Still  stronger,  however,  were  the  secret 
motives  which  alienated  him  from  the  prince. 
William  of  Orange  was  one  of  those  lean  and 
pale  men,  who,  according  to  Caesar’s  words, 
“s’eep  not  at  night,  and  think  too  much,”  and 
before  whom  the  most  fearless  spirits  quail.  The 
calm  tranquillity  of  a  never-varying  countenance, 
concealed  a  busy,  ardent  soul,  which  never  ruffled 
even  the  vail  behind  which  it  worked,  and  was 
alike  inaccessible  to  artifice  and  to  love;  a  versa¬ 
tile,  formidable,  indefatigable  mind,  soft  and  duc¬ 
tile  enough  to  be  instantaneously  moulded  into 
all  forms  ;  guarded  enough  to  lose  itself  in  none; 
and  strong  enough  to  endure  every  vicissitude  of 
fortune.  A  greater  master  in  reading  and  in 
winning  men’s  hearts,  never  existed  than  Wil¬ 
liam.  Not  that,  after  the  fashion  of  courts,  his 
lips  avowed  a  servility  to  which  his  proud  heart 
gave  the  lie ;  but  because  he  was  neither  too 
sparing  nor  too  lavish  of  the  marks  of  his  esteem, 
and  through  a  skillful  economy  of  the  favors 
which  mostly  bind  men,  he  increased  his  real 
stock  in  them.  The  fruits  of  his  meditation  were 
as  perfect  as  they  were  slowly  formed  ;  his  re¬ 
solves  were  as  steadily  and  indomitably  accom¬ 
plished,  as  they  were  long  in  maturing.  No  ob¬ 
stacles  could  defeat  the  plan  which  he  had  once 
adopted  as  the  best;  no  accidents  frustrated  it, 
for  they  all  had  been  foreseen  before  they  actually 
occurred.  High  as  his  feelings  were  raised  above 
terror  and  joy,  they  were,  nevertheless,  subject  in 
the  same  degree  to  fear ;  but  his  fear  was  earlier 
than  the  danger,  and  he  was  calm  in  tumult,  be¬ 
cause  he  had  trembled  in  repose.  William  la¬ 
vished  his  gold  with  a  profuse  hand,  but  he  was  a 
niggard  of  his  moments.  The  hours  of  repast 
were  the  sole  hours  of  relaxation,  but  these  were 
exclusively  devoted  to  his  heart,  his  family,  and 
his  friends ;  this  the  modest  deduction  he  allowed 
himself  from  the  cares  of  his  country.  Here  his 
brow  was  cleared  with  wine,  seasoned  with  tem¬ 
perance,  and  a  cheerful  disposition  ;  and  no  se¬ 
rious  cares  were  permitted  to  enter  this  recess  of 
enjoyment.  His  household  was  magnificent;  the 
splendor  of  a  numerous  retinue,  the  number  and 
respectability  of  those  who  surrounded  his  person, 
n  ade  his  habitation  resemble  the  court  of  a  so¬ 
vereign  prince.  A  sumptuous  hospitality,  that 
master-spell  of  demagogues,  was  the  goddess  of 
his  palace.  Foreign  princes  and  ambassadors 
found  here  a  fitting  reception  and  entertainment, 
which  surpassed  all  that  luxurious  Belgium  could 
elsewhere  offer.  A  humble  submissiveness  to  the 
government,  bought  off  the  blame  and  suspicion 
which  this  munificence  might  have  thrown  on  his 
intentions.  But  this  liberality  secured  for  him 
the  affections  of  the  people,  whom  nothing  grati¬ 
fied  so  much,  as  to  see  the  riches  of  their  country 
displayed  before  admiring  foreigners,  and  the 
high  pinnacle  of  fortune  on  which  he  stood,  en¬ 
hanced  the  value  of  the  courtesy  to  which  he  con¬ 


descended.  No  one,  probably,  was  better  fitted 
bv  nature  for  the  leader  of  a  conspiracy,  than 
William  the  Silent.  A  comprehensive  and  in¬ 
tuitive  glance  into  the  past,  the  present,  and  the 
future;  the  talent  for  improving  every  favorable 
opportunity ;  a  commanding  influence  over  the 
minds  of  men  ;  vast  Schemes,  which  only  when 
viewed  from  a  distance  show  form  and  symme¬ 
try;  and  bold  calculations,  which  were  wound 
up  in  the  long  chain  of  futurity:  all  these  facul¬ 
ties  he  possessed,  and  kept,  moreover,  under  the 
control  of  that  free  and  enlightened  virtue,  which 
moves  with  firm  step,  even  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  abyss. 

A  man  like  this  might,  at  other  times,  have  re¬ 
mained  unfathomed  by  his  whole  generation  ;  but 
not  so  by  the  distrustful  spirit  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived.  Philip  II.  saw  quickly  and  deeply  into 
a  character,  which  among  good  ones,  most  resem¬ 
bled  his  own.  If  he  had  not  seen  through  him  so 
clearly,  his  distrust  of  a  man,  in  whom  were 
united  nearly  all  the  qualities  which  he  prized 
highest,  and  could  best  appreciate,  would  be  quite 
inexplicable.  But  William  had  another  and  still 
more  important  point  of  contact  with  Philip  II. 
He  had  learned  his  policy  from  the  same  master, 
and  had  become,  it  was  to  be  feared,  a  more  apt 
scholar.  Not  by  making  Machiavelli’s  'Prince  ’ 
his  study,  but  by  having  enjoyed  the  living  in¬ 
struction  of  a  monarch,  who  reduced  the  book  to 
practice,  had  he  become  versed  in  the  perilous 
arts  by  which  thrones  rise  and  fall.  In  him, 
Philip  had  to  deal  with  an  antagonist,  who  was 
armed  against  his  policy,  and  who,  in  a  good  cause 
could  also  command  the  resources  of  a  bad  one. 
And  it  was  exactly  this  last  circumstance,  which 
accounts  for  his  having  hated  this  man  so  im¬ 
placably  above  all  others  of  his  day,  and  his  hav¬ 
ing  had  so  supernatural  a  dread  of  him. 

The  suspicion  which  already  attached  to  the 
prince,  was  increased  by  the  doubts  which  were 
entertained  of  his  religious  bias.  So  long  as  the 
Emperor,  his  benefactor,  lived,  William  believed 
in  the  pope  ;  but  it  was  feared,  with  good  ground, 
that  the  predilection  for  the  reformed  religion, 
which  had  been  imparted  to  his  young  heart,  had 
never  entirely  left  it.  Whatever  church  he  may, 
at  certain  periods  of  his  life,  have  preferred,  each 
might  console  itself  with  the  reflection  that  none 
other  possessed  him  more  entirely.  In  latter 
years  he  went  over  to  Calvinism  with  almost  as 
little  scruple,  as,  in  his  early  childhood,  he  de¬ 
serted  the  Lutheran  profession  for  the  Romish. 
He  defended  the  rights  of  the  Protestants,  rather 
than  their  opinions,  against  Spanish  oppression  ; 
not  their  faith,  but  their  wrongs  had  made  him 
their  brother. 

These  general  grounds  for  suspicion,  appeared 
to  be  justified  by  a  discovery  of  his  real  intentions, 
which  accident  had  made.  William  had  remained 
in  France,  as  hostage  for  the  peace  of  Chateau 
Cambresis,  in  concluding  which  he  had  borne  a 
part ;  and  here,  through  the  imprudence  of  Henry 
II.,  who  imagined  he  spoke  with  a  confidant  of 
the  King  of  Spain,  he  became  acquainted  with  a 
secret  plot,  which  the  French  and  Spanish  courts 
had  formed  against  Protestants  of  both  kingdoms. 
The  prince  hastened  to  communicate  this  impor- 


32 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


tant  discovery  to  his  friends  in  Brussels,  whom  it 
so  nearly  concerned,  and  the  letters  which  he  ex¬ 
changed  on  the  subject  fell,  unfortunately  into 
the  hands  of  the  King  of  Spain.  Philip  was  less 
surprised  at  this  decisive  disclosure  of  William’s 
sentiments,  than  incensed  at  the  disappointment 
of  his  scheme  ;  and  the  Spanish  nobles,  who  had 
never  forgiven  the  prince  that  moment,  when  in 
the  last  act  of  his  life  the  greatest  of  Emperors 
leaned  upon  his  shoulders,  did  not  neglect  this 
favorable  opportunity  of  finally  ruining,  in  the 
good  opinion  of  their  king,  the  betrayer  of  a  state 
secret. 

Of  a  lineage  no  less  noble  than  that  of  William, 
was  Lamoral,  Count  Egmont  and  Prince  of 
Gavre,  a  descendant  of  the  Dukes  of  Gueldres, 
whose  martial  courage  had  wearied  out  the 
arms  of  Austria.  His  family  was  highly 
distinguished  in  the  annals  of  the  country;  one 
of  his  ancestors  had,  under  Maximilian,  already 
filled  the  office  of  Stadtholder  over  Holland. 
Egmont’s  marriage  with  the  Duchess  Sabina  of 
Bavaria,  reflected  additional  lustre  on  the  splen¬ 
dor  of  his  birth,  and  made  him  powerful  through 
the  greatness  of  this  alliance.  Charles  Y.  had  in 
the  year  1516,  conferred  on  him,  at  Utrecht,  the 
order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  ;  the  wars  of  this  Em¬ 
peror  were  the  school  of  his  military  genius,  and 
the  battle  of  St  Quentin  and  Gravelines  made  him 
the  hero  of  his  age.  Every  blessing  of  peace,  for 
which  a  commercial  people  feel  most  grateful, 
brought  to  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  victory 
by  which  it  was  accelerated,  and  Flemish  pride, 
like  a  fond  mother,  exulted  over  the  illustrious 
son  of  their  country,  who  had  filled  all  Europe 
with  admiration.  Nine  children  who  grew  up 
under  the  eyes  of  their  fellow  citizens,  multiplied 
and  drew  closer  the  ties  between  him  and  his 
fatherland,  and  the  people’s  grateful  affection  for 
the  father  was  kept  alive  by  the  sight  of  those 
who  were  dearest  to  him.  Every  appearance  of 
Egmont  in  public,  was  a  triumphal  procession  ; 
every  eye  which  was  fastened  upon  him,  recounted 
his  history  ;  his  deeds  lived  in  the  plaudits  of  his 
companions  in  arms  ;  at  the  games  of  chivalry, 
mothers  pointed  him  out  to  their  children.  Affa¬ 
bility,  a  noble  and  courteous  demeanour,  the 
amiable  virtues  of  chivalry,  adorned  and  graced 
his  merits.  His  liberal  soul  shone  forth  on  his 
open  brow;  his  frankheartedness  managed  his 
secrets  no  better  than  his  benevolence  did  his 
estate,  and  a  thought  was  no  sooner  his  than  it 
was  the  property  of  all.  His  religion  was  gentle 
and  humane,  but  not  very  enlightened,  because  it 
derived  its  light  from  the  heart,  and  not  from  his 
understanding.  Egmont  possessed  more  of  con¬ 
science,  than  of  fixed  principles  ;  his  head  had  not 
given  him  a  code  of  its  own,  but  had  merely 
learned  it  by  rote ;  the  mere  name  of  an  action, 
therefore,  was  often  with  him  sufficient  for  its 
condemnation.  In  his  judgment,  men  were  wholly 
bad  or  wholly  good,  and  had  either  nothing  bad 
or  nothing  good  ;  in  this  system  of  morals,  there 
was  no  middle  term  between  vice  and  virtue  ;  and 
consecpiently,  a  single  good  trait  often  decided 
his  opinion  of  men.  Egmont  united  all  the  emi¬ 
nent  qualities  which  form  the  hero  ;  he  was  a 
Detter  soldier  than  the  Prince  of  Orange,  but  far 


inferior  to  him  as  a  statesman  ;  the  latter  saw  the 
world  as  it  really  was;  Egmont  viewed  it  in  the 
magic  mirror  of  an  imagination,  that  embellished 
all  that  it  reflected.  Men,  whom  fortune  has 
surprised  with  a  reward,  for  which  they  can  find 
no  adequate  ground  in  their  actions,  are,  for  the 
most  part,  very  apt  to  forget  the  necessary  con¬ 
nection  between  cause  and  effect,  and  to  insert 
in  the  natural  consequences  of  things  a  higher 
miraculous  power,  to  which,  as  Caesar  to  his  for¬ 
tune,  they  at  last  insanely  trust.  Such  a  charac¬ 
ter  was  Egmont.  Intoxicated  with  the  idea  of 
his  own  merits,  which  the  love  and  gratitude  of 
his  fellow  citizens  had  exaggerated,  he  staggered 
on  in  this  sweet  reverie,  as  in  a  delightful  world 
of  dreams.  He  feared  not,  because  he  trusted  to 
the  deceitful  pledge  which  destiny  had  given  him 
of  her  favor,  in  the  general  love  of  the  people, 
and  he  believed  in  its  justice,  because  he  himself 
was  prosperous.  Even  the  most  terrible  experi¬ 
ence  of  Spanish  perfidy,  could  not  afterward 
eradicate  this  confidence  from  his  soul,  and  on  the 
scaffold  itself,  his  latest  feeling  was  hope.  A 
tender  fear  for  his  family  kept  his  patriotic  courage 
fettered  by  lower  duties.  Because  he  trembled 
for  property  and  life,  he  could  not  venture  much 
for  the  republic.  William  of  Orange  broke  with 
the  throne,  because  its  arbitrary  power  was  of¬ 
fensive  to  his  pride  ;  Egmont  was  vain,  and  there¬ 
fore  valued  the  favors  of  the  monarch.  The 
former  was  a  citizen  of  the  world  ;  Egmont  had 
never  been  more  than  a  Fleming. 

Philip  II.  still  stood  indebted  to  the  hero  of 
St.  Quentin,  and  the  supreme  Stadtholdership  of 
the  Netherlands  appeared  the  only  appropriate 
reward  for  such  great  services.  Birth  and  high 
station,  the  voice  of  the  nation  and  personal  abi¬ 
lities,  spoke  as  loudly  for  Egmont  as  for  Orange  ; 
and  if  the  latter  was  to  be  passed  by,  it  seemed 
that  the  former  alone  could  supplant  him. 

Two  such  competitors,  so  equal  in  merit,  might 
have  embarrassed  Philip  in  his  choice,  if  he  had 
ever  seriously  thought  of  selecting  either  of  them 
for  the  appointment.  But  the  pre-eminent  quali¬ 
ties  by  which  they  supported  their  claim  to  this 
office,  were  the  very  cause  of  their  rejection  ;  and 
it  was  precisely  the  ardent  desire  of  the  nation 
for  their  election  to  it,  that  irrevocably  annulled 
their  title  to  the  appointment.  Philip’s  purpose 
would  not  be  answered  by  a  Stadtholder  in  the 
Netherlands  who  could  command  the  good  will 
and  the  energies  of  the  people.  Egmont’s  de¬ 
scent  from  the  Duke  of  Gueldres  made  him  an 
hereditary  foe  of  the  house  of  Spain,  and  it 
seemed  impolitic  to  place  the  supreme  power  in 
the  hands  of  a  man  to  whom  the  idea  might 
occur  of  revenging  on  the  son  of  the  oppressor, 
the  oppression  of  his  ancestor.  The  slight  put 
on  their  favorites  could  give  no  just  offense  either 
to  the  nation  or  to  themselves,  for  it  might  be 
pretended  that  the  king  passed  over  both  because 
he  would  not  show  a  preference  to  either. 

The  disappointment  of  his  hopes  of  gaining  the 
regency,  did  not  deprive  the  Prince  of  Orange  of 
all  expectation  of  establishing,  more  firmly,  his 
influence  in  the  Netherlands.  Among  the  other- 
candidates  for  this  office,  was  also  Christina,  Du¬ 
chess  of  Lorraine,  and  aunt  of  the  king,  who,  as 


2— G.  p.  34, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


33 


mediatrix  of  the  peace  of  Chateau  Cambresis, 
had  rendered  important  service  to  the  crown. 
William  aimed  at  the  hand  of  her  daughter,  and 
he  hoped  to  promote  his  suit  by  actively  inter¬ 
posing  his  good  offices  for  the  ‘mother ;  but  he 
did  not  reflect  that,  through  this  very  interces¬ 
sion,  he  ruined  her  cause.  The  Duchess  Chris¬ 
tina  was  rejected,  not  so  much  for  the  reason  al¬ 
leged,  namely,  the  dependence  of  her  territories 
on  France  made  her  an  object  of  suspicion  to  the 
Spanish  court,  as  because  she  was  acceptable  to 
the  people  of  the  Netherlands  and  the  Prince  of 
Orange. 


MARGARET  OF  PARMA,  REGENT  OF  THE  NETHER¬ 
LANDS. 

While  the  general  expectation  was  on  the 
stretch,  as  to  whom  the  future  destinies  of  the 
provinces  would  be  committed,  there  appeared  on 
the  frontiers  of  the  country  the  Duchess  Marga¬ 
ret  of  Parma,  having  been  summoned  by  the  king 
from  Italy,  to  assume  the  government. 

Margaret  was  a  natural  daughter  of  Charles  V. 
and  ©f  a  noble  Flemish  lady,  named  Yangeest, 
and  born  1522.  Out  of  regard  for  the  honor  of 
her  mother’s  house,  she  was  at  first  educated  in 
obscurity  ;  but  her  mother,  who  possessed  more 
vanity  than  honor,  was  not  very  anxious  to  pre¬ 
serve  the  secret  of  her  origin,  and  a  princely  edu¬ 
cation  betrayed  the  daughter  of  the  Emperor. 
While  yet  a  child,  she  was  intrusted  to  the  Re¬ 
gent  Margaret,  her  great  aunt,  to  be  brought  up 
at  Brussels,  under  her  eye.  This  guardian  she 
lost  in  her  eighth  year,  and  the  care  of  her  educa¬ 
tion  devolved  on  Queen  Mary  of  Hungary,  the 
successor  of  Margaret  in  the  regency.  Her  fa¬ 
ther  had  already  affianced  her,  while  yet  in  her 
fourth  year,  to  a  Prince  of  Ferrara;  but  this  al¬ 
liance  being  subsequently  dissolved,  she  was  be¬ 
trothed  to  Alexander  de  Medicis,  the  new  Duke 
of  Florence,  which  marriage  was,  after  the  victo¬ 
rious  return  of  the  Emperor  from  Africa,  actually 
consummated  in  Naples.  In  the  first  year  of 
this  unfortunate  union,  a  violent  death  removed 
from  her  a  husband  who  could  not  love  her,  and 
for  the  third  time  her  hand  was  disposed  of  to 
serve  the  policy  of  her  father.  Octavius  Farnese, 
a  prince  of  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  nephew  of 
Paul  III.,  obtained,  with  her  person,  the  duchies 
of  Parma  and  Piacenza  as  her  portion.  Thus, 
by  a  strange  destiny,  Margaret,  at  the  age  of  ma¬ 
turity,  was  contracted  to  a  boy,  as  in  the  years 
of  infancy  she  had  been  sold  to  a  man.  Her  dis¬ 
position,  which  was  any  thing  but  feminine,  made 
this  last  alliance  still  more  unnatural,  for  her 
taste  and  inclinations  were  masculine,  and  the 
whole  tenor  of  her  life  belied  her  sex.  After  the 
example  of  her  instructress,  the  Queen  of  Hun¬ 
gary,  and  her  great  aunt,  the  Duchess  Mary  of  Bur¬ 
gundy,  who  met  her  death  in  this  favorite  sport, 
she  was  passionately  fond  of  hunting,  and  had 
acquired  in  this  pursuit  such  bodily  vigor,  that 
few  men  were  better  able  to  undergo  its  hardships 
and  fatigues. 

Her  gait  itself  was  so  devoid  of  grace,  that  one 
was  far  more  tempted  to  take  her  for  a  disguised 
Vol.  II.— 3. 


man,  than  fora  masculine  woman  ;  and  Nature, 
whom  she  had  derided  by  thus  transgressing  the 
limits  of  her  sex,  revenged  itself  finally  upon  her 
by  a  disease  peculiar  to  men' — the  gout. 

These  unusual  qualities  were  crowned  by  a 
monkish  superstition,  which  was  infused  into  her 
mind  by  Ignatius  Loyola,  her  confessor  and  teach¬ 
er.  Among  the  charitable  works  and  penances 
with  which  she  mortified  her  vanity,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  was,  that  during  Passion-week, 
she  yearly  washed,  with  her  own  hands,  the  feet 
of  a  number  of  poor  men,  (who  were  most  strictly 
forbidden  to  cleanse  themselves  beforehand,) 
waited  on  them  at  table  like  a  servant,  and  sent 
them  away  with  rich  presents. 

Nothing  more  is  requisite  than  this  last  feature 
in  her  character,  to  account  for  the  preference 
which  the  king  gave  her  over  all  her  rivals  ;  but 
his  choice  was  at  the  same  time  justified  by  excel¬ 
lent  reasons  of  state.  Margaret  was  born  and 
also  educated  in  the  Netherlands.  She  had  spent 
her  early  youth  among  the  people,  and  had  ac¬ 
quired  much  of  their  national  manners.  Two 
regents,  (Duchess  Margaret,  and  Queen  Mary  of 
Hungary.)  under  whose  eyes  she  had  grown  up, 
had  gradually  initiated  her  into  the  maxims  by 
which  this  peculiar  people  might  be  most  easily 
governed  ;  and  they  would  also  serve  her  as  mo¬ 
dels.  She  did  not  want  either  in  talents ;  and 
possessed,  moreover,  a  particular  turn  for  busi¬ 
ness,  which  she  had  acquired  from  her  instruc¬ 
tors,  and  had  afterward  carried  to  greater  per¬ 
fection  in  the  Italian  school.  The  Netherlands 
had  been,  for  a  number  of  years,  accustomed  to 
female  government  ;  and  Philip  hoped,  perhaps, 
that  the  sharp  iron  of  tyranny,  which  he  was 
about  to  use  against  them,  would  cut  more 
gently,  if  wielded  by  the  hands  of  a  woman. 
Some  regard  for  his  father,  who  at  the  time  was 
still  living,  and  was  much  attached  to  Margaret, 
may  have  in  a  measure,  as  it  is  asserted,  influ¬ 
enced  this  choice  ;  as  it  is  also  probable  that  the 
king  wished  to  oblige  the  Duke  of  Parma,  through 
this  mark  of  attention  to  his  wife,  and  thus  to 
compensate  for  denying  a  request,  which  he  was 
just  then  compelled  to  refuse  him.  As  the  ter¬ 
ritories  of  the  duchess  were  surrounded  by  Philip’s 
Italian  States,  and  at  all  times  exposed  to  his 
arms,  he  could,  with  the  less  danger,  intrust  the 
supreme  power  into  her  hands.  For  his  full  secu¬ 
rity,  her  son,  Alexander  Farnese,  was  to  remain 
at  his  court  as  a  pledge  for  her  loyalty.  All  these 
reasons  were  alone  sufficiently  weighty  to  turn 
the  king’s  decision  in  her  favor  ;  but  they  became 
irresistible,  when  supported  by  the  Bishop  of 
Arras  and  the  Duke  of  Alva.  The  latter,  as  it 
appears,  because  he  hated  or  envied  all  the  other 
competitors ;  the  former,  because  even  then,  in 
all  probability,  he  anticipated,  from  the  wavering: 
disposition  of  this  princess,  abundant  gratification 
for  his  ambition. 

Philip  received  the  new  regent  on  the  frontiers- 
with  a  splendid  cortege,  and  conducted  her  with, 
magnificent  pomp  to  Ghent,  where  the  States 
General  had  been  convoked.  As  he  did  not  in¬ 
tend  to  return  soon  to  the  Netherlands,  he  desired, 
before  he  left  them,  to  gratify  the  nation  for  once, 
by  holding  a  solemn  diet,  and  thus  giving  a  solemn 


34 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


sanction  and  the  force  of  law  to  his  previous  regu¬ 
lations.  For  the  last  time,  he  showed  himself  to 
his  Netherlandish  people,  whose  destinies  were, 
from  henceforth,  to  be  dispensed  from  a  mysteri¬ 
ous  distance.  To  enhance  the  splendor  of  this 
solemn  day,  Philip  invested  eleven  knights  with 
the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  his  sister  being 
seated  on  a  chair  near  himself,  while  he  showed 
her  to  the  nation  as  their  future  ruler.  All  the 
grievances  of  the  people,  touching  the  edicts,  the 
inquisition,  the  detention  of  the  Spanish  troops, 
the  taxes,  and  the  illegal  introduction  of  foreigners 
mi  to  the  offices  and  administration  of  the  country, 
were  brought  forward  in  this  diet,  and  were  hotly 
discussed  by  both  parties ;  some  of  them  were 
skillfully  evaded,  or  apparently  removed,  others 
arbitrarily  repelled.  As  the  king  was  unacquainted 
with  the  language  of  the  country,  he  addressed 
the  nation  through  the  mouth  of  the  Bishop  of 
Arras,  recounted  to  them,  with  vain-glorious  os¬ 
tentation,  all  the  benefits  of  his  government,  as¬ 
sured  them  of  his  favor  for  the  future,  and  once 
more  recommended  to  the  states,  in  the  most 
earnest  manner,  the  preservation  of  the  Catholic 
faith,  and  the  extirpation  of  heresy.  The  Spanish 
troops,  he  promised,  should  in  a  few  months  evacu¬ 
ate  the  Netherlands,  if  only  they  would  allow  him 
time  to  recover  from  the  numerous  burdens  of  the 
last  w’ar,  in  order  that  he  might  be  enabled  to  collect 
the  means  for  paying  the  arrears  of  these  troops; 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  nation  should  remain 
inviolate,  the  imposts  should  not  be  grievously 
burdensome,  and  the  inquisition  should  administer 
its  duties  with  justice  and  moderation.  In  the 
choice  of  a  supreme  stadtholder,  he  added,  he 
had  especially  consulted  the  wishes  of  the  nation, 
and  had  decided  for  a  native  of  the  country,  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  their  manners  and  cus¬ 
toms,  and  was  attached  to  them  by  a  love  to  her 
native  land.  He  exhorted  them,  therefore,  to  show 
their  gratitude  by  honoring  his  choice,  and  obey¬ 
ing  his  sister,  the  duchess,  as  himself.  Should, 
he  concluded,  unexpected  obstacles  oppose  his 
return,  he  would  send  in  his  place  his  son,  Prince 
Charles,  who  should  reside  in  Brussels. 

A  few  members  of  this  assembly,  more  coura¬ 
geous  than  the  rest,  once  more  ventured  on  a  final 
effort  for  liberty  of  conscience.  Every  people, 
they  argued,  ought  to  be  treated  according  to 
their  natural  character,  as  every  individual  must 
in  accordance  to  his  bodily  constitution.  Thus, 
for  example,  the  south  may  be  considered  happy 
under  a  certain  degree  of  constraint,  which  would 
press  intolerably  on  the  north.  Never,  they 
added,  would  the  Flemings  consent  to  a  yoke 
under  which,  perhaps,  the  Spaniards  bowed  with 
patience;  and  rather  than  submit  to  it  would  they 
undergo  any  extremity,  if  it  was  sought  to  force 
such  a  yoke  upon  them.  This  remonstrance  was 
supported  by  some  of  the  king’s  counselors,  who 
strongly  urged  the  policy  of  mitigating  the  rigor 
of  religious  edicts.  But  Philip  remained  inexor¬ 
able.  Better  not  reign  at  all,  was  his  answer, 
than  reign  over  heretics  ! 

According  to  an  arrangement  already  made  by 
Charles  V.,  three  councils  or  chambers  were  added 
to  the  regent,  to  assist  her  in  the  administration 
of  state  affairs.  As  long  as  Philip  was  himself 


present  in  the  Netherlands,  these  courts  had  lost 
much  of  their  power,  and  the  functions  of  the  first 
of  them,  the  state  council,  were  almost  entirely 
suspended.  Now,  that  he  quitted  the  reins  of 
government,  they  recovered  their  former  import¬ 
ance.  In  the  state  council,  which  was  to  deli¬ 
berate  upon  war  and  peace,  and  security  against 
external  foes,  sat  the  Bishop  of  Arras,  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  Count  Egmont,  the  President  of  the 
Privy  Council,  Yiglius  Van  Zuichem,  Van  Aytta, 
and  the  Count  of  Barlaimont,  President  of  the 
Chamber  of  Finance.  All  knights  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  all  privy  counselors,  and  counselors  of 
finance,  as  also  the  members  of  the  great  senate 
at  Malines,  which  had  been  subjected  by  Charles 
V.  to  the  privy  council  in  Brussels,  had  a  seat 
and  vote  in  the  Council  of  State,  if  expressly 
invited  by  the  regent.  The  management  of  the 
royal  revenues  and  crown  lands  was  vested  in  the 
Chamber  of  Finance,  and  the  Privv  Council  was 
occupied  with  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
the  civil  regulation  of  the  country,  and  issued  all 
letters  of  grace  and  pardon.  The  governments 
of  the  provinces,  which  had  fallen  vacant,  were 
either  filled  up  afresh,  or  the  former  governors 
were  confirmed.  Count  Egmont  received  Flanders 
and  Artois  ;  the  Prince  of  Orange,  Holland,  Zea¬ 
land,  Utrecht,  and  West  Friesland  ;  the  Count 
of  Aremberg,  East  Friesland,  Overyssel,  and 
Groningen  ;  the  Count  of  Mansfeld,  Luxemburg  ; 
Barlaimont,  Namur;  the  Marquis  of  Bergen, 
Hainault,  Chateau  Cambresis,  and  Valenciennes  ; 
the  Baron  of  Montigny,  Tournay  and  its  depend¬ 
encies.  Other  provinces  were  given  to  some  who 
have  less  claim  to  our  attention.  Philip  of  Mont¬ 
morency,  Count  of  Hoorn,  who  had  been  succeeded 
by  the  Count  of  Megen  in  the  government  of 
Gueldres  and  Zutphen,  was  confirmed  as  admiral 
of  the  Belgian  navy.  Every  governor  of  a  pro¬ 
vince  was,  at  the  same  time,  a  knight  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  member  of  the  Council  of 
State.  Each  had,  in  the  province  over  which  he 
presided,  the  command  of  the  military  force  which 
protected  it,  the  superintendence  of  the  civil  ad¬ 
ministration,  and  the  judicature  ;  the  governor  of 
Flanders  alone  excepted,  who  was  not  allowed  to 
interfere  with  the  administration  of  justice.  Bra¬ 
bant,  alone,  was  placed  under  the  immediate  juris¬ 
diction  of  the  regent,  who,  according  to  custom, 
chose  Brussels  for  her  constant  residence.  The 
induction  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  into  his  govern¬ 
ments  was,  properly  speaking,  an  infraction  of  the 
constitution,  since  he  was  a  foreigner  ;  but  several 
estates  which  he  either  himself  possessed  in  the 
provinces,  or  managed  as  guardian  of  his  son,  his 
long  residence  in  the  country,  and,  above  all,  the 
unlimited  confidence  the  nation  reposed  in  him, 
gave  him  substantial  claims  in  default  of  a  real 
title  of  citizenship. 

The  military  force  of  the  Low  Countries  con¬ 
sisted,  in  its  full  complement,  of  three  thousand 
horse.  At  present,  it  did  not  much  exceed  two 
thousand,  and  was  divided  into  fourteen  squad¬ 
rons,  over  which,  besides  the  governors  of  the 
provinces,  the  Duke  of  Arschot,  the  Counts  of 
Hoogstraten,  Bostu,  B-oeur,  and  Brederode  held 
the  chief  command.  This  cavalry,  which  waa 
scattered  through  all  the  seventeen  provinces, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


35 


was  only  to  be  called  out  on  sudden  emergencies. 
Insufficient  as  it  was  for  any  great  undertaking, 
it  was  nevertheless,  fully  adequate  for  the  main¬ 
tenance  of  internal  order.  Its  courage  had  been 
approved  in  former  wars,  and  the  fame  of  its  valpr 
was  diffused  through  the  whole  of  Europe.  In 
addition  to  this  cavalry,  it  was  also  proposed  to 
levy  a  body  of  infantry,  but,  hitherto,  the  states 
had  refused  their  consent  to  it.  Of  foreign  troops, 
there  were  still  some  German  regiments  in  the 
service,  which  were  waiting  for  their  pay.  The 
four  thousand  Spaniards,  respecting  whom  so 
many  complaints  had  been  made,  were  under  two 
Spanish  generals,  Mendoza  and  Romero,  and  were 
in  garrison  in  the  frontier  towns. 

Among  the  Belgian  nobles,  whom  the  king 
especially  distinguished  in  these  new  appoint¬ 
ments,  the  names  of  Count  Egmont  and  William 
of  Orange  stand  conspicuous.  However  inveterate 
his  hatred  was  of  both,  and  particularly  of  the 
latter,  Philip,  nevertheless,  gave  them  these  public 
marks  of  his  favor,  because  his  scheme  of  vengeance 
was  not  yet  fully  ripe,  and  the  people  were  en¬ 
thusiastic  in  their  devotion  to  them.  The  estates 
of  both  were  declared  exempt  from  taxes,  the 
most  lucrative  governments  were  entrusted  to 
them;  and  by  offering  them  the  command  of  the 
Spaniards,  whom  he  left  behind  in  the  country, 
the  king  flattered  them  with  a  confidence,  which 
he  was  very  far  from  really  reposing  in  them.  But 
at  the  very  time,  when  he  obliged  the  prince  with 
these  public  marks  of  his  esteem,  he  privately 
inflicted  the  most  cruel  injury  on  him.  Appre¬ 
hensive  lest  an  alliance  with  the  powerful  house 
of  Lorraine  might  encourage  this  suspected  vassal 
to  bolder  measures,  he  thwarted  the  negotiation 
for  a  marriage  between  him  and  a  princess  of  that 
family,  and  crushed  his  hopes  on  the  very  eve  of 
their  accomplishment ;  an  injury  which  the  prince 
never  forgave.  Nay,  his  hatred  to  the  prince  on 
one  occasion  even  got  completely  the  better  of  his 
natural  dissimulation,  and  seduced  him  iuto  a  step, 
in  which  we  entirely  lose  sight  of  Philip  II. 
When  he  was  about  to  embark  at  Flushing,  and 
the  nobles  of  the  country  attended  him  to  the 
shore,  he  so  far  forgot  himself  as  roughly  to  accost 
the  prince,  and  openly  to  accuse  him  of  being  the 
author  of  the  Flemish  troubles.  The  prince', 
answered  temperately,  that  what  had  happened 
had  been  done  by  the  states  of  their  own  sugges¬ 
tion,  and  on  legitimate  grounds.  No,  said  Philip, 
seizing  his  hand  and  shaking  it  violently,  not  the 
states,  but  You!  You!  You  !  The  prince  stood 
ni  ite  with  astonishment,  and  without  waiting  for 
the  king’s  embarkation,  wished  him  a  safe  journey 
and  went  back  to  the  town. 

Thus  the  enmity  which  William  had  long  har¬ 
bored  in  his  breast  against  the  oppressor  of  a  free 
people,  was  now  rendered  irreconcilable  by  pri¬ 
vate  hatred  ;  and  this  double  incentive  accelerated 
the  great  enterprise  which  tore  from  the  Spanish 
crown  seven  of  its  brightest  jewels. 

Philip  had  greatly  deviated  from  his  true  char¬ 
acter,  in  taking  so  gracious  a  leave  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands.  The  legal  form  of  a  diet,  his  promise  to 
remove  the  Spaniards  from  the  frontiers,  the  con¬ 
sideration  of  the  popular  wishes,  which  had  led 
him  to  fill  the  most  important  offices  of  the  coun¬ 


try  with  the  favourites  of  the  people,  and  finally, 
the  sacrifice  which  he  made  to  the  constitution, 
in  withdrawing  the  Count  of  Feria  from  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State,  were  marks  of  condescension,  of 
which  his  magnanimity  was  never  again  guilty. 
But,  in  fact,  he  never  stood  in  greater  need  of  the 
good  will  of  the  states,  that  with  their  aid  he 
might,  if  possible,  clear  off  the  great  burden  of 
debt  which  was  still  attached  to  the  Netherlands 
from  ,  the  former  war.  He  hoped,  therefore,  by 
propitiating  them  through  smaller  sacrifices,  to 
win  approval  of  more  important  usurpations.  H 
marked  his  departure  with  grace,  for  he  knew  in 
what  hands  he  left  them.  The  frightful  scenes  of 
death,  which  he  intended  for  this  unhappy  people, 
were  not  to  stain  the  splendor  of  majesty,  which, 
like  the  Godhead,  marks  its  course  only  with  bene¬ 
ficence;  that  terrible  distinction  was  reserved  for 
his  representatives.  The  establishment  of  the 
council  of  state  was,  however,  intended  rather  to 
flatter  the  vanity  of  the  Belgian  nobility,  than  to 
impart  to  them  any  real  influence.  The  historian 
Strada  (who  drew  his  information  with  regard  to 
the  regent  from  her  own  papers)  has  preserved  a 
fewr  articles  of  the  secret  instructions,  which  the 
Spanish  ministry  gave  her.  Amongst  other 
things  it  is  there  stated,  if  she  observed  that  the 
councils  were  divided  by  factions,  or  what  would 
be  far  worse,  prepared  by  private  conferences  be¬ 
fore  the  session,  and  in  league  with  one  another, 
then  she  was  to  prorogue  all  the  chambers,  and 
dispose  arbitrarily  of  the  disputed  articles  in  a 
more  select  council  or  committee..  In  this  select 
committee,  which  was  called  the  Consulta,  sat  the 
Archbishop  of  Arras,  the  President  Viglius,  and 
the  Count  of  Barlaimont.  She  was  to  act  in  the 
same  manner  if  emergent  cases  required  a  prompt 
decision.  Had  this  arrangement  not  been  the 
work  of  an  arbitrary  despotism,  it  would  perhaps 
have  been  justified  by  sound  policy,  and  republi¬ 
can  liberty  itself  might  have  tolerated  it.  In 
great  assemblies,  where  many  private  interests 
and  passions  co-operate,  where  a  numerous 
audience  presents  so  great  a  temptation  to  the 
vanity  of  the  orator,  and  parties  often  assail  one 
another  with  unmannerly  warmth,  a  decree  can 
seldom  be  passed  with  that  sobriety  and  mature 
deliberation  which,  if  the  members  are  properly 
selected,  a  smaller  body  readily  admits  of.  In  a 
numerous  body  of  men,  too,  there  is,  we  must 
suppose,  a  greater  number  of  limited  than  of  en¬ 
lightened  intellects,  who  through  their  equal  right 
of  vote,  frequently  turn  the  majority  on  the  side 
of  ignorance.  A  second  maxim  which  the  regent 
was  especially  to  observe,  was  to  select  the  very 
members  of  council,  who  had  voted  against  any 
decree,  to  carry  it  into  execution.  By  this  means, 
not  only  would  the  people  be  kept  in  ignorance 
of  the  originators  of  such  a  law,  but  the  private 
quarrels  also  of  the  members  would  be  restrained, 
and  a  greater  freedom  insured  in  voting  in  com¬ 
pliance  with  the  wishes  of  the  court. 

In  spite  of  all  these  precautions,  Philip  would 
never  have  been  able  to  leave  the  Netherlands 
with  a  quiet  mind,  so  long  as  he  knew  that  the 
chief  power  in  the  council  of  state,  and,  and  the 
obedience  of  the  provinces  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  suspected  nobles.  In  order,  therefore,  to  ap- 


36 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


pease  his  fears  from  this  quarter,  and  also,  at 
the  same  time,  to  assure  himself  of  the  fidelity  of 
the  regent,  he  subjected  her,  and  through  her,  all 
the  affairs  of  the  judicature,  to  the  higher  control 
of  the  Bishop  of  Arras.  In  this  single  individual, 
he  possessed  an  adequate  counterpoise  to  the  most 
dreaded  cabal.  To  him,  as  to  an  infallible  oracle 
of  majesty,  the  duchess  was  referred,  and  in  him 
there  watched  a  stern  supervisor  of  her  adminis¬ 
tration.  Among  all  his  cotemporaries,  Granvella 
was  the  only  one  whom  Philip  II.  appears  to  have 
excepted  from  his  universal  distrust ;  as  long  as 
he  knew  that  this  man  was  in  Brussels,  he  could 
sleep  calmly  in  Segovia.  He  left  the  Nether¬ 
lands  ir  September,  1559,  was  saved  from  a  storm 
wdiich  sank  his  fleet,  and  landed  at  Laredo,  in 
Biscay,  and  in  his  gloomy  joy  thanked  the  Deity 
who  had  preserved  him,  by  a  detestable  vow.  In 
the  hands  of  a  priest,  and  of  a  woman,  was  placed 
the  dangerous  helm  of  the  Netherlands ;  and  the 
dastardly  tyrant  escaped  in  his  oratory  at  Madrid 
the  supplications,  the  complaints,  and  the  curses 
of  the  people. 


BOOK  II. 

CARDINAL  GRANVELLA. 

Anthony  Perenot,  Bishop  of  Arras,  subse¬ 
quently  Archbishop  of  Malines,  and  Metropolitan 
of  all  the  Netherlands,  who,  under  the  name 
of  Cardinal  Granvella,  has  been  immortalized 
by  the  hatred  of  his  cotemporaries,  was  born  in 
the  year  1516,  at  Besancon,  in  Burgundy.  His 
father,  Nicolaus  Perenot,  the  son  of  a  blacksmith, 
had  risen  by  his  own  merits  to  be  the  private  sec¬ 
retary  of  Margaret,  Duchess  of  Savoy,  at  that 
time  Regent  of  the  Netherlands.  In  this  post,  he 
was  noticed  for  his  habits  of  business  by  Charles 
V.,  who  took  him  into  his  own  service,  and  em¬ 
ployed  him  in  several  important  negotiations. 
For  twenty  years  he  was  a  member  of  the  Em¬ 
peror’s  cabinet,  and  filled  the  offices  of  privy  coun¬ 
selor  and  keeper  of  the  king’s  seal,  and  shared  in 
all  the  state  secrets  of  that  monarch.  He  ac¬ 
quired  a  large  fortune.  His  honors,  his  influence, 
and  his  political  knowledge,  were  inherited  by  his 
son,  Anthony  Perenot,  who  in  his  early  years  gave 
proofs  of  the  great  capacity,  which  subsequently 
opened  to  him  so  distinguished  a  career.  Anthony 
had  cultivated,  at  several  colleges,  the  talents  with 
which  nature  had  so  lavishly  endowed  him,  and  in 
some  respects  had  an  advantage  over  his  father. 
He  soon  showed  that  his  own  abilities  were  suffi¬ 
cient  to  maintain  the  advantageous  position,  which 
the  merits  of  another  had  procured  him.  He  was 
twenty-four  years  old  when  the  Emperor  sent 
him  as  his  plenipotentiary  to  the  ecclesiastical 
council  of  Trent,  where  he  delivered  the  first  spe¬ 
cimen  of  that  eloquence,  which  in  the  sequel  gave 
him  so  complete  an  ascendency  over  two  kings. 
Charles  employed  him  in  several  difficult  embas¬ 
sies,  the  duties  of  which  he  fulfilled  to  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  his  sovereign,  and  when  finhlly,  that 
emperor  resigned  the  sceptre  to  his  son,  he  made 


that  costly  present  complete,  by  giving  him  a 
minister  who  could  help  him  to  wield  it. 

Granvella  opened  his  new  career  at  once,  with 
the  greatest  masterpiece  of  political  genius,  in 
passing  so  easily  from  the  favor  of  such  a  father 
into  equal  consideration  with  such  a  son.  And 
he  soon  proved  himself  deserving  it.  At  the 
secret  negotiations,  of  which  the  Duchess  of  Lor¬ 
raine  had,  in  1558,  been  the  medium  between  the 
French  and  Spanish  ministers  at  Peronne,  he 
planned,  jointly  with  the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine,  that 
conspiracy  against  the  Protestants,  which  was 
afterward  matured,  but  also  betrayed,  at  Chateau 
Cambresis,  where  Perenot,  likewise,  assisted  in 
effecting  the  so-called  peace. 

A  deeply  penetrating,  comprehensive  intellect, 
an  unusual  facility  in  conducting  great  and  intri¬ 
cate  affairs,  and  the  most  extensive  learning,  were 
wonderfully  united  in  this  man,  with  persevering 
industry  and  never-wearying  patience,  while  his 
enterprising  genius  was  associated  with  thought¬ 
ful  mechanical  regularity*.  Day  and  night,  the 
state  found  him  vigilant  and  collected ;  the  most 
important  and  the  most  insignificant  things  were 
alike  weighed  by  him  with  scrupulous  attention. 
Not  unfrequently  he  employed  five  secretaries  at 
one  time,  dictating  to  them  in  different  languages, 
of  which  he  is  said  to  have  spoken  seven.  What 
his  penetrating  mind  had  slowly  matured,  acquired 
in  his  lips  both  force  and  grace,  and  truth,  set 
forth  by  his  persuasive  eloquence,  irresistibly  car¬ 
ried  away  all  hearers.  He  was  tempted  by  none 
of  the  passions,  which  make  .slaves  of  most  men. 
His  integrity  was  incorruptible.  With  shrewd 
penetration  he  saw  through  the  disposition  of  his 
master,  and  could  read  in  his  features  his  whole 
train  of  thought,  and,  as  it  were,  the  approaching 
form  in  the  shadow  which  outran  it.  With  an  ar¬ 
tifice  rich  in  resources,  he  came  to  the  aid  of 
Philip’s  more  inactive  mind,  formed  into  perfect 
thought  his  master’s  crude  ideas  while  they  yet 
hung  on  his  lips,  and  liberally  allowed  him  the 
glory  of  the  discovery.'  Granvella  understood  the 
difficult  and  useful  art  of  depreciating  his  own 
talents ;  of  making  his  own  genius  the  seeming 
slave  of  another  ;  thus  he  ruled  while  he  concealed 
his  sway,  and  only  in  this  manner  could  Philip  II. 
be  governed.  Content  with  a  silent  but  real  power, 
he  did  not  grasp  insatiably  at  new  and  outward 
marks  of  it,  which,  wfith  lesser  minds,  are  ever  the 
nnTM  coveted  objects  :  but  every  new  distinction 
seemed  to  sit  upon  him  as  easily  as  the  oldest. 
No  wonder  if  such  extraordinary  endowments  had 
alone  gained  him  the  favor  of  his  master ;  but  a 
large  and  valuable  treasure  of  political  secrets  and 
experiences,  which  the  active  life  of  Charles  Y. 
had  accumulated,  and  had  deposited  in  the  mind 
of  this  man,  made  him  indispensable  to  his  suc¬ 
cessor.  Self-sufficient  as  the  latter  was,  and  ac¬ 
customed  to  confide  in  his  own  understanding,  his 
timid  and  crouching  policy  was  fain  to  lean  on  a 
superior  mind,  and  to  aid  its  own  irresolution  not 
only  by  precedent,  but  also  by  the  influence  and 
example  of  another.  No  political  matter  which 
concerned  the  royal  interest,  even  when  Philip 
himself  was  in  the  Netherlands,  was  decided  with¬ 
out  the  intervention  of  Granvella ;  and  when  the 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


37 


king  embarked  for  Spain,  he  made  the  new  regent 
the  same  valuable  present  of  the  minister,  which 
he  himself  had  received  from  the  emperor  his 
father. 

Common  as  it  is  for  despotic  princes  to  bestow 
unlimited  confidence  on  the  creatures  whom  they 
have  raised  from  the  dust,  and  of  whose  greatness 
they  themselves  are,  in  a  measure,  the  creators, 
the  present  is  no  ordinary  instance ;  pre-eminent 
must  have  been  the  qualities,  which  could  so  far 
conquer  the  selfish  reserve  of  such  a  character  as 
Philip’s,  as  to  gain  his  confidence,  nay,  even  to 
win  him  into  familiarity.  The  slightest  ebullition 
of  the  most  allowable  self-respect,  which  might 
have  tempted  him  to  assert,  however  slightly,  his 
claim  to  any  idea  which  the  king  had  once  en¬ 
nobled  as  his  own,  would  have  cost  him  his  whole 
influence.  He  might  gratify,  without  restraint, 
the  lowest  passions  of  voluptuousness,  of  rapacity, 
and  of  revenge,  but  the  only  one  in  which  he 
really  took  delight,  the  sweet  consciousness  of  his 
own  superiority  and  power,  he  was  constrained 
carefully  to  conceal  from  the  suspicious  glance  of 
the  despot.  He  voluntarily  disclaimed  all  the 
eminent  qualities,  which  were  already  his  own,  in 
order,  as  it  were,  to  receive  them  a  second  time 
from  the  generosity  of  the  king.  His  happiness 
seemed  to  flow  from  no  other  source,  no  other 
person  could  have  a  claim  upon  his  gratitude. 
The  purple,  which  was  sent  to  him  from  Rome 
was  not  assumed  until  the  royal  permission 
reached  him  from  Spain ;  by  laying  it  down  on 
the  steps  of  the  throne,  he  appeared,  in  a  mea¬ 
sure,  to  receive  it  first  from  the  hands  of  Ma¬ 
jesty.  Less  politic,  Alva  erected  a  trophy  in 
Antwerp,  and  inscribed  his  own  name  under  the 
victory  which  he  had  won  as  the  servant  of  the 
crown ;  but  Alva  carried  with  him  to  the  grave 
the  displeasure  of  his  master.  He  had  invaded 
with  audacious  hand  the  royal  prerogative,  by 
drawing  immediately  at  the  fountain  of  immor¬ 
tality. 

Three  times,  Granvella  changed  his  master,  and 
three  times  he  succeeded  in  rising  to  the  highest 
favor.  With  the  same  facility  with  which  he  had 
guided  the  settled  pride  of  an  autocrat,  and  the 
sly  egotism  of  a  despot,  he  knew  how  to  manage 
the  delicate  vanity  of  a  woman.  His  business  be¬ 
tween  himself  and  the  regent,  even  when  they 
were  in  the  same  house,  was,  for  the  most  part, 
transacted  by  the  medium  of  notes,  a  custom  which 
draws  its  date  from  the  time  of  Augustus  and 
Tiberius.  When  the  regent  was  in  any  perplex¬ 
ity,  these  notes  were  interchanged  from  hour  to 
hour.  He  probably  adopted  this  expedient  in  the 
hope  of  eluding  the  watchful  jealousy  of  the  no¬ 
bility,  and  concealing  from  them,  in  part,  at  least, 
bis  influence  over  the  regent.  Perhaps,  too,  he 
also  believed  that,  by  this  means,  his  advice  would 
become  more  permanent ;  and,  in  case  of  need, 
this  written  testimony  would  be  at  hand  to  shield 
him  from  blame.  But  the  vigilance  of  the  nobles 
made  this  caution  vain,  and  it  was  soon  known  in 
all  the  provinces,  that  nothing  was  determined 
upon  without  the  minister’s  advice. 

Granvella  possessed  all  the  qualities  requisite 
for  a  perfect  statesman  in  a  monarchy  governed 
by  despotic  principles,  but  was  absolutely  unqua¬ 


lified  for  republics  which  are  governed  by  kings. 
Educated  between  the  throne  and  the  confessional, 
he  knew  of  no  other  relation  between  man  and  man 
than  that  of  rule  and  subjection  ;  and  the  innate 
consciousness  of  his  own  superiority  gave  him  a 
contempt  for  others.  His  policy  wanted  pliabi¬ 
lity,  the  only  virtue  which  was  here  indispensable 
to  its  success.  He  was  naturally  overbearing  and 
insolent,  and  the  royal  authority  only  gave  arms 
to  the  natural  impetuosity  of  his  disposition  and 
the  imperiousness  of  his  order.  He  vailed  his 
own  ambition  beneath  the  interests  of  the  crown, 
and  made  the  breach  between  the  nation  and  the 
king  incurable,  because  it  would  render  him  in¬ 
dispensable  to  the  latter.  He  revenged  on  the 
nobility  the  lowliness  of  his  own  origin  ;  and, 
after  the  fashion  of  all  those  who  have  risen  by 
their  own  merits,  he  valued  the  advantages  ot 
birth  below  those  by  which  he  had  raised  himself 
to  distinction.  The  Protestants  saw  in  him  their 
most  implacable  foe ;  to  his  charge  were  laid  all 
the  burdens  which  oppressed  the  country,  and 
they  pressed  the  more  heavily  because  they  came 
from  him.  Nay,  he  was  even  accused  of  having 
brought  back  to  severity  the  milder  sentiments, 
to  which  the  urgent  remonstrances  of  the  states 
hat  at  last  disposed  the  monarch.  The  Nether¬ 
lands  execrated  him  as  the  most  terrible  enemy 
of  their  liberties,  and  the  originator  of  all  the  mi¬ 
sery  which  subsequently  came  upon  them. 

1559.  Philip  had  evidently  left  the  provinces 
too  soon.  The  new  measures  of  the  government 
were  still  strange  to  the  people,  and  could  receive 
sanction  and  authority  from  his  presence  alone ; 
the  new  machines,  which  he  had  brought  into 
play,  required  to  be  set  in  motion  by  a  dreaded 
and  powerful  hand,  and  to  have  their  first  move¬ 
ments  watched  and  regulated.  He  now  exposed 
his  minister  to  all  the  angry  passions  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  who  no  longer  felt  restrained  by  the  fetters 
of  the  royal  presence  ;  and  he  delegated  to  the 
weak  arm  of  a  subject  the  execution  of  projects, 
in  which  majesty  itself,  with  all  its  powerful  sup¬ 
ports  might  have  failed. 

The  land,  indeed,  flourished ;  and  a  general 
prosperity  appeared  to  testify  to  the  blessings  of 
the  peace  which  had  so  lately  been  bestowed 
upon  it.  An  external  repose  deceived  the  eye, 
for  within  raged  all  the  elements  of  discord.  11 
the  foundations  of  religion  totter  in  a  country, 
they  totter  not  alone ;  the  audacity  which  begins 
with  things  sacred  ends  with  things  profane. 
The  successful  attack  upon  the  hierarchy  had 
awakened  a  spirit  of  boldness,  and  a  desire  to  as¬ 
sail  authority  in  general,  and  to  test  laws  as  well 
as  dogmas — duties  as  well  as  opinions.  The  fa¬ 
natical  boldness,  with  which  men  had  learned  to 
discuss  and  decide  upon  the  affairs  of  eternity, 
might  change  its  subject  matter;  the  contempt 
for  life  and  property  which  religious  enthusiasm 
had  taught,  could  metamorphose  timid  citizens 
into  foolhardy  rebels.  A  female  government  of 
nearly  forty  years,  had  given  the  nation  room  to 
assert  their  liberty  ;  continual  wars,  of  which  the 
Netherlands  had  been  the  theatre,  had  introduced 
a  license  with  them,  and  the  right  of  the  stronger 
had  usurped  the  place  of  law  and  order.  The 
provinces  were  filled  with  foreign  adventurers 


38 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANPfL 


and  fugitives  ;  generally  men  bound  by  no  ties  of 
country,  family,  or  property,  who  had  brought 
with  them,  from  their  unhappy  homes,  the  seeds 
of  insubordination  and  rebellion.  The  repeated 
spectacles  of  torture  and  of  death  had  rudely 
burst  the  tender  threads  of  moral  feeling,  and 
had  given  an  unnatural  harshness  to  the  national 
character. 

Still  the  rebellion  would  have  crouched  timor¬ 
ously  and  silently  on  the  ground,  if  it  had  not ' 
found  a  support  in  the  nobility.  Charles  Y.  had 
spoiled  the  Flemish  nobles  of  the  Netherlands 
by  making  them  the  participators  .of  his  glory, 
by  fostering  their  national  pride,  by  the  marked 
preference  he  showed  for  them  over  the  Castilian 
nobles,  and  by  opening  an  arena  to  their  ambi¬ 
tion  in  every  part  of  his  empire.  In  the  late  war 
with  France,  they  had  really  deserved  this  pre¬ 
ference  from  Philip  ;  the  advantages  which  the 
king  reaped  from  the  peace  of  Chateau  Cambresis 
were,  for  the  most  part,  the  fruits  of  their  valor, 
and  they  now  sensibly  missed  the  gratitude  on 
which  they  had  so  confidently  reckoned.  More¬ 
over.  the  separation  of  the  German  empire  from 
the  Spanish  monarchy,  and  the  less  warlike  spirit 
of  the  new  government,  had  greatly  narrowed 
their  sphere  of  action,  and  except  in  their  own 
country,  little  remained  for  them  to  gain.  And 
Philip  now  appointed  his  Spaniards,  where 
Charles  Y.  had  employed  the  Flemings.  All  the 
passions,  which  the  preceding  government  had 
raised  and  kept  employed,  still  survived  in  peace  ; 
and  in  default  of  a  legitimate  object,  these  un¬ 
ruly  feelings  found,  unfortunately,  ample  scope  in 
the  grievances  of  their  country.  Accordingly, 
the  claims  and  wrongs  which  had  been  long  sup¬ 
planted  by  new  passions,  were  now  drawn  from 
oblivion.  By  his  late  appointments,  the  king  had 
satisfied  no  party  ;  for  those  even  who  obtained 
offices  were  not  much  more  content  than  those 
who  were  entirely  passed  over,  because  they  had 
calculated  on  something  better  than  they  got. 
William  of  Orange  had  received  four  govern¬ 
ments,  (not  to  reckon  some  smaller  dependencies 
which,  taken  together,  were  equivalent  to  a  fifth,) 
but  William  had  nourished  hopes  of  Flanders 
and  Brabant.  He  and  Count  Egmont  forgot 
what  had  really  fallen  to  their  share,  and  only 
remembered  that  they  had  lost  the  regency.  The 
majority  of  the  nobles  were  either  plunged  into 
debt  by  their  own  extravagance,  or  had  willingly 
enough  been  drawn  into  it  by  the  government. 
Now  that  they  were  excluded  from  the  prospect 
of  lucrative  appointments,  they  at  once  saw  them¬ 
selves  exposed  to  poverty,  which  pained  them  the 
more  sensibly,  when  they  contrasted  the  splendor 
of  the  affluent  citizens  with  their  own  necessities. 
In  the  extremities  to  which  they  were  reduced, 
many  would  have  readily  assisted  in  the  commis¬ 
sion  even  of  crimes  ;  how  then  could  they  resist 
the  seductive  offers  of  the  Calvinists,  who  libe¬ 
rally  repaid  them  for  their  intercession  and  pro¬ 
tection  ?  Lastly,  many  whose  estates  were  past 
redemption,  placed  their  last  hope  in  a  general 
devastation,  and  stood  prepared,  at  the  first  favo¬ 
rable  moment,  to  cast  the  torch  of  discord  into 
the  Republic. 

This  threatening  aspect  of  the  public  mind,  was 


rendered  still  more  alarming  by  the  unfortunatt 
vicinity  of  France.*  What  Philip  dreaded  for  the 
provinces,  was  there  already  accomplished.  The 
fate  of  that  kingdom  prefigured  to  him  the  destiny 
of  his  Netherlands,  and  the  spirit  ’of  rebellion 
found  there  a  seductive  example.  A  familiar  state 
of  things  had,  under  Francis  I.  and  Henry  II., 
scattered  the  seeds  of  innovation  in  that  kingdom  ; 
a  similar  fury  of  persecution,  and  a  like  spirit  of 
faction  had  encouraged  its  growth.  Now,  Hugue¬ 
nots  and  Catholics  were  struggling  in  a  dubious 
contest,  furious  parties  disorganized  the  whole 
monarchy,  and  were  violently  hurrying  this  once- 
powerful  state  to  the  brink  of  destruction.  Here, 
as  there,  private  interest,  ambition,  and  party  feel¬ 
ing  might  vail  themselves  under  the  names  of  re¬ 
ligion  and  patriotism,  and  the  passions  of  a  few 
citizens  drive  the  entire  nation  to  take  up  arms. 
The  frontiers  of  both  countries  merged  in  Wal¬ 
loon  Flanders  ;  the  rebellion  might,  like  an  agi¬ 
tated  sea,  cast  its  waves  as  far  as  this :  would  a 
country  be  closed  against  it,  whose  language, 
manners,  and  character  wavered  between  those 
of  France  and  Belgium  ?  As  yet,  the  government 
had  taken  no  census  of  its  Protestant  subjects  in 
these  countries,  but  the  new  sect,  it  was  aware, 
was  a  vast,  compact  republic,  which  extended  its 
roots  through  all  the  monarchies  of  Christendom, 
and  the  slightest  disturbance  in  any  of  its  most 
distant  members  vibrated  to  its  centre.  It  was, 
as  it  were,  a  chain  of  threatening  volcanoes,  which, 
united  by  subterraneous  passages,  ignite  at  the 
same  moment  with  alarming  sympathy.  The  Ne¬ 
therlands  were,  necessarily,  open  to  all  nations, 
becanse  they  derived  their  support  from  all.  Was 
it  possible  for  Philip  to  close  a  commercial  state 
as  easily  as  he  could  Spain  ?  If  he  wished  to  pu¬ 
rify  these  provinces  from  heresy,  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  commence  by  extirpating  it  in  France. 

It  was  in  this  state  that  Granvella  found  the 
Netherlands  at  the  beginning  of  his  administra¬ 
tion  (1560). 

To  restore  to  these  countries  the  uniformity  of 
papistry,  to  break  the  co-ordinate  power  of  the 
nobility  and  the  states,  and  to  exalt  the  royal  au¬ 
thority  on  the  ruins  of  republican  freedom,  was  the 
great  object  of  Spanish  policy,  and  the  express 
commission  of  the  new  minister.  But  obstacles 
stood  in  the  way  of  its  accomplishment ;  to  con¬ 
quer  these  demanded  the  invention  of  .new  re¬ 
sources,  the  application  of  new  machinery.  The 
inquisition,  indeed,  and  the  religious  edicts  ap¬ 
peared  sufficient  to  check  the  contagion  of  heresy ; 
but  the  latter  required  superintendence,  and  the 
former  able  instruments,  for  its  now  extended 
jurisdiction.  The  church  constitution  continued 
the  same  as  it  had  been  in  earlier  times,  when  the 
provinces  were  less  populous,  when  the  church 
still  enjoyed  universal  repose,  and  could  be  more 
easily  overlooked  and  controlled.  A  succession 
of  several  centuries,  which  changed  the  whole 
interior  form  of  the  provinces,  had  left  the  form 
of  the  hierarchy  unaltered,  which,  moreover,  was 
protected  from  the  arbitrary  will  of  its  ruler  by 
the  particular  privileges  of  .the  provinces.  All 
the  seventeen  provinces  were  parceled  out  under 
four  bishops,  who  had  their  seats  at  Arras.  Tour- 
nay,  Cambray,  and  Utrecht,  and  were  subject  to 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


39 


the  primates  of  Rheims  and  Cologne.  Philip  the 
Good,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  had,  indeed,  meditated 
an  increase  in  the  number  of  the  bishops,  to  meet 
the  wants  of  the  increasing  population,  but,  un¬ 
fortunately,  in  the  excitement  of  a  life  of  plea¬ 
sure,  had  abandoned  the  project.  Ambition  and 
lust  of  conquest  withdrew  the  mind  of  Charles 
the  Bold  from  the  internal  concerns  of  his  king¬ 
dom,  and  Maximilian  had  already  too  many  sub¬ 
jects  of  dispute  with  the  states,  to  venture  to 
add  to  their  number  by  proposing  this  change. 
A  stormy  reign  prevented  Charles  V.  from  the 
execution  of  this  extensive  plan,  which  Philip  II. 
now  undertook  as  a  bequest  from  all  these  princes. 
The  moment  had  now  arrived  when  the  urgent 
necessities  of  the  church  would  excuse  the  inno¬ 
vation,  and  the  leisure  of  peace  favored  its  accom¬ 
plishment.  With  the  prodigious  crowd  of  people 
from  all  the  countries  of  Europe  who  were  crowd¬ 
ed  together  in  the  towns  of  the  Netherlands,  a 
multitude  of  religious  opinions  had  also  grown 
up;  and  it  was  impossible  that  religion  could  any 
longer  be  effectually  superintended  by  so  few 
eyes,  as  were  formerly  sufficient..  While  the  num¬ 
ber  of  bishops  was  so  small,  their  districts  must, 
of  necessity,  have  been  proportionably  extensive, 
and  four  men  could  not  be  adequate  to  maintain 
the  purity  of  the  faith  through  so  wide  a  dis¬ 
trict. 

The  jurisdiction,  which  the  archbishops  of 
Cologne  and  Rheims  exercised  over  the  Neth¬ 
erlands,  had  long  been  a  stumbling-block  to  the 
government,  which  could  not  look  on  this  terri¬ 
tory  as  really  its  own  property,  so  long  as  such 
an  important  branch  of  power  was  still  wielded 
by  foreign  hands.  To  snatch  this  prerogative  from 
the  alien  archbishops ;  by  new  and  active  agents 
to  give  fresh  life  and  vigor  to  the  superintendence 
of  the  faith,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  strengthen 
the  number  of  the  partisans  of  government  at 
the  diet,  no  more  effectual  means  could  be  de¬ 
vised  than  to  increase  the  number  of  bishops. 
Resolved  upon  doing  this,  Philip  II.  ascended 
the  throne;  but  he  soon  found  that  a  change  in 
the  hierarchy  would  inevitably  meet  with  warm 
opposition  from  the  states,  without  whose  con¬ 
sent,  nevertheless,  it  would  be  vain  to  attempt  it. 
Philip  foresaw  that  the  nobility  would  never  ap¬ 
prove  of  a  measure  which  would  so  strongly 
augment  the  royal  party,  and  take  from  the  aris¬ 
tocracy  the  preponderance  of  power  in  the  diet. 
The  revenues,  too,  for  the  maintenance  of  these 
new  bishops,  must  be  diverted  from  the  abbots 
and  monks,  and  these  formed  a  considerable  part 
of  the  states  of  the  realm.  He  had,  beside,  to 
fear  the  opposition  of  the  Protestants,  would  not 
fail  to  act  secretly  in  the  diet  against  him.  On 
these  accounts,  the  whole  affair  was  discussed  at 
Rome  with  the  greatest  possible  secresy.  In¬ 
structed  by,  and  as  the  agent  of,  Granvella, 
Francis  Sonn.oi,  a  priest  of  Louvain,  came  before 
Paul  IV.,  to  inform  him  how  extensive  the  prov¬ 
inces  were,  how  thriving  and  populous,  how  luxu¬ 
rious  in  their  prosperity.  But,  he  continued,  in 
the  immoderate  enjoyment  of  liberty  the  true 
faith  is  neglected,  and  heretics  prosper.  To  ob¬ 
viate  this  evil  the  Romish  See  must  have  recourse 
to  extraordinary  measures.  It  was  not  difficult  to 


prevail  on  the  Romish  pontiff  to  make  a  change, 
which  would  enlarge  the  sphere  of  his  own  juris¬ 
diction. 

Paul  IV.  appointed  a  tribunal  of  seven  cardi¬ 
nals  to  deliberate  upon  this  important  matter; 
but  death  called  him  away,  and  he  left  to  his 
successor,  Pius  IV.,  the  duty  of  carrying  their 
advice  into  execution.  The  welcome  tidings  of 
the  pope’s  determination  reached  the  king  in  Zea¬ 
land,  when  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  setting 
sail  for  Spain,  and  the  minister  was  secretly 
charged  with  the  dangerous  reform.  The  new 
constitution  of  the  hierarchy  was  published  in 
1560 ;  in  addition  to  the  then  existing  four 
bishoprics,  thirteen  new  ones  were  established, 
according  to  the  number  of  seventeen  provinces, 
and  four  of  them  were  raised  into  archbishoprics. 
Six  of  these  episcopal  sees,  viz.,  in  Antwerp, 
Herzogenbusch,  Ghent,  Bruges,  Ypres,  and  Ru- 
remonde,  were  placed  under  the  archbishopric  of 
Malines  ;  five  others,  Haarlem,  Middelburg,  Leu- 
warden,  Deventer,  and  Groningen,  under  the  arch¬ 
bishopric  of  Utrecht;  and  the  remaining  four, 
Arras,  Tournay,  St.  Omer,  and  Namur,  which  lie 
nearest  to  France,  and  have  language,  character, 
and  manners  in  common  with  that  country,  under 
the  archbishopric  of  Cambray.  Malines,  situated 
in  the  middle  of  Brabant,  and  in  the  centre  of  all 
the  seventeen  provinces,  was  made  the  primacy 
of  all  the  rest,  and  was,  with  several  rich  abbeys, 
the  reward  of  Granvella.  The  revenues  of  the 
new  bishoprics  were  provided  by  an  appropriation 
of  the  treasures  of  the  cloisters  and  abbeys, 
which  had  accumulated  from  pious  benefactions 
during  centuries.  Some  of  the  abbots  were  raised 
to  the  episcopal  throne,  and  with  the  possession 
of  their  cloisters  and  prelacies,  retained  also  the 
vote  at  the  diet  which  was  attached  to  them. 
At  the  same  time,  to  every  bishopric  nine 
prebends  were  attached,  and  bestowed  on  the 
most  learned  jurisconsultists  and  theologians, 
who  were  to  support  the  Inquisition  and  the 
bishop  in  his  spiritual  office.  Of  these,  the  two 
who  were  most  deserving  by  knowledge,  expe¬ 
rience,  and  unblemished  life,  were  to  be  consti¬ 
tuted  actual  inquisitors,  and  to  have  had  the  first 
voice  in  the  synods.  To  the  archbishop  of  Ma¬ 
lines,  as  metropolitan  of  all  the  seventeen  prov¬ 
inces,  the  full  authority  was  given  to  appoint,  or 
at  discretion  to  depose,  archbishops  and  bishops, 
and  the  Romish  See  only  to  give  its  ratification  to 
his  acts. 

At  any  other  period,  the  nation  would  have  re¬ 
ceived  with  gratitude,  and  approved  of  such  a 
measure  of  church  reform  ;  since  it  was  fully  called 
for  by  circumstances,  was  conducive  to  the  inter¬ 
ests  of  religion,  and  absolutely  indispensable  for 
the  moral  reformation  of  the  monkhood.  Now 
the  temper  of  the  times  saw  in  it  nothing  but  a 
hateful  change.  Universal  was  the  indignation 
with  which  it  was  received.  A  cry  was  raised 
that  the  constitution  was  trampled  under  foot,  the 
rights  of  the  nation  violated,  and  that  the  Inqui¬ 
sition  was  already  at  the  door,  and  would  soon 
open  here,  as  in  Spain,  its  bloody  tribunal.  The 
people  beheld  with  dismay  these  new  servants  of 
arbitrary  power  and  of  persecution.  The  nobility 
saw  in  it  nothing  but  a  strengthening  of  the  royal 


40 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


authority  by  the  addition  of  fourteen  votes  in  the 
states’  assembly,  and  a  withdrawal  of  the  firmest 
prop  of  their  freedom,  the  balance  of  the  royal 
and  the  civil  power.  The  old  bishops  complained 
of  the  diminution  of  their  incomes,  and  the  cir¬ 
cumscription  of  their  sees  ;  the  abbots  and  monks 
had  not  only  lost  power  and  income,  but  had  re¬ 
ceived  in  exchange  rigid  censors  of  their  morals. 
Noble  and  simple,  laity  and  clergy,  united  against 
the  common  foe,  and  while  all  singly  struggled  for 
some  petty  private  interest,  the  cry  appeared  to 
come  from  the  formidable  voice  of  patriotism. 

Among  all  the  provinces,  Brabant  was  loud¬ 
est  in  its  opposition.  The  inviolability  of  its 
church  constitution  was  one  of  the  important 
privileges  which  it  had  reserved  in  the  remarkable 
charter  of  the  “Joyful  Entry”- — statutes  which 
the  sovereign  could  not  violate,  without  releasing 
the  nation  from  its  allegiance  to  him.  In  vain 
did  the  university  of  Louvain  assert,  that  in  dis¬ 
turbed  times  of  the  church,  a  privilege  lost  its 
power,  which  had  been  granted  in  the  period  of 
its  tranquillity.  The  introduction  of, the  new  bish¬ 
oprics  into  the  constitution  was  thought  to  shake 
the  whole  fabric  of  liberty.  The  prelacies,  which 
were  now  transferred  to  the  bishops,  must  hence¬ 
forth  serve  another  rule  than  the  advantage  of  the 
province  of  whose  states  they  had  been  members. 
The  once  free  patriotic  citizens  were  to  be  instru¬ 
ments  of  the  Romish  See,  and  obedient  tools  of 
the  archbishop,  who  again,  as  first  prelate  of  Bra¬ 
bant,  had  the  immediate  control  over  them.  The 
freedom  of  voting  was  gone,  because  the  bishops, 
as  servile  spies  of  the  crown,  made  every  one  fear¬ 
ful.  “Who,”  it  was  asked,  “will  after  this  ven¬ 
ture  to  raise  his  voice  in  Parliament  before  such 
observers,  or,  in  their  presence,  dare  to  protect 
the  rights  of  the  nation  against  the  rapacious 
hands  of  the  government?  They  will  trace  out 
the  resources  of  the  provinces,  and  betray  to  the 
crown  the  secrets  of  our  freedom  and  our  prop¬ 
erty.  They  will  obstruct  the  way  to  all  offices  of 
honor  ;  we  shall  soon  see  the  courtiers  of  the  king 
succeed  the  present  men ;  the  children  of  foreign¬ 
ers  will,  for  the  future,  fill  the  Parliament,  and 
the  private  interest  of  their  patron  will  guide 
their  venal  votes.”  “  What  an  act  of  oppres¬ 
sion,”  rejoined  the  monks,  “  to  pervert  to  other 
objects  the  pious  designs  of  our  holy  institutions, 
to  contemn  the  inviolable  wishes  of  the  dead,  and 
to  take  that  which  a  devout  charity  had  deposited 
in  our  chests  for  the  relief  of  the  unfortunate,  and 
make  it  subservient  to  the  luxury  of  bishops,  thus 
inflating  their  arrogant  pomp  with  the  plunder  of 
the  poor?”  Not  only  the  abbots  and  monks,  who 
really  did  suffer  by  this  act  of  appropriation,  but 
every  family  which  could  flatter  itself  with  the 
slightest  hope  of  enjoying,  at  some  time  or  other, 
even  in  the  most  remote  posterity,  the  benefit  of 
this  monastic  foundation,  felt  this  disappointment 
of  their  distant  expectations  as  much  as  if  they 
had  suffered  an  actual  injury,  and  the  wrongs  of  a 
few  abbot  prelates  became  the  concern  of  a  whole 
nation. 

Historians  have  not  omitted  to  record  the  co¬ 
vert  proceedings  of  William  of  Orange  during 
this  general  commotion,  who  labored  to  conduct 
to  one  end  these  various  and  conflicting  passions. 


At  his  instigation,  the  people  of  Brabant  peti¬ 
tioned  the  regent  for  an  advocate  and  protector, 
since  they  alone,  of  all  his  Flemish  subjects,  had 
the  misfortune  to  unite,  in  one  and  the  same  per¬ 
son,  their  counsel  and  their  ruler.  Had  the  de¬ 
mand  been  granted,  their  choice  could  fall  on  no 
other  than  the  Prince  of  Orange.  But  Granvelia, 
with  his  usual  presence  of  mind,  broke  through 
the  snare.  “The  man  who  receives  this  office,” 
he  declared  in  the  state  council,  “  will,  I  hope, 
see  that  he  divides  Brabant  with  the  king !”  The 
long  delay  of  the  papal  bull,  which  was  kept  back 
by  a  misunderstanding  between  the  Romish  and 
Spanish  courts,  gave  the  disaffected  an  oppor- 
tunity  to  combine  for  a  common  object.  In  per¬ 
fect  secresy,  the  states  of  Brabant  dispatched  an 
extraordinary  messenger  to  Pius  IV.,  to  urge 
their  wishes  in  Rome  itself.  The  ambassador 
was  provided  with  important  letters  of  recom¬ 
mendation  from  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  car¬ 
ried  with  him  considerable  sums  to  pave  his  way 
to  the  father  of  the  church.  At  the  same  time,  a 
public  letter  was  forwarded  from  the  city  of  Ant¬ 
werp  to  the  King  of  Spain,  containing  the  most 
urgent  representations,  and  supplicating  him  to 
spare  that  flourishing  commercial  town  from  the 
threatened  innovation.  'They  knew,  it  was  stated, 
that  the  intentions  of  the  monarch  were  the  best, 
and  that  the  institution  of  the  new  bishops  was 
likely  to  be  highly  conducive  to  the  maintenance 
of  true  religion  ;  but  the  foreigners  could  not  be 
convinced  of  this,  and  on  them  depended  the 
prosperity  of  their  town.  Among  them  the  most 
groundless  rumors  would  be  as  perilous  as  the 
most  true.  The  first  embassy  was  discovered  in 
time,  and  its  object  disappointed  by  the  prudence 
of  the  regent;  by  the  second,  the  town  of  Ant¬ 
werp  gained  so  far  its  point,  that  it  was  to  remain 
without  a  bishop,  at  least  until  the  personal 
arrival  of  the  king,  which  was  talked  of. 

The  example  and  success  of  Antwerp  gave  the 
signal  of  opposition  to  all  the  other  towns,  for 
which  a  new  bishop  was  intended.  It  is  a  re¬ 
markable  proof  of  the  hatred  to  the  Inquisition, 
and  the  unanimity  of  the  Flemish  towns  at  this 
date,  that  they  preferred  to  renounce  all  the  ad¬ 
vantages  which  the  residence  of  a  bishop  would 
necessarily  bring  to  their  local  trade,  rather  than 
by  their  consent  promote  that  abhorred  tribunal, 
and  thus  act  in  opposition  to  the  interests  of  the 
whole  nation.  Deventer,  Ruremond,  and  Leu- 
warden,  placed  themselves  in  determined  opposi¬ 
tion,  and  (1561)  successfully  carried  their  point; 
in  the  other  towns,  the  bishops  were,  in  spite 
of  all  remonstrances,  forcibly  inducted.  Utrecht, 
Haarlem,  St.  Omer,  and  Middelburg  were  among 
the  first  which  opened  their  gates  to  them  ;  the 
remaining  towns  followed  their  example;  but  in 
Malines  and  Herzogenbusch  the  bishops  were  re¬ 
ceived  with  very  little  respect.  When  Granvelia 
made  his  solemn  entry  into  the  former  town,  not 
a  single  nobleman  showed  himself,  and  his  triumph 
was  wanting  in  every  thing  that  could  make  it 
real,  because  those  remained  away  over  whom  it 
was  meant  to  be  celebrated. 

In  the  mean  time,  too,  the  period  had  elapsed 
within  which  the  Spanish  troops  were  to  have  left 
the  country,  and,  as  yet,  there  was  no  appearance 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


41 


of  their  being  withdrawn.  People  perceived  with 
terror  the  real  cause  of  the  delay,  and  suspicion 
lent  it  a  fatal  connection  with  the  Inquisition. 
The  detention  of  these  troops,  as  it  rendered  the 
nation  more  vigilant  and  distrustful,  made  it  more 
difficult  for  the  minister  to  proceed  with  the  other 
innovations,  and  yet,  he  would  fain  not  deprive 
himself  of  this  powerful  and  apparently  indispen¬ 
sable  aid,  in  a  country  where  all  hated  him,  and 
in  the  execution  of  a  commission  to  which  all 
were  opposed.  At  last,  however,  the  regent  saw 
herself  compelled  by  the  universal  murmurs  of 
discontent,  to  urge  most  earnestly  upon  the  king 
the  necessity  of  the  withdrawal  of  the  troops. 
“The  provinces,”  she  writes  to  Madrid,  “have 
unanimously  declared  that  they  would  never  again 
be  induced  to  grant  the  extraordinary  taxes  re¬ 
quired  by  the  government,  as  long  as  word  was 
not  kept  with  them  in  this  matter.  The  danger 
of  a  revolt  was  far  more  imminent,  than  that  of 
an  attack  by  the  French  Protestants,  and  if  a  re¬ 
bellion  was  to  take  place  in  the  Netherlands, 
these  forces  would  be  too  weak  to  repress  it,  and 
there  was  not  sufficient  money  in  the  treasury  to 
enlist  new.”  By  delaying  his  answer,  the  king 
still  sought  at  least  to  gain  time,  and  the  reite¬ 
rated  representations  of  the  regent  would  still 
have  remained  ineffectual,  if,  fortunately  for-  the 
provinces,  a  loss,  which  he  had  lately  suffered 
from  the  'Turks,  had  not  compelled  him  to  employ 
these  troops  in  the  Mediterranean.  He,  there¬ 
fore,  at  last  consented  to  their  leaving ;  they 
were  embarked  1561,  in  Zealand,  and  the  exult¬ 
ing  shouts  of  all  the  provinces  accompanied  their 
departure. 

Meanwhile,  Granvella  ruled  in  the  council  of 
state  almost  uncontrolled.  All  officers,  secular 
and  spiritual,  were  given  away  through  him  ;  his 
opinion  prevailed  against  the  unanimous  voice  of 
the  whole  assembly.  The  regent  herself  was 
governed  by  him.  He  had  contrived  to  manage 
so  that  her  appointment  was  made  out  for  two 
years  only,  and  by  this  expedient  he  kept  her 
always  in  his  power.  It  seldom  happened  that 
any  important  affair  was  submitted  to  the  other 
members,  and  if  it  really  did  occur,  it  was  only 
such  as  had  been  long  before  decided,  to  which  it 
was  only  necessary  for  formality’s  sake  to  give 
their  sanction.  Whenever  a  royal  letter  was 
read,  Yiglius  received  instructions  to  omit  all 
such  passages  as  were  underlined  by  the  minister, 
It  often  happened  that  this  correspondence  with 
Spain  laid  open  the  weakness  of  the  government, 
or  the  anxiety  felt  by  the  regent,  with  which  it 
was  not  expedient  to  inform  the  members,  whose 
loyalty  was  distrusted.  If  again  it  occurred  that 
the  opposition  gained  a  majority  over  the  minis¬ 
ter,  and  insisted  with  determination  on  an  article, 
which  he  could  not  well  put  off  any  longer,  he 
sent  it  to  the  ministry  at  Madrid  for  their  deci¬ 
sion,  by  which  he  at  least  gained  time,  and  in  any 
case  was  certain  to  find  support.  With  the  ex¬ 
ception  of  the  Count  of  Barlaimont,  the  President 
Viglius,  and  a  few  others,  all  the  other  counsel¬ 
ors  were  but  superfluous  figures  in  the  senate, 
aud  the  minister’s  behavior  to  them  marked  the 
small  value  which  he  placed  upon  their  friendship 
and  adherence.  No  wonder  that  men,  whose 


pride  had  been  so  greatly  indulged  by  the  flatter¬ 
ing  attentions  of  sovereign  princes,  and  to  whom, 
as  to  the  idols  of  their  country,  their  fellow  citi¬ 
zens  paid  the  most  reverential  submission,  should 
be  highly  indignant  at  this  arrogance  of  a  ple¬ 
beian.  Many  of  them  had  been  personally  in¬ 
sulted  by  Granvella.  The  Prince  of  Orange  wa3 
well  aware  that  it  was  he  who  had  prevented  his 
marriage  with  the  Princess  of  Lorraine,  and  that 
he  had  also  endeavored  to  break  off  the  negotia¬ 
tions  for  another  alliance  with  the  Princess  of 
Savoy.  He  had  deprived  Count  Horn  of  the  go¬ 
vernment  of  Gueldres  and  Zutphen,  and  had 
kept  for  himself  an  abbey,  which  Count  Egmont 
had  in  vain  exerted  himself  to  obtain  for  a  rela¬ 
tion.  Confident  of  his  superior  power,  he  did  not 
even  think  it  worth  while  to  conceal  from  the  no¬ 
bility  his  contempt  for  them,  and  which,  as  the 
•rule,  marked  his  whole  administration;  William 
of  Orange  was  the  only  one  with  whom  he  deemed 
it*  advisable  to  dissemble.  Although  he  really 
believed  himself  to  be  raised  far  above  all  the 
laws  of  fear  and  decorum,  still  in  this  point,  how¬ 
ever,  his  confident  arrogance  misled  him,  and  he 
erred  no  less  against  policy  than  he  sinned  against 
propriety.  In  the  existing  posture  of  affairs,  the 
government  could  hardly  have  adopted  a  worse 
measure  than  that  of  throwing  disrespect  on  the 
nobility.  It  had  it  in  its  power  to  flatter  the  pre¬ 
judices  and  feelings  of  the  aristocracy,  and  thus 
artfully  and  imperceptibly  win  them  over  to  its 
plans,  and  through  them,  subvert  the  edifice  of 
national  liberty.  Now  it  admonished  them,  most 
inopportunely  of  their  duties,  their  dignity,  and 
their  power;  calling  upon  them  even  to  be  pa¬ 
triots,  and  to  devote  to  the  cause  of  true  great¬ 
ness,  an  ambition  which  hitherto  it  had  inconsi¬ 
derately  repelled.  To  carry  into  effect  the  ordi¬ 
nances,  it  required  the  active  co-operation  of  the 
lieutenant  governors;  no  wonder,  however,  that 
the  latter  showed  but  little  zeal  to  afford  this  as¬ 
sistance.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  they  silently  labored  to  augment  the  difficul¬ 
ties  of  the  minister,  and  to  subvert  his  measures, 
and,  through  his  ill  success,  to  diminish  the  king’s 
confidence  in  him,  and  expose  his  administration 
to  contempt.  The  rapid  progress  which,  in  spite 
of  those  horrible  edicts,  the  Reformation  made 
during  Granvella’s  administration  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  is  evidently  to  be  ascribed  to  the  lukewarm¬ 
ness  of  the  nobility  in  opposing  it.  If  the  minis¬ 
ter  had  been  sure  of  the  nobles,  he  might  have 
despised  the  fury  of  the  mob,  which  would  have 
impotently  dashed  itself  against  the  dreaded  bar¬ 
riers  of  the  throne.  The  sufferings  of  the  citizens 
lingered  long  in  tears  and  sighs,  until  the  arts 
and  the  example  of  the  nobility  called  forth  a 
louder  expression  of  them. 

Meanwhile  the  inquisitions  into  religion  were 
carried  on  with  renewed  vigor,  by  the  crowd  of 
new  laborers,  (1561,  1562.)  and  the  edicts  against 
heretics  were  enforced  with  fearful  obedience. 
But  the  critical  moment  when  this  detestable  re¬ 
medy  might  have  been  applied,  was  allowed  to  pass 
by;  the  nation  had  become  too  strong  and  vigor¬ 
ous  for  such  rough  treatment.  The  new  religion 
could  now  be  extirpated  only  by  the  death  of  all 
its  professors.  The  present  executions  were  but 


42 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


bo  many  alluring  exhibitions  of  its  excellence,  so 
many  scenes  of  its  triumphs  and  radiant  virtue. 
The  heroic  greatness  with  which  the  victims  died, 
made  converts  to  the  opinions  for  which  they  per¬ 
ished.  One  martyr  gained  ten  new  proselytes. 
Not  in  towns  only,  or  villages,  but  on  the  very 
highways,  in  the  boats  and  public  carriages,  dis- 
pites  were  held,  touching  the  dignity  of  the  pope, 
the  saints,  purgatory,  and  indulgences,  and  ser¬ 
mons  were  preached  and  men  converted.  From 
the  country  and  from  the  towns,  the  common 
people  rushed  in  crowds  to  rescue  the  prisoners  of 
the  Holy  Tribunal  from  the  hands  of  its  satellites, 
and  the  municipal  officers  who  ventured  to  sup¬ 
port  it  with  the  civil  forces,  *were  pelted  with 
stones.  Multitudes  accompanied  the  Protestant 
preachers,  whom  the  Inquisition  pursued,  bore 
them  on  their  shoulders  to  and  from  church,  and 
at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  concealed  them  from 
their  persecutors.  The  first  province,  which  was 
seized  with  the  fanatical  spirit  of  rebellion,  was, 
as  had  been  expected,  Walloon  Flanders.  A 
French  Calvinist,  by  name  Lannoi,  set  himself  up 
in  Tournay  as  a  worker  of  miracles,  where  he 
hired  a  few  women  to  simulate  diseases,  and  to 
pretend  to  be  cured  by  him.  He  preached  in  the 
woods  near  the  town,  drew  the  people  in  great 
numbers  after  him,  and  scattered  in  their  minds 
the  seeds  of  rebellion.  Similar  teachers  appeared 
in  Lille  and  Valenciennes,  but  in  the  latter  place, 
the  municipal  functionaries  succeeded  in  seizing 
the  persons  of  these  incendiaries.  While,  however, 
they  delayed  to  execute  them,  their  followers  in¬ 
creased  so  rapidly,  that  they  became  sufficiently 
strong  to  break  open  the  prisons,  and  forcibly  de¬ 
prive  justice  of  its  victims.  Troops  at  last  were 
brought  into  the  town,  and  order  restored.  But 
this  trifling  occurrence  had,  for  a  moment,  with¬ 
drawn  the  vail  which  had  hitherto  concealed  the 
strength  of  the  Protestant  party,  and  allowed  the 
minister  to  compute  their  prodigious  numbers.  In 
Tournay  alone,  five  thousand  at  one  time  had 
been  seen  attending  the  sermons,  and  not  many 
less  in  Valenciennes.  What  might  not  be  ex¬ 
pected  from  the  northern  provinces,  where  liberty 
was  greater,  and  the  seat  of  government  more  re¬ 
mote,  and  where  the  vicinity  of  Germany  and 
Denmark  multiplied  the  sources  of  contagion  ? 
One  slight  provocation  had  sufficed  to  draw  from 
ts  concealment  so  formidable  a  multitude.  How 
much  greater,  was  perhaps,  the  number  of  those 
who,  in  their  hearts,  acknowledged  the  new  sect, 
and  only  waited  for  a  favorable  opportunity  to 
publish  their  adhesion  to  it.  This  discovery 
greatly  alarmed  the  regent.  The  scanty  obedience 
paid  to  the  edicts,  the  wants  of  the  exhausted 
treasury,  which  compelled  her  to  impose  new 
taxes,  and  the  suspicious  movements  of  the  Hu¬ 
guenots  on  the  French  frontiers,  still  further  in¬ 
creased  her  anxiety.  At  the  same  time,  she 
received  a  command  from  Madrid  to  send  off  two 
thousand  Flemish  cavalry  to  the  army  of  the  Queen 
Mother  in  France,  who  in  the  distresses  of  the 
religious  war,  had  recourse  to  Philip  II.  for  as¬ 
sistance.  Every  affair  of  faith,  in  whatever  land 
it  might  be,  was  made  by  Philip  his  own  business. 
He  felt  it  as  keenly  as  any  catastrophe  which 


could  befall  his  own  house,  and  in  such  cases 
always  stood  ready  to  sacrifice  his  means  to 
foreign  necessities.  If  it  were  interested  motives 
that  here  swayed  him,  they  were  at  least  kingly 
and  grand,  and  the  bold  support  of  his  principles 
wins  our  admiration,  as  much  as  their  cruelty 
withholds  our  esteem. 

The  regent  laid  before  the  Council  of  State  the 
royal  will  on  the  subject  of  these  troops,  but  with 
a  very  warm  opposition  on  the  part  of  the  nobili¬ 
ty.  Count  Kgmont  and  the  Prince  of  Orange 
declared  that  the  time  was  ill  chosen,  for  strip¬ 
ping  the  Netherlands  of  troops,  when  the  aspect 
of  affairs  rendered  rather  the  enlistment  of  new 
levies  advisable.  The  movements  of  the  troops  in 
France  momentarily  threatened  a  surprise,  and 
the  commotions  within  the  provinces  demanded, 
more  than  ever,  the  utmost  vigilance  on  the 
part  of  the  government.  Hitherto,  they  said,  the 
German  Protestants  had  looked  idly  on  during 
the  struggles  of  their  brethren  in  the  faith  ;  but 
will  they  continue  to  do  so,  especially  when  we  are 
lending  our  aid  to  strengthen  the  enemy  ?  By 
thus  acting,  shall  we  not  rouse  their  vengeance 
against  us,  and  call  their  arms  into  the  northern 
Netherlands  ?  Nearly  the  whole  Council  of  State 
joined  in  this  opinion,  their  representations  were 
energetic  and  not  to  be  gainsayed.  The  regent 
herself,  as  well  as  the  minister,  could  not  but  feel 
their  truth,  and  their  own  interests  appeared  to 
forbid  obedience  to  the  royal  mandate.  Would  it 
not  be  impolitic  to  withdraw  from  the  Inquisition 
its  sole  prop,  by  removing  the  larger  portion  of 
the  army,  and  in  a  rebellious  country  to  leave 
themselves  without  defense,  dependent  on  the  ar¬ 
bitrary  will  of  an  arrogant  aristocracy?  While 
the  regent,  divided  between  the  royal  commands, 
the  urgent  importunity  of  her  council,  and  her 
own  fears,  could  not  venture  to  come  to  a  deci¬ 
sion,  William  of  Orange  rose  and  proposed  the 
assembling  of  the  States  General.  But  nothing 
could  have  inflicted  a  more  fatal  blow  on  the  su¬ 
premacy  of  the  Crown,  than  by  yielding  to  this 
advice  to  put  the  nation  in  mind  of  its  power  and 
its  rights.  No  measure  could  be  more  hazardous 
at  the  present  moment.  The  danger  which  was 
thus  gathering  over  the  minister  did  not  escape 
him  ;  a  sign  from  him  warned  the  regent  to  break 
off  the  consultation  and  adjourn  the  council. 
“The  government,”  he  writes  to  Madrid,  “can  do 
nothing  more  injurious  to  itself  than  to  consent  to 
the  assembling  of  the  states.  Such  a  step  is  at 
all  times  perilous,  because  it  tempts  the  nation  to 
test  and  restrict  the  rights  of  the  crown  ;  but  it 
is  many  times  more  objectionable  at  the  present 
moment,  when  the  spirit  of  rebellion  is  already 
widely  spread  amongst  us,  when  the  abbots,  exas¬ 
perated  at  the  loss  of  their  income,  will  neglect 
nothing  to  impair  the  dignity  of  the  bishops, 
when  the  whole  nobility  and  all  the  deputies  from 
the  towns  are  led  by  the  arts  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  and  the  disaffected  can  securely  reckon 
on  the  assistance  of  the  nation.”  This  represen¬ 
tation,  which  at  least  was  not  wanting  in  sound 
sense,  did  not  fail  in  having  the  desired  effect  on 
the  king’s  mind.  The  assembling  of  the  states 
was  rejected  once  and  forever,  the  penal  statutes 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


48 


against  the  heretics  were  renewed  in  all  their 
rigor,  end  the  regent  was  directed  to  hasten  the 
dispatch  of  the  required  auxiliaries. 

But  to  this  the  Council  of  State  would  not  con¬ 
sent.  All  that  she  obtained  was,  instead  of  the 
troops,  a  supply  of  money  for  the  Queen  Mother, 
which  at  this  crisis  was  still  more  welcome  to  her. 
In  place,  however,  of  assembling  the  states,  and 
in  order  to  beguile  the  nation  with  at  least  the 
semblance  of  republican  freedom,  the  regent  sum¬ 
moned  the  governors  of  the  provinces  and  the 
knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece  to  a  special  congress 
at  Brussels,  to  consult  on  the  present  dangers 
and  necessities  of  the  state.  When  the  President 
Yiglius  had  laid  before  them  the  matters  on 
which  they  were  summoned  to  deliberate,  three 
days  were  given  to  them  for  consideration.  Dur¬ 
ing  this  time,  the  Prince  of  Orange  assembled 
them  in  his  palace,  where  he  represented  to  them 
the  necessity  of  coming  to  some  unanimous  reso¬ 
lution  before  the  next  sitting,  and  of  agreeing  on 
the  measures  which  ought  to  be  followed  in  the 
present  dangerous  state  of  affairs. 

The  majority  assented  to  the  propriety  of  this 
course,  only  Barlaimont,  with  a  few  of  the  de¬ 
pendents  of  the  Cardinal,  had  the  courage  to 
plead  for  the  interests  of  the  crown  and  of  the 
minister.  “  It  did  not  behoove  them,”  he  said,  “  to 
interfere  in  the  concerns  of  the  government,  and 
this  previous  agreement  of  votes  was  an  illegal 
and  culpable  assumption,  in  the  guilt  of  which  he 
would  not  participate  —  a  declaration  which 
broke  up  the  meeting  without  any  conclusion  be¬ 
ing  come  to.  The  regent,  apprised  of  it  by  the 
Count  Barlaimont,  artfully  contrived  to  keep  the 
knights  so  well  employed  during  their  stay  in  the 
town,  that  they  could  find  no  time  for  coming  to 
any  further  secret  understanding  ;  in  this  session, 
however,  it  was  arranged,  with  their  concurrence, 
that  Florence  of  Montmorency,  Lord  of  Mon- 
tigny,  should  make  a  journey  to  Spain,  in  order 
to  acquaint  the  king  with  the  present  posture  of 
affairs.  But  the  regent  sent  before  him  another 
messenger  to  Madrid,  who  previously  informed 
the  king  of  all  that  had  been  debated  between 
the  Prince  of  Orange  and  the  knights,  at  the 
secret  conference. 

The  Flemish  ambassador  was  flattered  in  Mad¬ 
rid  with  empty  protestations  of  the  king’s  favor 
and  paternal  sentiments  toward  the  Netherlands; 
while  the  regent  was  commanded  to  thwart,  to 
the  utmost  of  her  power,  the  secret  combinations 
of  the  nobility,  and,  if  possible,  to  sow  discord 
among  their  most  eminent  members.  Jealousy, 
private  interest,  and  religious  differences,  had  long 
divided  many  of  the  nobles;  their  share  in  the 
common  neglect  and  contempt  with  which  they 
were  treated,  and  a  general  hatred  of  the  minister 
had  again  united  them.  So  long  as  Count  Eg- 
mont  and  the  Prince  of  Orange  were  suitors  for 
the  regency,  it  could  not  fail  "but  that  at  times 
their  competing  claims  should  have  brought  them 
into  collision.  Both  had  met  each  other  on  the 
road  to  glory,  and  before  the  throne;  both,  again, 
met  in  the  Republic,  where  they  strove  for  the 
same  prize,  the  favor  of  their  fellow  citizens.  Such 
opposite  characters  soon  became  estranged,  but 
the  powerful  sympathy  of  necessity  as  quickly 


reconciled  them.  Each  was  now  indispensable  to 
the  other,  and  the  emergency  united  these  two 
men  together  with  a  bond  which  their  hearts 
would  never  have  furnished.  But  it  was  on  this 
very  uncongeniality  of  disposition  that  the  regent 
based  her  plans  ;  if  she  could  fortunately  succeed 
in  separating  them,  she  would,  at  the  same  time, 
divide  the  whole  Flemish  nobility  into  two  parties. 
Through  the  presents  and  small  attentions,  by 
which  she  exclusively  honored  these  two,  she  also 
sought  to  excite  against  them  the  envy  and  dis¬ 
trust  of  the  rest,  and  by  appearing  to  give  Count 
Egmont  a  preference  over  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
she  hoped  to  make  the  latter  suspicious  of  Eg- 
mont’s  good  faith.  It  happened  that  at  this  very 
time  she  was  obliged  to  send  an  extraordinary 
ambassador  to  Frankfort,  to  be  present  at  the 
election  of  a  Roman  Emperor ;  she  chose  for  this 
office  the  Duke  of  Arschot,  the  avowed  enemy 
of  the  prince,  in  order,  in  some  degree,  to  show 
in  his  case  how  splendid  was  the  reward  which 
hatred  against  the  latter  might  look  for. 

The  Orange  faction,  however,  instead  of  suffer¬ 
ing  any  diminution,  had  gained  an  important  ac¬ 
cession  in  Count  Horn,  who,  as  admiral  of  the 
Flemish  marine,  had  convoyed  the  king  to  Biscay, 
and  now  again  took  his  seat  in  the  Council  of 
State.  Horn’s  restless  and  republican  spirit 
readily  met  the  daring  schemes  of  Orange  and 
Egmont,  and  a  dangerous  Triumvirate  was  soon 
formed  by  these  three  friends,  which  shook  the 
royal  power  in  the  Netherlands,  but  which  termi¬ 
nated  very  differently  for  each  of  its  members. 

(1562.)  Meanwhile,  Montigny  had  returned 
from  his  embassy,  and  brought  back  to  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State  the  most  gracious  assurance  of  their 
monarch.  But  the  Prince  of  Orange  had,  through 
his  own  secret  channels  of  intelligence,  received 
more  credible  information  from  Madrid,  which 
entirely  contradicted  this  report.  By  these 
means,  he  learned  all  the  ill  services  which  Gran- 
vella  had  done  him  and  his  friends  with  the  king, 
and  the  odious  appellations  which  wrere  there  ap¬ 
plied  to  the  Flemish  nobility.  There  w'as  no  help 
for  them  so  long  as  the  minister  retained  the  helm 
of  government,  and  to  procure  his  dismissal  was 
the  scheme,  however  rash  and  adventurous  it  ap¬ 
peared,  which  wholly  occupied  the  mind  of  the 
Prince.  It  was  agreed  between  him  and  Counts 
Horn  and  Egmont,  to  dispatch  a  joint  letter  to 
the  king,  and,  in  the  name  of  the  whole  nobility, 
formally  to  accuse  the  minister,  and  press  ener¬ 
getically  for  his  removal.  The  Duke  of  Arschot, 
to  w’hom  this  proposition  was  communicated  by 
Count  Egmont,  refused  to  concur  in  it,  haughtily 
declaring  that  he  wras  not  disposed  to  receive  laws 
from  Egmont  and  Orange ;  that  he  had  no  cause 
of  complaint  against  Granvella,  and  that  he 
thought  it  very  presumptuous  to  prescribe  to  the 
king  what  ministers  he  ought  to  employ.  Orange 
received  a  similar  answer  from  the  Count  of 
Aremberg.  Either  the  seeds  of  distrust  which 
the  regent  had  scattered  amongst  the  nobility, 
had  already  taken  root,  or  the  fear  of  the  minis¬ 
ter’s  power  outweighed  the  abhorrence  of  his 
measures ;  at  any  rate,  the  whole  nobility  shrunk 
back  timidly  and  irresolutely  from  the  proposal. 
This  disappointment  did  not,  however,  discourage 


44 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


them,  the  letter  was  written  and  subscribed  by 
all  three  (1563). 

In  it,  Granvel.la  was  represented  as  the  prime 
cause  of  all  the  disorders  in  the  Netherlands.  So 
long  as  the  highest  power  should  be  intrusted  to 
him,  it  would,  they  declared,  be  impossible  for 
them  to  serve  the  nation  and  the  king  effectually  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  all  would  revert  to  its  former 
tranquillity,  all  opposition  be  discontinued,  and 
the  government  regain  the  affections  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  as  soon  as  his  majesty  should  be  pleased  to 
remove  this  man  from  the  helm  of  the  state.  In 
that  case,  they  added,  neither  exertion  nor  zeal 
would  be  wanting  on  their  part  to  maintain  in 
these  countries  the  dignity  of  the  king  and  the 
purity  of  the  faith,  which  was  no  less  sacred  to 
them  than  to  the  Cardinal  Granvella. 

Secretly  as  this  letter  was  prepared,  still  the 
duchess  was  informed  of  it  in  sufficient  time,  to 
anticipate  it  by  another  dispatch,  and  to  coun¬ 
teract  the  effect  which  it  might  have  had  on  the 
king’s  mind.  Some  months  passed  ere  an  answer 
came  from  Madrid.  It  was  mild,  but  vague. — 
“The  king,”  such  was  its  import,  “was  not  used 
to  condemn  his  ministers  unheard,  on  the  mere  ac¬ 
cusations  of  their  enemies.  Common  justice  alone 
required  that  the  accusers  of  the  cardinal  should 
descend  from  general  imputations  to  special 
proofs,  and  if  they  were  not  inclined  to  do  this  in 
writing,  one  of  them  might  come  to  Spain,  where 
he  should  be  treated  with  all  respect.  Besides 
this  letter,  which  was  equally  directed  to  all  three, 
Count  Egmont  further  received  an  autograph  letter 
from  the  king,  wherein  his  majesty  expressed  a  wish 
to  learn  from  him  in  particular,  what  in  the  com¬ 
mon  letter  had  been  only  generally  touched  upon. 
The  regent,  also,  was  specially  instructed  how  she 
was  to  answer  the  three  collectively,  and  the  count 
singly.  The  king  knew  his  man.  He  felt  it  was 
easy  to  manage  Count  Egmont  alone  ;  for  this 
reason  he  sought  to  entice  him  to  Madrid,  where 
he  would  be  removed  from  the  commanding  guid¬ 
ance  of  a  higher  intellect.  In  distinguishing  him 
above  his  two  friends  by  so  flattering  a  mark  of 
his  confidence,  he  made  a  difference  in  the  relation 
in  which  they  severally  stood  to  the  throne  ;  how 
could  they,  then,  unite  with  equal  zeal  for  the  same 
object,  when  the  inducements  were  no  longer  the 
same?  This  time,  indeed,  the  vigilance  of  Orange 
frustrated  the  scheme;  but  the  sequel  of  the  his¬ 
tory  will  show  that  the  seed  which  was  now  scat¬ 
tered,  was  not  altogether  lost. 

(1563.)  The  king’s  answer  gave  no  satisfaction 
to  the  three  confederates  ;  they  boldly  determined 
to  venture  a  second  attempt.  “It  had,”  they 
wrote,  “  surprised  them  not  a  little,  that  his  ma¬ 
jesty  had  thought  their  representations  so  un¬ 
worthy  of  attention.  It  was  not  as  accusers  of 
the  ministers,  but  as  counselors  of  his  majesty, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  inform  their  master  of  the 
condition  of  his  states,  that  they  had  dispatched 
that  letter  to  him.  They  sought  not  the  ruin  of 
the  minister,  indeed,  it  would  gratify  them  to  see 
him  contented  and  happy  in  any  other  part  of  the 
world,  than  here  in  the  Netherlands.  They  were, 
however,  fully  persuaded  of  this,  that  his  continued 
presence  there  was  absolutely  incompatible  with 
the  general  tranquillity.  The  present  dangerous 


condition  of  their  native  country  would  allow  non© 
of  them  to  leave  it,  much  less  to  take  so  long  a 
journey  as  to  Spain  on  Granvella’s  account.  If, 
therefore,  his  majesty  did  not  please  to  comply 
with  their  written  request,  they  hoped  to  be  ex 
cused  for  the  future  from  attendance  in  the  senate, 
where  they  were  only  exposed  to  the  mortification 
of  meeting  the  minister,  and  where  they  could  be 
of  no  service,  either  to  the  king  or  the  state,  but 
only  appeared  contemptible  in  their  own  sight. 
In  the  conclusion,  they  begged  his  majesty  would 
not  take  ill  the  plain  simplicity  of  their  language, 
since  persons  of  their  character  set  more  value  on 
acting  well,  than  on  speaking  finely.”  To  the 
same  purport  was  a  separate  letter  from  Count 
Egmont,  in  which  he  returned  thanks  for  the 
royal  autograph.  This  second  address  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  an  answer  to  the  effect  that,  “  their  re¬ 
presentations  should  be  taken  into  consideration, 
meanwhile  they  were  requested  to  attend  the 
council  of  the  state  as  heretofore.” 

It  was  evident  that  the  monarch  was  far  from 
intending  to  grant  their  request;  they,  therefore, 
from  this  time  forth,  absented  themselves  from 
the  state  council,  and  even  left  Brussels.  Not 
having  succeeded  in  removing  the  minister  by 
lawful  means,  they  sought  to  accomplish  this  end 
by  a  new  mode,  from  which  more  might  be  ex¬ 
pected.  On  every  occasion,  they  and  their  Ad¬ 
herents  openly  showed  the  contempt  which  they 
felt  for  him,  and  contrived  to  throw  ridicule  on 
every  thing  he  undertook.  By  this  contemptuous 
treatment  they  hoped  to  harass  the  haughty  spirit 
of  the  priest,  and  to  obtain  through  his  mortified 
self-love,  what  they  had  failed  in  by  other  means. 
In  this,  indeed,  they  did  not  succeed ;  but  the 
expedient  on  which  they  had  fallen,  led,  in  the 
end,  to  the  ruin  of  the  minister. 

The  popular  voice  was  raised  more  loudly  against 
him,  so  soon  as  it  was  perceived  that  he  had  for¬ 
feited  the  good  opinion  of  the  nobles,  and  that 
men,  whose  sentiments  they  had  been  used  blindly 
to  echo,  preceded  them  in  detestation  of  him. 
The  contemptuous  manner  in  which  the  nobility 
now  treated  him,  devoted  him  in  a  measure  to  the 
general  scorn,  and  emboldened  calumny,  which 
never  spares  even  what  is  holiest  and  purest,  to 
lay  its  sacrilegious  hand  on  his  honor.  The  new 
constitution  of  the  church,  which  was  the  great 
grievance  of  the  nation,  had  been  the  basis  of  his 
fortunes — this  was  a  crime  that  could  not  be  for¬ 
given.  Every  fresh  execution,  and  with  such 
spectacles  the  activity  of  the  inquisitors  was  only 
too  liberal,  kept  alive  and  furnished  dreadful  ex¬ 
ercise  to  the  bitter  animosity  against  him,  and  at 
last  custom  and  usage  inscribed  hismame  on  every 
act  of  oppression.  A  stranger  in  a  land,  into 
which  he  had  been  introduced  against  its  will ; 
alone  among  millions  of  enemies  ;  uncertain  of  all 
his  tools ;  supported  only  by  the  weak  arm  of  a 
distant  royalty ;  maintaining  his  intercourse  with 
the  nation,  which  he  had  to  gain,  only  by  means 
of  faithless  instruments,  all  of  whom  made  it  their 
highest  object  to  falsify  his  actions  and  misrepre¬ 
sent  his  motives ;  lastly,  with  a  woman  for  his 
coadjutor,  who  could  not  share  with  him  the 
burden  of  the  general  execration — thus  he  stood 
exposed  to  the  wantonness,  the  ingratitude,  the 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


45 


faction,  the  envy,  and  ail  the  evil  passions  of  a 
licentious,  insubordinate  people.  It  is  worthy  of 
remark,  that  the  hatred  which  he  had  incurred, 
far  outran  the  demerits  which  could  be  laid  to  his 
charge  ;  that  it  was  difficult,  nay  impossible,  for 
his  accusers  to  substantiate,  by  proof,  the  general 
condemnation,  which  fell  upon  him  from  all  sides. 
Before  and  after  him,  fanaticism  dragged  its  vic¬ 
tims  to  the  altar,  before  and  after  him  civil  blood 
flowed,  the  rights  of  men  made  a  mock  of,  and 
men  themselves  rendered  wretched.  Under  Charles 
V.  tyranny  ought  to  have  pained  more  acutely 
through  its  novelty — under  the  Duke  of  Alva  it 
was  carried  to  far  more  unnatural  lengths,  in  so 
much  that  Granvella’s  administration,  in  com¬ 
parison  with  that  of  his  successor,  was  even  mer¬ 
ciful  ;  and  yet  we  do  not  find  that  his  cotemporaries 
ever  evinced  the  same  degree  of  personal  exaspe¬ 
ration  and  spite  against  the  latter,  in  which  they 
indulged  against  his  predecessor.  To  cloak  the 
meanness  of  his  birth  in  the  splendor  of  high  dig¬ 
nities,  and  by  an  exalted  station  to  place  him,  if 
possible,  above  the  malice  of  his  enemies,  the  re¬ 
gent  had  made  interest  at  Rome  to  procure  for  him 
the  cardinal’s  hat ;  but  this  very  honor  which  con¬ 
nected  him  more  closely  with  the  papal  court, 
made  him  so  much  the  more  an  alien  in  the  pro¬ 
vinces.  The  purple  was  a  new  crime  in  Brussels, 
and  an  obnoxious  detested  garb,  which,  in  a  mea¬ 
sure,  publicly  held  forth  to  view  the  principles  on 
which  his  future  conduct  would  be  governed. 
Neither  his  honorable  rank,  which  alone  often 
consecrates  the  most  infamous  caitiff,  nor  his 
talents  which  commanded  esteem,  nor  even  his 
terrible  omnipotence,  which  daily  revealed  itself 
in  so  many  bloody  manifestations,  could  screen 
him  from  derision.  Terror  and  scorn,  the  fearful 
and  the  ludicrous,  were,  in  this  instance,  unnatur¬ 
ally  blended.*  Odious  rumors  branded  his  honor  ; 
murderous  attempts  on  the  lives  of  Egmont  and 
Orange  were  ascribed  to  him  ;  the  most  incredible 
things  found  credence ;  the  most  monstrous,  if 
they  referred  to  him,  or  were  said  to  emanate  from 
him,  surprised  no  longer.  The  nation  had  already 
become  uncivilized  to  that  degree,  where  the  most 
contradictory  sentiments  prevail  side  by  side,  and 
the  finer  boundary  lines  of  decorum  and  moral 
feelings  are  erased.  This  belief  in  extraordinary 
crimes  is  almost  invariably  their  immediate  pre¬ 
cursor. 

But,  with  this  gloomy  prospect,  the  strange 
destiny  of  this  man  opens  at  the  same  time  a 
grander  view,  which  impresses  the  unprejudiced 
observer  with  pleasure  and  admiration.  Here,  he 

*'  The  nobility,  at  the  suggestion  of  Count  Egmont, 
caused  their  servants  to  wear  a  common  livery,  on  which 
was  embroidered  a  fool’s  cap.  All  Brussels  interpreted 
it  for  the  cardinal’s  hat,  and  every  appearance  of  such  a 
servant  renewed  their  laughter;  this  badge  of  a  fool’s 
cap,  which  was  offensive  to  the  court,  was  subsequently 
changed  into  a  bundle  of  arrows — an  accidental  jest  which 
took  a  very  serious  end,  and  probably  was  the  origin  of 
the  arms  of  the  republic.  Vit.  Vigl.  T.  ii.  35  Thuaji. 
489.  The  respect  for  the  cardinal  sunk  at  last  so  low, 
that  a  caricature  was  publicly  placed  in  his  own  hands, 
in  which  he  was  represented  seated  on  a  heap  of  eggs, 
out  of  which  bishops  were  crawling.  Over  him  hovered 
a  devil  with  the  inscription — “  This  is  my  son;  hear  ye 
him  T 


beholds  a  nation  dazzled  by  no  splendor,  and  re¬ 
strained  by  no  fear,  firmly,  inexorably,  and  un- 
premeditatedly  unanimous  in  punishing  the  crime 
which  had  been  committed  against  its  dignity,  by 
the  violent  introduction  of  a  stranger  into  the  heart 
of  its  political  constitution.  We  see  him  ever  aloof, 
and  ever  isolated,  like  a  foreign  hostile  body,  ho¬ 
vering  over  a  surface  which  repels  its  contact. 
The  strong  hand  itself  of  the  monarch,  who  was 
his  friend  and  protector,  could  not  support  him 
against  the  antipathies  of  the  nation,  which  had 
once  resolved  to  withhold  from  him  all  its  sym¬ 
pathy.  The  voice  of  national  hatred  was  all- 
powerful,  and  was  ready  to  forego  even  private 
interest,  its  certain  gains ;  his  alms  even  were 
shunned,  like  the  fruits  of  an  accursed  tree.  Like 
pestilential  vapor,  the  infamy  of  universal  repro¬ 
bation  hung  over  him.  In  his  case,  gratitude  be¬ 
lieved  itself  absolved  from  its  duties ;  his  adher¬ 
ents  shunned  him  ;  his  friends  were  dumb  in  his 
behalf.  So  terribly  did  the  people  avenge  the 
insulted  majesty  of  their  nobles  and  their  nation 
on  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  earth. 

History  has  repeated  this  memorable  example 
only  once,  in  Cardinal  Mazarin ;  but  the  instance 
differed  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  two  periods 
and  nations.  The  highest  power  could  not  pro¬ 
tect  either  from  derision  ;  but  if  France  found 
vent  for  its  indignation  in  laughing  at  its  panta¬ 
loon,  the  Netherlands  hurried  from  scorn  to  re¬ 
bellion.  The  former,  after  a  long  bondage  under 
Richelieu,  saw  itself  placed  suddenly  in  unwonted 
liberty:  the  latter  passed  from  ancient  hereditary 
freedom  into  strange  and  unusual  servitude  ;  it 
was  as  natural,  that  the  Fronde  should  end  again 
in  subjection,  as  that  the  Belgian  troubles  should 
issue  in  republican  independence.  The  revolt  of 
the  Parisians  was  the  offspring  of  poverty  :  un¬ 
bridled,  but  not  bold,  arrogant,  but  without  en¬ 
ergy,  base  and  plebian,  like  the  source  from  which 
it  sprang.  The  murmur  of  the  Netherlands  was 
the  proud  and  powerful  voice  of  wealth.  Licen¬ 
tiousness  and  hunger  inspired  the  former ;  re¬ 
venge,  life,  property,  and  religion  were  the  ani¬ 
mating  motives  of  the  latter.  Rapacity  was  Ma- 
zarin’s  spring  of  action  ;  Granvella’s.  lust  of 
power;  the  former  was  humane  and  mild,  the  lat¬ 
ter  harsh,  imperious,  cruel.  The  French  minister 
sought,  in  the  favor  of  his  queen,  an  asylum  from 
the  hatred  of  the  magnates  and  the  fury  of  the 
people;  the  Netherlandish  minister  provoked  the 
hatred  of  a  whole  nation  in  order  to  please  one 
man.  Against  Mazarin  were  only  a  few  factions, 
and  the  mob  they  could  arm  ;  an  entire  and 
united  nation,  against  Granvella.  Under  the 
former,  parliament  attempted  to  obtain,  by 
stealth,  a  power  which  did  not  belong  to  them  ; 
under  the  latter,  it  struggled  for  a  lawful  author¬ 
ity  which  he  insidiously  had  endeavored  to  wrest 
from  them.  The  former  had  to  contend  with  the 
princes  of  the  blood  and  the  peers  of  the  realm,  as 
the  latter  had  with  the  native  nobility  and  the 
states,  but  instead  of  endeavoring,  like  the  former, 
to  overthrow  the  common  enemy,  in  the  hope  of 
stepping  themselves  into  his  place,  the  latter 
wished  to  destroy  the  place  itself,  and  to  divide 
a  power  which  no  single  man  ought  to  possess 
entire. 


46 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


While  these  feelings  were  spreading  among  the 
people,  the  influence  of  the  minister  at  the  court 
of  the  regent  began  to  totter.  The  repeated 
complaints  against  the  extent  of  his  power,  must 
at  last  have  made  her  sensible  how  little  faith 
was  placed  in  her  own  ;  perhaps,  too,  she  began  to 
fear  that  the  universal  abhorrence,  which  attached 
to  him,  would  soon  include  herself  also,  or  that 
his  longer  stay  would  inevitably  provoke  the  me¬ 
naced  revolt.  Long  intercourse  with  him,  his 
instruction  and  example,  had  qualified  her  to 
govern  without  him.  His  dignity  began  to  be 
more  oppessive  to  her  as  he  became  less  necessary, 
and  his  faults,  to  which  her  friendship  had  hitherto 
lent  a  vail,  became  visible  as  it  was  withdrawn. 
She  was  now  as  much  disposed  to  search  out  and 
enumerate  these  faults,  as  she  formerly  had  been 
to  conceal  them.  In  this  unfavorable  state  of  her 
feelings  toward  the  cardinal,  the  urgent  and  accu¬ 
mulated  representations  of  the  nobles  began,  at 
last,  to  find  access  to  her  mind,  and  the  more  easi¬ 
ly,  as  they  contrived  to  mix  up  her  own  fears  with 
their  own.  “It  was  matter  of  great  astonish¬ 
ment,”  said  Count  Egmont  to  her,  “that  to  gra¬ 
tify  a  man  who  was  not  even  a  Fleming,  and  of 
whom,  therefore,  it  must  be  well  known  that  his 
happiness  could  not  be  dependent  on  the  prosper¬ 
ity  of  this  country,  the  king  could  be  content 
to  see  all  his  Netherlandish  subjects  suffer,  and 
this  to  please  a  foreigner,  who  if  his  birth  made 
him  a  subject  of  the  Emperor,  the  purple  had 
made  a  creature  of  the  court  of  Home.”  “To 
the  king  alone,”  added  the  count,  “  was  Gran- 
vella  indebted  for  his  being  still  among  the  living  ; 
for  the  future,  however,  he  would  leave  that  care 
of  him  to  the  regent,  and  he  hereby  gave  her 
warning.”  As  the  majority  of  the  nobles,  dis¬ 
gusted  with  the  contemptuous  treatment  which 
they  met  with  in  the  Council  of  State,  gradually 
withdrew  from  it,  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of 
the  minister  lost  the  last  semblance  of  republican 
deliberation  which  had  hitherto  softened  the  odious 
aspect,  and  the  empty  desolation  of  the  council 
chamber  made  his  domineering  rule  appear  in  all 
its  obnoxiousness.  The  regent  now  felt  that  she 
had  a  master  over  her,  and  from  that  moment 
the  banishment  of  the  minister  was  decided 
upon. 

With  this  object,  she  dispatched  her  private 
secretary,  Thomas  Armenteros,  to  Spain,  to  ac¬ 
quaint  the  king  with  the  circumstances  in  which 
the  cardinal  was  placed,  to  apprise  him  of  the  in¬ 
timations  she  had  received  of  the  intentions  of  the 
nobles,  and  in  this  manner,  to  cause  the  resolution 
for  his  recall  to  appear  to  emanate  from  the  king 
himself.  What  she  did  not  like  to  trust  to  a 
letter,  Armenteros  was  ordered  ingeniously  to 
interweave  in  the  oral  communication,  which  the 
king  would  probably  require  from  him.  Armen¬ 
teros  fulfilled  his  commission  with  all  the  ability 
of  a  consummate  courtier;  but  an  audience  of 
four  hours  could  not  overthrow  the  work  of  many 
years,  nor  destroy  in  Philip’s  mind  his  opinion  of 
his  minister,  which  was  there  unalterably  esta¬ 
blished.  Long  did  the  monarch  hold  counsel 
with  his  policy  and  his  interest,  until  Granvella 
himself  came  to  the  aid  of  his  wavering  resolution, 
and  voluntarily  solicited  a  dismissal,  which,  he 


feared,  could  not  much  longer  be  deferred.  What 
the  detestation  of  all  the  Netherlands  could  not 
effect,  the  contemptuous  treatment  of  the  nobility 
accomplished  ;  he  was,  at  last,  weary  of  a  power 
which  was  no  longer  feared,  and  exposed  him  less 
to  envy  than  to  infamy. 

Perhaps,  as  some  have  believed,  he  trembled 
for  his  life,  which  was  certainly  in  more  than 
imaginary  danger ;  perhaps  he  wished  to  receive 
his  dismissal  from  the  king,  under  the  shape  of  a 
boon  rather  than  of  a  sentence,  and  after  the 
example  of  the  Romans,  meet  with  dignity  a  fate 
which  he  could  no  longer  avoid.  Philip,  too,  it 
would  appear,  preferred  generously  to  accord  to 
the  nation  a  request,  rather  than  to  yield  at  a 
later  period  to  a  demand,  and  hoped  at  least  to 
merit  their  thanks,  by  voluntarily  conceding  now 
what  necessity  would  ere  long  extort.  His  fears 
prevailed  over  his  obstinacy,  and  prudence  over¬ 
came  pride. 

Granvella  doubted  not  for  a  moment  what  the 
decision  of  the  king  would  be.  A  few  days  after 
the  return  of  Armenteros,  he  saw  humility  and 
flattery  disappear  from  the  few  faces,  which  had, 
till  then,  still  servilely  smiled  upon  him  ;  the  last 
small  crowd  of  base  flatterers  and  eye-servants 
vanished  from  around  his  person;  his  threshold 
was  forsaken  ;  he  perceived  that  the  fructifying 
warmth  of  royal  favor  had  left  him. 

Detraction,  which  had  assailed  him  during  his 
whole  administration,  did  not  spare  him  even  in 
the  moment  of  resignation.  People  did  not 
scruple  to  assert  that  a  short  time  before  he  laid 
down  his  office,  he  had  expressed  a  wish  to  be 
reconciled  to  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  Count 
Egmont,  and  even  offered,  if  their  forgiveness 
could  be  hoped  for  on  no  other  terms,  to  ask 
pardon  of  them  on  his  knees.  It  was  base  and 
coutemptible  to  sully  the  memory  of  a  great  and 
extraordinary  man  with  such  a  charge,  but  it  is 
still  more  so,  to  hand  it  down  uncontradicted  to 
posterity.  Granvella  submitted  to  the  royal  com¬ 
mand  with  a  dignified  composure.  Already  had 
he  written,  a  few  months  previously,  to  the  Duke 
of  Alva,  in  Spain,  to  prepare  him  a  place  of  refuge 
in  Madrid,  in  case  of  his  having  to  quit  the 
Netherlands.  The  latter  long  bethought  himself 
whether  it  was  advisable  to  bring  thither  so  dan¬ 
gerous  a  rival  for  the  favor  of  his  king,  or  to  deny 
so  important  a  friend  such  a  valuable  means  of 
indulging  his  old  hatred  of  the  Flemish  nobles. 
Revenge  prevailed  over  fear,  and  he  strenuously 
supported  Granvella’s  request  with  the  monarch. 
But  his  intercession  was  fruitless.  Armenteros 
had  persuaded  the  king  that  the  minister’s  resi¬ 
dence  in  Madrid  would  only  revive,  with  increased 
violence,  all  the  complaints  of  the  Belgian  nation, 
to  which  his  ministry  had  been  sacrificed  ;  for 
then,  he  said,  he  would  be  suspected  of  poisoning 
the  very  source  of  that  power,  whose  outlets  only 
he  had  hitherto  been  charged  with  corrupting. 
He  therefore  sent  him  to  Burgundy,  his  native 
place,  for  which  a  decent  pretext  fortunately  pre¬ 
sented  itself.  The  cardinal  gave  to  his  departure 
from  Brussels  the  appearance  of  an  unimportant- 
journey,  from  which  he  would  return  in  a  few  days. 
At  the  same  time,  however,  all  the  state  counsel¬ 
ors,  who,  under  his  administration,  had  voluntarily 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


47 


Excluded  themselves  from  its  sittings,  received  a 
command  from  the  court  to  resume  their  seats  in 
the  senate  at  Brussels.  Although  the  latter  cir¬ 
cumstance  made  his  return  not  very  credible, 
nevertheless  the  remotest  possibility  of  it  sobered 
the  triumph  which  celebrated  his  departure.  The 
regent  herself  appears  to  have  been  undecided 
what  to  think  about  the  report;  for,  in  a  fresh 
letter  to  the  king,  she  repeated  all  the  representa¬ 
tions  and  arguments,  which  ought  to  restrain  him 
from  restoring  this  minister.  Granvella  himself, 
in  his  correspondence  with  Barlaimont  and  Vig- 
lius,  endeavored  to  keep  alive  this  rumor,  and  at 
least  to  alarm  with  fears,  however  unsubstantial, 
the  enemies  whom  he  could  no  longer  punish  by 
his  presence.  Indeed,  the  dread  of  the  influence 
of  this  extraordinary  man  was  so  exceedingly 
great,  that,  to  appease  it,  he  was  at  last  driven 
even  from  his  home  and  his  country. 

After  the  death  of  Pius  IV.,  Granvella  went  to 
Rome,  to  be  present  at  the  election  of  a  new  pope, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  discharge  some  commis¬ 
sions  of  his  master,  whose  confidence  in  him  re¬ 
mained  unshaken.  Soon  after,  Philip  made  him 
viceroy  of  Naples,  where  he  succumbed  to  the 
seductions  of  the  climate,  and  the  spirit  which  no 
vicissitudes  could  bend  voluptuousness  overcame. 
He  was  sixty-two  years  old,  when  the  king  allowed 
him  to  revisit  Spain,  where  he  continued  with  un¬ 
limited  powers  to  administer  the  affairs  of  Italy. 
A  gloomy  old  age,  and  the  self-satisfied  pride  of  a 
sexagenarian  administration  made  him  a  harsh 
and  rigid  judge  of  the  opinions  of  others,  a  slave 
of  custom,  and  a  tedious  panegyrist  of  past  times. 
But  the  policy  of  the  closing  century  had  ceased 
to  be  the  policy  of  the  opening  one.  A  new  and 
younger  ministry  were  soon  weary  of  so  imperious 
a  superintendent,  and  Philip  himself  began  to 
shun  the  aged  counselor,  who  found  nothing 
worthy  of  praise  but  the  deeds  of  his  father. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  conquest  of  Portugal 
called  Philip  to  Lisbon,  he  confided  to  the  car¬ 
dinal  the  care  of  his  Spanish  territories.  Finally, 
on  an  Italian  tour,  in  the  town  of  Mantua,  in  the 
seventy-third  year  of  his  life,  Granvella  terminated 
his  long  existence  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  his 
glory,  and  after  possessing  for  forty  years  the  un¬ 
interrupted  confidence  of  his  king. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  STATE. 

(1564.)  Immediately  upon  the  departure  of  the 
minister,  all  the  happy  results  which  were  promised 
from  his  withdrawal  were  fulfilled.  The  disaffected 
nobles  resumed  their  seats  in  the  council,  and 
again  devoted  themselves  to  the  affairs  of  the 
state  with  redoubled  zeal,  in  order  to  give  no  room 
for  regret  for  him,  whom  they  had  driven  away, 
and  to  prove,  by  the  fortunate  administration  of 
the  state,  that  his  services  were  not  indispensable. 
The  crowd  round  the  duchess  was  great.  All  vied 
with  one  another  in  readiness,  in  submission,  and 
?eal  n  her  service ;  the  hours  of  night  were  not 
allowed  to  stop  the  transaction  of  pressing  busi¬ 
ness  of  state  :  the  greatest  unanimity  existed  be¬ 
tween  the  three  councils,  the  best  understanding 


between  the  court  and  the  states.  From  the 
obliging  temper  of  the  Flemish  nobility,  every  thing 
was  to  be  had,  as  soon  as  their  pride  and  self-will 
were  flattered  by  confidence  and  obliging  treat¬ 
ment.  The  regent  took  advantage  of  the  first  joy 
of  the  nation,  to  beguile  them  into  a  vote  of  cer¬ 
tain  taxes,  which,  under  the  preceding  administra¬ 
tion,  she  could  not  have  hoped  to  extort.  In  this, 
the  great  credit  of  the  nobility  effectually  sup¬ 
ported  her,  and  she  soon  learned  from  this  nation 
the  secret,  which  had  been  so  often  verified  in  the 
German  diet :  that  much  must  be  demanded,  in 
order  to  get  a  little. 

With  pleasure  did  the  regent  see  herself  eman¬ 
cipated  from  her  long  thralldom  ;  the  emulous  in¬ 
dustry  of  the  nobility  lightened  for  her  the  burden 
of  business,  and  their  insinuating  humility  allowed 
her  to  feel  the  full  sweetness  of  power. 

(1564.)  Granvella  had  been  overthrown,  but  his 
party  still  remained.  His  policy  lived  in  his  crea¬ 
tures,  whom  he  left  behind  him  in  the  privy  coun¬ 
cil  and  in  the  chamber  of  finance.  Hatred  still 
smouldered  amongst  the  factions,  long  after  the 
leader  was  banished,  and  the  names  of  the  Orange 
and  Royalist  parties,  of  the  Patriots  and  Cardi- 
nalists,  still  continued  to  divide  the  senate,  and 
to  keep  up  the  flames  of  discord.  Yiglius  Van 
Zuichem  Van  Aytta,  president  of  the  privy  coun¬ 
cil,  state  counsellor  and  keeper  of  the  seal,  was 
now  looked  upon  as  the  most  important  person 
in  the  senate,  and  the  most  powerful  prop  of  the 
crown  and  the  tiara.  This  highly  meritorious  old 
man,  whom  we  have  to  thank  for  some  valuable 
contributions  toward  the  history  of  the  rebellion 
of  the  Low  Countries,  and  whose  confidential  cor¬ 
respondence  with  his  friends  has  generally  been 
the  guide  of  our  narrative,  was  one  of  the  greatest 
lawyers  of  his  time,  as  well  as  a  theologian  and 
priest,  and  had  already,  under  the  emperor,  filled 
the  most  important  offices.  Familiar  intercourse 
with  the  learned  men  who  adorned  the  age,  and 
at  the  head  of  whom  stood  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam, 
combined  with  frequent  travels  in  the  imperial 
service,  had  extended  the  sphere  of  his  informa¬ 
tion  and  experience,  and  in  many  points  raised 
him  in  his  principles  and  opinions  above  his  co¬ 
temporaries.  The  fame  of  his  erudition  filled  the 
whole  century  in  which  he  lived,  and  has  handed 
his  name  down  to  posterity.  When  in  the  year 
1548,  the  connection  of  the  Netherlands  with  the 
German  empire  was  to  be  settled  at  the  diet  of 
Augsburg,  Charles  V.  sent  hither  this  statesman 
to  manage  the  interests  of  the  provinces  ;  and  h:s 
ability  principally  succeeded  in  turning  the  nego- 
ciations  to  the  advantage  of  the  Netherlands. 
After  the  death  of  the  emperor,  Viglius  was  one 
of  the  many  eminent  ministers,  bequeathed  to 
Philip  by  his  father,  and  one  of  the  few  in  whom 
he  honored  his  memory.  The  fortune  of  the  min¬ 
ister  Granvella,  with  whom  he  was  united  by  the 
ties  of  an  early  acquaintance,  raised  him  likewise 
to  greatness  ;  but  he  did  not  share  the  fall  of  his 
patron,  because  he  had  not  participated  in  his  lust 
of  power,  nor,  consequently,  the  hatred  which  at¬ 
tached  to  him.  A  residence  of  twenty  years  in 
the  provinces,  where  the  most  important  affairs 
were  entrusted  to  him,  approved  loyalty  to  liis 


48 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


king,  and  zealous  attachment  to  the  Roman  Ca¬ 
tholic  tenets,  made  him  one  of  the  most  distin¬ 
guished  instruments  of  royalty  in  the  Netherlands. 

Viglius  was  a  man  of  learning,  but  no  thinker  ; 
an  experienced  statesman,  but  without  an  enlight¬ 
ened  mind  ;  of  an  intellect  not  sufficiently  power¬ 
ful  to  break,  like  his  friend  Erasmus,  the  fetters 
of  error,  yet  not  sufficiently  bad  to  employ  it,  like 
his  predecessor,  Granvella,  in  the  service  of  his 
own  passions.  Too  weak  and  timid  to  follow 
boldly  the  guidance  of  his  reason,  he  preferred 
trusting  to  the  more  convenient  path  of  con¬ 
science  ;  a  thing  was  just,  so  soon  as  it  became 
his  duty ;  he  belonged  to  those  honest  men,  who 
are  indispensable  to  bad  ones  ;  fraud  reckoned  on 
his  honesty.  Half  a  century  later,  he  would  have 
received  his  immortality  from  the  freedom  which 
he  now  helped  to  subvert.  In  the  Privy  Council 
at  Brussels,  he  was  the  servant  of  tyranny  ;  in  the 
Parliament  in  London,  or  in  the  Senate  at  Am¬ 
sterdam  he  would  have  died,  perhaps,  like  Thomas 
More  or  Olden  Barneveldt. 

In  Count  Barlaimont,  the  President  of  the 
Council  of  Finance,  the  opposition  had  a  no  less 
formidable  antagonist  than  in  Viglius.  Histo¬ 
rians  have  transmitted  but  little  information  re¬ 
garding  the  services  and  the  opinions  of  this  man. 
In  the  first  part  of  his  career,  the  dazzling  great¬ 
ness  of  the  Cardinal  Granvella  seems  to  have  cast 
a  shade  over  him  ;  after  the  latter  had  disap¬ 
peared  from  the  stage,  the  superiority  of  the 
opposite  party  kept  him  down,  but  still  the  little 
that  we  do  find  respecting  him,  throws  a  favora¬ 
ble  light  over  his  character.  More  than  once,  the 
Prince  of  Orange  exerted  himself  to  detach  him 
from  the  interests  of  the  cardinal,  and  to  join  him 
to  his  own  party — sufficient  proof  that  he  placed 
a  value  on  the  prize.  All  his  efforts  failed,  which 
shows  that  he  had  to  do  with  no  vacillating  char¬ 
acter.  More  than  once,  we  see  him  alone,  of  all 
the  members  of  the  council,  stepping  forward 
to  oppose  the  dominant  faction,  and  protecting 
against  universal  opposition  the  interests  of  the 
crown,  which  were  in  momentary  peril  of  being 
sacrificed.  When  the  Prince  of  Orange  had 
assembled  the  knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece  in 
his  own  palace,  with  a  view  to  induce  them  to 
come  to  a  preparatory  resolution  for  the  abolition 
of  the  Inquisition,  Barlaimont  was  the  first  to 
denounce  the  illegality  of  this  proceeding,  and  to 
inform  the  regent  of  it.  Some  time  after,  the 
prince  asked  him  if  the  regent  knew  of  that 
assembly,  and  Barlaimont  hesitated  not  a  mo¬ 
ment  to  avow  to  him  the  truth.  All  the  steps 
which  have  been  ascribed  to  him  bespeak  a  man, 
whom  neither  influence  nor  fear  could  tempt, — 
who,  with  a  firm  courage  and  indomitable  con¬ 
stancy,  remained  faithful  to  the  party  which  he 
had  once  chosen,  but  who,  it  must  at  the  same 
time  be  confessed,  entertained  too  proud  and  too 
despotic  notions,  to  have  selected  any  other. 

Amongst  the  adherents  of  the  royal  party  at 
Brussels,  we  have  further,  the  names  of  the  Duke 
of  Arschot,  the  Counts  of  Mansfield,  Megen,  and 
Aremberg — all  three  native  Netherlander  ;  and 
therefore,  as  it  appeared,  bound  equally  with  the 
whole  Netherlandish  nobility,  to  oppose  the  hier¬ 
archy  and  the  royal  power  in  their  native  country. 


So  much  the  more  surprised  must  we  feel  at  their 
contrary  behavior,  and  which  is  indeed  the  more 
remarkable,  since  we  find  them  on  terms  of  friend¬ 
ship  with  the  most  eminent  members  of  the  fac¬ 
tion,  and  any  thing  but  insensible  to  the  common 
grievances  of  their  country. 

But  they  had  not  self-confidence  nor  heroism 
enough  to  venture  on  an  unequal  contest  with  so 
superior  an  antagonist.  With  a  cowardly  pru¬ 
dence  they  made  their  just  discontent  submit  to 
the  stern  law  of  necessity,  and  imposed  a  hard 
sacrifice  on  their  pride,  because  their  pampered 
vanity  was  capable  of  nothing  better.  Too  thrifty 
and  too  discreet,  to  wish  to  extort  from  the  jus¬ 
tice  or  the  fear  of  their  sovereign  the  certain  good 
which  they  already  possessed  from  his  voluntary 
generosity,  or  to  resign  a  real  happiness,  in  order 
to  preserve  the  shadow  of  another,  they  rather 
employed  the  propitious  moment,  to  drive  a  traffic 
with  their  constancy,  which,  from  the  general  de¬ 
fection  of  the  nobility,  had  now  risen  in  value. 
Caring  little  for  true  glory,  they  allowed  their 
ambition  to  decide  which  party  they  should  take  ; 
for  the  ambition  of  base  minds  prefers  to  bow 
beneath  the  hard  yoke  of  compulsion,  rather  than 
submit  to  the  gentle  sway  of  a  superior  intellect. 
Small  would  have  been  the  value/ of  the  favor 
conferred,  had  they  bestowed  themselves  on  the 
Prince  of  Orange;  but  their  connection  with 
royalty  made  them  so  much  the  more  formidable 
as  opponents.  There  their  names  would  have 
been  lost  among  his  numerous  adherents,  and  in 
the  splendor  of  their  rival ;  on  the  almost  deserted 
side  of  the  court  their  insignificant  merit  acquired 
lustre. 

The  families  of  Nassau  and  Croi,  (to  the  latter 
belonged  the  Duke  of  Arschot,)  had  for  several 
reigns  been  competitors  for  influence  and  honor, 
and  their  rivalry  had  kept  up  an  old  feud  between 
their  families,  which  religious  differences  finally 
made  irreconcilable.  The  house  of  Croi,  from 
time  immemorial,  had  been  renowned  for  its 
devout  and  strict  observance  of  papistic  rites  and 
ceremonies ;  the  Counts  of  Nassau  had  gone  over 
to  the  new  sect — sufficient  reasons  why  Philip  of 
Croi,  Duke  of  Arschot,  should  prefer  a  party 
which  placed  him  the  most  decidedly  in  opposition 
to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  The  court  did  not  fail 
to  take  advantage  of  this  private  feud,  and  to 
oppose  so  important  an  enemy  to  the  increasing 
influence  of  the  house  of  Nassau  in  the  republic. 
The  Counts  Mansfield  and  Megen  had,  till  lately, 
been  the  confidential  friends  of  Count  Egmont. 
In  common  with  him,  they  had  raised  their  voice 
against  the  minister ;  had  joined  him  in  resisting 
the  Inquisition  and  the  edicts,  and  had  hitherto 
held  with  him  as  far  as  honor  and  duty  would 
permit.  But  at  these  limits  the  three  friends  now 
separated.  Egmont’s  unsuspecting  virtue  inces¬ 
santly  hurried  him  forward  on  the  road  to  ruin  ; 
Mansfeld  and  Megen,  admonished  of  the  danger, 
began  in  good  time  to.  think  of  a  safe  retreat. 
There  still  exist  letters,  which  were  interchanged 
between  the  Counts  Egmont  and  Mansfeld,  and 
which,  although  written  at  a  later  period,  give  us 
a  true  picture  of  their  former  friendship.  “  If,” 
replied  Count  Mansfeld  to  his  friend,  who  in  an 
amicable  manner  had  reproved  him  for  his  defec 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


49 


tion  to  the  king,  “  if  formerly  I  was  of  opinion  that 
the  general  good  made  the  abolition  of  the  In¬ 
quisition,  the  mitigation  of  the  edicts,  and  the 
removal  of  the  Cardinal  Granvella  necessary,  the 
king  has  now  acquiesced  in  this  wish,  and  removed 
the  cause  of  complaint.  We  have  already  done 
too  much  against  the  majesty  of  the  sovereign,  and 
the  authority  of  the  church  ;  it  is  high  time  for  us 
to  turn,  if  we  would  wish  to  meet  the  king,  when 
he  comes,  with  open  brow,  and  without  anxiety. 
As  regards  my  own  person,  I  do  not  dread  his 
vengeance ;  with  confident  courage  I  would,  at 
his  first  summons,  present  myself  in  Spain,  and 
boldly  abide  my  sentence  from  his  justice  and 
goodness.  I  do  not  say  this,  as  if  I  doubted 
whether  Count  Egmont  can  assert  the  same,  but 
he  will  act  prudently  in  looking  more  to  his  own 
safety,  and  in  removing  suspicion  from  his  actions.” 
“  If  I  hear,”  he  says  in  conclusion,  “  that  he  has 
allowed  my  admonitions  to  have  their  due  weight, 
our  friendship  continues;  if  not,  I  feel  myself  in 
that  case  strong  enough  to  sacrifice  all  human  ties 
to  my  duty  and  to  honor.” 

The  enlarged  power  of  the  nobility  exposed  the 
Republic  to  almost  a  greater  evil  than  that  which 
it  had  just  escaped  by  the  removal  of  the  minister. 
Impoverished  by  long  habits  of  luxury,  which  at 
the  same  time  had  relaxed  their  morals,  and  to 
which  they  were  now  too  much  addicted,  to  be 
able  to  renounce  them,  they  yielded  to  the  perilous 
opportunity  of  indulging  their  ruling  inclination, 
and  of  again  repairing  the  expiring  lustre  of  their 
fortunes.  Extravagance  brought  on  the  thirst 
for  gain,  and  this  introduced  bribery.  Secular 
and  ecclesiastical  offices  were  publicly  put  up  for 
sale  ;  posts  of  honor,  privileges,  and  patents,  were 
sold  to  the  highest  bidder;  even  justice  was  made 
a  trade.  Whom  the  Privy  Council  had  con¬ 
demned,  was  acquitted  by  the  Council  of  State  ; 
and  what  the  former  refused  to  grant,  was  to  be 
purchased  from  the  latter.  The  Council  of  State, 
indeed,  subsequently  retorted  the  charge  on  the 
two  other  councils ;  but  it  forgot  that  it  was  its 
own  example  that  corrupted  them.  The  shrewd¬ 
ness  of  rapacity  opened  new  sources  of  gain.  Life, 
liberty,  and  religion  were  insured  for  a  certain 
sum,  like  landed  estates  ;  for  gold,  murderers  and 
malefactors  were  free,  and  the  nation  was  plun¬ 
dered  by  a  lottery.  The  servants  and  creatures  of 
state,  counselors  and  governors  of  provinces,  were, 
without  regard  to  rank  or  merit,  pushed  into  the 
most  important  posts  ;  whoever  had  a  petition  to 
present  at  court,  had  to  make  his  way  through  the 
governors  of  provinces  and  their  inferior  servants. 
No  artifice  of  seduction  was  spared  to  implicate 
in  these  excesses  the  private  secretary  of  the 
duchess,  Thomas  Armenteros,  a  man  up  to  this 
time  of  irreproachable  character.  Through  pre¬ 
tended  professions  of  attachment  and  friendship, 
they  contrived  to  insinuate  themselves  into  his 
confidence,  and  by  luxurious  entertainments  to 
undermine  his  principles  ;  the  seductive  example 
infected  his  morals,  and  new  wants  overcame  his 
hitherto  incorruptible  integrity.  Pie  was  now 
blind  to  abuses  in  which  he  was  an  accomplice, 
and  drew  a  vail  over  the  crimes  of  others,  in  order 
at  the  same  time  to  cloak  his  own.  In  connec¬ 
tion  with  him,  they  robbed  the  royal  exchequer, 

VOL.  II.  -  1, 


and  defeated  the  objects  of  the  government 
through  a  corrupt  administration  of  its  revenues. 
Meanwhile,  the  regent  wandered 'on  in  a  fond 
dream  of  power  and  activity,  which  the  flattery 
of  the  nobles  artfully  knew  how  to  foster.  The 
ambition  of  the  factious  played  with  the  foibles  of 
a  woman,  and  with  empty  signs  and  an  humble 
show  of  submission  purchased  real  power  from  her. 
She  soon  belonged  entirely  to  the  faction,  and  had 
imperceptibly  changed  her  principles.  Diametri¬ 
cally  opposing  all  her  former  proceedings,  even  in 
direct  violation  of  her  duty,  she  now  brought 
before  the  Council  of  State,  which  was  swayed  by 
the  faction,  not  only  questions  which  belonged  to 
the  other  councils,  but  also  the  suggestions  which 
Yiglius  had  made  to  her  in  private,  in  the  same 
way  as  formerly,  under  Granvella’s  administration, 
she  had  improperly  neglected  to  consult  it  at  all. 
Nearly  all  business  and  all  influence  were  now 
diverted  to  the  governors  of  provinces.  All  peti¬ 
tions  were  directed  to  them,  by  them  all  lucrative 
appointments  were  bestowed.  Their  usurpations 
were  indeed  carried  so  far,  that  law  proceedings 
were  withdrawn  from  the  municipal  authorities  of 
the  towns,  and  brought  before  their  own  tribunals. 
The  respectability  of  the  provincial  courts  de¬ 
creased  as  theirs  extended,  and  with  the  respect¬ 
ability  of  the  municipal  functionaries,  the  ad¬ 
ministration  of  justice  and  civil  order  declined. 
The  smaller  courts  soon  followed  the  example  of 
the  government  of  the  country.  The  spirit  which 
ruled  the  Council  of  State  at  Brussels,  soon  dif¬ 
fused  itself  through  the  provinces.  Bribery, 
indulgences,  robbery,  venality  of  justice,  were 
universal  in  the  courts  of  judicature  of  the 
country;  morals  degenerated,  and  the  new  sects 
availed  themselves  of  this  all-pervading  licentious¬ 
ness  to  propagate  their  opinions.  The  religious 
indifference  or  toleration  of  the  nobles,  who  either 
themselves  inclined  to  the  side  of  the  innovators, 
or,  at  least,  detested  the  Inquisition  as  an  instru¬ 
ment  of  despotism,  had  mitigated  the  rigor  of  the 
religious  edicts  ;  and  through  the  letters  of  in¬ 
demnity,  which  were  bestowed  on  many  Protest¬ 
ants,  the  holy  office  was  deprived  of  its  best  vic¬ 
tims.  In  no  way  could  the  nobility  more  agreeably 
announce  to  the  nation  its  present  share  in  the 
government  of  the  country,  than  by  sacrificing  to 
it  the  hated  tribunal  of  the  Inquisition — and  to 
this,  inclination  induced  them  still  more  than  the 
dictates  of  policy.  The  nation  passed,  in  a  mo¬ 
ment,  from  the  most  oppressive  constraint  of  in¬ 
tolerance  into  a  state  of  freedom,  to  which,  howr 
ever,  it  had  already  become  too  unaccustomed  to 
support  it  with  moderation.  The  inquisiU  rs, 
deprived  of  the  support  of  the  municipal  authori¬ 
ties,  found  themselves  an  object  of  derision  rather 
than  of  fear.  In  Bruges,  the  town  council  caused 
even  some  of  their  own  servants  to  be  placed  in 
confinement,  and  kept  on  bread  and  water,  for 
attempting  to  lay  hands  upon  a  supposed  heretic. 
About  this  very  time,  the  mob  in  Antwerp,  having 
made  a  futile  attempt  to  rescue  a  person  charged 
with  heresy  from  the  holy  office,  there  was  pla¬ 
carded  in  the  public  market-place  an  inscription, 
written  in  blood,  to  the  effect  that  a  number  of 
persons  had  bound  themselves  by  oarth  to  avenge 
the  death  of  that  innocent  person. 


50 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


From  flie  corruption  which  pervaded  the  whole 
Council  of  the  State,  the  Privy  Council  and  the 
Chamber  of  Finance,  in  which  Yiglius  and  Barlai- 
mont  were  presidents,  had,  as  yet,  for  the  most 
part  kept  themselves  pure. 

As  the  faction  could  not  succeed  in  insinuating 
their  adherents  into  those  two  councils,  the  only 
course  open  to  them,  was,  if  possible,  to  render 
both  inefficient,  and  to  transfer  their  business  to 
the  Council  of  State.  To  carry  out  this  design, 
the  Prince  of  Orange  sought  to  secure  the  co¬ 
operation  of  the  other  state  counselors.  “They 
were  called,  indeed,  senators,”  he  frequently  de¬ 
clared  to  his  adherents,  “  but  others  possessed  the 
power.  If  gold  was  wanted,  to  pay  the  troops  ;  or 
when  the  question  was,  how  the  spreading  heresy 
was  to  be  repressed,  or  the  people  kept  in  order, 
then  they  were  consulted  ;  although  in  fact  they 
•were  the  guardians,  neither  of  the  treasury,  nor 
of  the  laws,  but  only  the  organs,  through  which 
the  other  two  councils  operated  on  the  state. 
And  yet,  alone,  they  were  equal  to  the  whole 
administration  of  the  country,  which  had  been 
uselessly  portioned  out  amongst  three  separate 
chambers.  If  they  would  among  themselves  only 
agree  to  reunite  to  the  Council  of  State  these  two 
important  branches  of  government,  which  had 
been  dissevered  from  it,  one  soul  might  animate 
the  whole  body.”  A  plan  was  preliminarily  and 
secretly  agreed  on,  in  accordance  with  which 
twelve  new  knights  of  the  Fleece  were  to  be  added 
to  the  Council  of  State,  the  administration  of 
justice  restored  to  the  tribunal  at  Malines,  to 
which  it  originally  belonged,  the  granting  of  letters 
of  grace,  patents,  and  so  forth,  assigned  to  the 
president  Yiglius,  while  the  management  of  the 
finances  should  be  committed  to  it.  All  the  diffi¬ 
culties,  indeed,  which  the  distrust  of  the  court, 
and  its  jealousy  of  the  increasing  power  of  the 
nobility  would  oppose  to  this  innovation,  were 
foreseen  and  provided  against.  In  order  to  con¬ 
strain  the  regent’s  assent,  some  of  the  principal 
officers  of  the  army  were  put  forward  as  a  cloak, 
who  were  to  annoy  the  court  at  Brussels  with 
boisterous  demands  for  their  arrears  of  pay,  and 
in  case  of  a  refusal  to  threaten  a  rebelllion.  It 
was  also  contrived  to  have  the  regent  assailed 
with  numerous  petitions  and  memorials,  complain¬ 
ing  of  the  delays  of  justice,  and  exaggerating  the 
danger,  which  was  to  be  apprehended  from  the 
daily  growth  of  heresy.  Nothing  was  omitted  to 
darken  the  picture  of  the  disorganized  state  of 
society,  of  the  abuse  of  justice,  and  of  the  defi¬ 
ciency  in  the  finances,  which  was  made  so  alarm¬ 
ing  that  she  awoke  with  terror  from  the  delusion 
of  prosperity  in  which  she  had  hitherto  cradled 
herself.  She  called  the  three  councils  together,  to 
consult  them  on  the  means  by  which  these  disorders 
were  to  be  remedied.  The  majority  was  in  favor 
of  sending  an  extraordinary  ambassador  to  Spain, 
who,  by  a  circumstantial  and  vivid  delineation 
should  make  the  king  acquainted  with  the  true 
position  of  affairs,  and  if  possible  prevail  on  him 
to  adopt  efficient  measures  of  reform.  This  pro¬ 
position  was  opposed  by  Yiglius,  who,  however, 
had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  secret  designs 
of  the  faction.  “  The  evil  complained  of,”  he  said, 
“is  undoubtedly  great,  and  one  which  can  no 


longer  be  neglected  with  impunity,  but  it  is  not 
irremediable  by  ourselves.  The  administration  of 
justice  is  certainly  crippled,  but  the  blame  of  this 
lies  with  the  nobles  themselves  ;  by  their  contemp¬ 
tuous  treatment  they  have  thrown  discredit  on  the 
municipal  authorities,  who,  moreover,  are  very 
inadequately  supported  by  the  governors  of  pro¬ 
vinces.  If  heresy  is  on  the  increase,  it  is  because 
the  secular  arm  has  deserted  the  spiritual  judges, 
and  because  the  lower  orders,  following  the  exam¬ 
ple  of  the  nobles,  have  thrown  off  all  respect  for 
those  in  authority.  The  provinces  are  undoubtedly 
oppressed  by  a  heavy  debt,  but  it  has  not  been 
accumulated,  as  alleged,  by  any  malversation  of 
the  revenues,  but  by  the  expenses  of  former  wars 
and  the  king’s  present  exigencies ;  still,  wise  and 
prudent  measures  of  finance  would,  in  a  short 
time,  remove  the  burden.  If  the  Council  of  State 
would  not  be  so  profuse  of  its  indulgences,  its 
charters  of  immunity,  and  its  exemptions ;  if  it 
would  commence  the  reformation  of  morals  with 
itself,  show  greater  respect  to  the  laws,  and  do 
what  lies  in  its  power  to  restore  to  the  municipal 
functionaries  their  former  consideration  ;  in  short, 
if  the  councils  and  the  governors  of  provinces 
would  only  fulfil  their  own  drities,  the  present 
grounds  of  complaint  would  soon  be  removed. 
Why,  then,  send  an  ambassador  to  Spain,  when  as 
yet  nothing  has  occurred  to  justify  so  extraordi¬ 
nary  an  expedient  ?  If,  however,  the  council 
thinks  otherwise,  he  would  not  oppose  the  general 
voice ;  only  he  must  make  it  a  condition  of  his 
concurrence,  that  the  principal  instruction  of  the 
envoy  should  be,  to  intreat  the  king  to  make  them 
a  speedy  visit.” 

There  was  but  one  voice  as  to  the  choice  of  an 
envoy.  Of  all  the  Flemish  nobles,  Count  Egmont 
was  the  only  one  whose  appointment  would  give 
equal  satisfaction  to  both  parties.  His  hatred  of 
the  inquisition,  his  patriotic  and  liberal  sentiments, 
and  the  unblemished  integrity  of  his  character, 
gave  to  the  republic  sufficient  surety  for  his  con¬ 
duct,  while,  for  the  reasons  already  mentioned,  he 
could  not  fail  to  be  welcome  to  the  king.  More¬ 
over,  Egmont’s  personal  figure  and  demeanor  were 
calculated,  on  his  first  appearance,  to  make  that 
favorable  impression  which  goes  so  far  toward 
winning  the  hearts  of  princes ;  and  his  engaging 
carriage  would  come  to  the  aid  of  his  eloquence, 
and  enforce  his  petition  with  those  persuasive  arts, 
which  are  indispensable  to  the  success  of  even  the 
•  most  trifling  suits  to  royalty.  Egmont  himself, 
too,  wished  for  the  embassy,  as  it  would  afford  him 
the  opportunity  of  adjusting,  personally,  matters 
with  his  sovereign. 

About  this  time,  the  Council,  or  rather  Syncd, 
of  Trent  closed  its  sittings,  and  published  its  de¬ 
crees  to  the  whole  of  Christendom.  But  these 
canons,  far  from  accomplishing  the  object  for 
which  the  synod  was  originally  convened,  and 
satisfying  the  expectation  of  religious  parties,  had 
rather  widened  the  breach  between  them,  and 
made  the  schism  irremediable  and  eternal. 

The  labors  of  the  synod,  instead  of  purifying  the 
Romish  Church  from  its  corruptions,  had  only  re¬ 
duced  the  latter  to  greater  definiteness  and  pre¬ 
cision,  and  invested  them  with  the  sanction  of 
authority.  All  the  subtilties  of  its  teaching,  all 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


51 


the  arts  and  usurpations  of  the  Roman  See,  which 
had  hitherto  rested  more  on  arbitrary  usage,  were 
now  passed  into  laws,  and  raised  into  a  system. 
The  uses  and  abuses  which,  during  the  barbarous 
times  of  ignorance  and  superstition,  had  crept 
into  Christianity,  were  now  declared  essential 
parts  of  its  worship,  and  anathemas  were  de¬ 
nounced  upon  all  who  should  dare  to  contradict 
the  dogmas,  or  neglect  the  observances  of  the 
Romish  Communion.  All  were  anathematized 
who  should  either  presume  to  doubt  the  miracu¬ 
lous  power  of  relics,  and  refuse  to  honor  the  bones 
of  martyrs,  or  should  be  so  bold  as  to  doubt  the 
availing  efficacy  of  the  intercession  of  saints.  The 
power  of  granting  indulgences,  the  first  source  of 
the  defection  from  the  See  of  Rome,  was  now  pro¬ 
pounded  in  an  irrefragable  article  of  faith ;  and 
the  principle  of  monasticism  sanctioned  by  an  ex¬ 
press  decree  of  the  synod,  which  allowed  males  to 
take  the  vows  at  sixteen,  and  females  at  twelve. 
And  while  all  the  opinions  of  the  Protestants 
were,  without  exception,  condemned,  no  indul¬ 
gence  was  shown  to  their  errors  or  weaknesses, 
nor  a  single  step  taken  to  win  them  back  by  mild¬ 
ness  to  the  bosom  of  the  mother  church.  Amongst 
the  latter,  the  wearisome  records  of  the  subtle  de¬ 
liberations  of  the  synod,  and  the  absurdity  of  its 
decisions,  increased,  if  possible,  the  hearty  con¬ 
tempt  which  they  had  long  entertained  for  Popery, 
and  laid  open  to  their  controversialists  new  and 
hitherto  unnoticed  points  of  attack.  It  was  an 
ill-judged  step  to  bring  the  mysteries  of  the 
church  too  close  to  the  glaring  torch  of  reason, 
and  to  fight  with  syllogisms  for  the  tenets  of  a 
blind  relief. 

Moreover,  the  decrees  of  the  council  of  Trent 
were  not  satisfactory  even  to  all  the  powers  in 
communion  with  Rome.  France  rejected  them 
entirely,  both  because  she  did  not  wish  to  dis¬ 
please  the  Huguenots,  and  also  because  she  was 
offended  by  the  supremacy  which  the  pope  arro¬ 
gated  to  himself  over  the  council ;  some  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  princes  of  Germany  likewise  de¬ 
clared  against  it.  Little,  however,  as  Philip  II. 
was  pleased  with  many  of  its  articles,  which 
trenched  too  closely  upon  his  own  rights,  for  no 
monarch  was  ever  more  jealous  of  his  prerogative  ; 
highly  as  the  pope’s  assumption  of  control  over 
the  council,  and  its  arbitrary,  precipitate  dissolu¬ 
tion,  had  offended  him  ;  just  as  was  his  indigna¬ 
tion  at  the  slight  which  the  pope  had  put  upon 
his  ambassador;  he  nevertheless  acknowledged 
the  decrees  of  the  synod,  even  in  its  present  form, 
because  it  favored  his  darling  object — the  extir¬ 
pation  of  heresy.  Political  considerations  were 
all  postponed  to  this  one  religious  object,  and  he 
commanded  the  publication  and  enforcement  of 
its  canons,  throughout  his  dominions. 

The  spirit  of  revolt,  which  was  diffused  through 
the  Belgian  provinces,  scarcely  required  this  new 
stimulus.  There  the  minds  of  men  were  in  a  fer¬ 
ment,  and  the  character  of  the  Romish  Church 
had  sunk  almost  to  the  lowest  point  of  contempt 
in  the  general  opinion.  Under  such  circumstances, 
the  imperious,  and  frequently  injudicious,  decrees 
of  the  council,  could  not  fail  of  being  highly  offen¬ 
sive  ;  but  Philip  II.  could  not  belie  his  religious 
character  so  far  as  to  allow  a  different  religion  to 


a  portion  of  his  subjects,  even  though  they  might 
live  on  a  different  soil,  and  under  different  laws 
from  the  rest.  The  regent  was  strictly  enjoined 
to  exact  in  the  Netherlands  the  same  obedience 
to  the  decrees  of  Trent,  which  was  yielded  to  them 
in  Spain  and  Italy. 

They  met,  however,  with  the  warmest  opposi¬ 
tion  in  the  Council  of  State  at  Brussels.  “  The 
nation,”  William  of  Orange  declared,  “neither 
would  nor  could  acknowledge  them,  since  they 
were,  for  the  most  part,  opposed  to  the  funda¬ 
mental  principles  of  their  constitution  ;  and.  for 
similar  reasons,  they  had  even  been  rejected  by 
several  Roman  Catholic  princes.”  The  whole 
council,  nearly,  was  on  the  side  of  Orange  ;  a 
decided  majority  were  for  entreating  the  king 
either  to  recall  the  decrees  entirely,  or,  at  least, 
to  publish  them  under  certain  limitations.  This 
proposition  was  resisted  by  Yiglius,  who  insisted 
on  a  strict  and  literal  obedience  to  the  royal  com¬ 
mands.  “  The  church,”  he  said,  “  had  in  all  ages 
maintained  the  purity  of  its  doctrines,  and  the 
strictness  of  its  discipline,  by  means  of  such 
general  councils.  No  more  efficacious  remedy 
could  be  opposed  to  the  errors  of  opinion  which 
had  so  long  distracted  their  country,  than  these 
very  decrees,  the  rejection  of  which  is  now  urged 
by  the  Council  of  State.  Even  if  they  are  occa¬ 
sionally  at  variance  with  the  constitutional  rights 
of  the  citizens,  this  is  an  evil  which  can  easily 
be  met  by  a  judicious  and  temperate  application 
of  them.  For  the  rest,  it  redounds  to  the  honor 
of  our  sovereign,  the  King  of  Spain,  that  he 
alone,  of  all  the  princes  of  his  time,  refuses  to 
yield  his  better  judgment  to  necessity,  and  will 
not,  for  any  fear  of  consequences,  reject  measures 
which  the  welfare  of  the  church  demands,  and 
which  the  happiness  of  his  subjects  makes  a 
duty.” 

But  the  decrees  also  contained  several  matters 
which  affected  the  rights  of  the  'crown  itself. 
Occasion  was  therefore  taken  of  this  fact,  to 
propose  that  these  sections,  at  least,  should  be 
omitted  from  the  proclamation.  By  this  means, 
the  king  might,  it  was  argued,  be  relieved  from 
these  obnoxious  and  degrading  articles  by  a 
happy  expedient ;  the  national  liberties  of  the 
Netherlands  might  be  advanced  as  the  pretext 
for  the  omission,  and  the  name  of  the  republic 
lent  to  cover  this  encroachment  on  the  authority 
of  the  Synod.  But  the  king  had  caused  the 
decrees  to  be  received  and  enforced  in  his  other 
dominions  unconditionally ;  and  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  he  would  give  the  other  Roman 
Catholic  powers  such  an  example  of  opposition, 
and  himself  undermine  the  edifice  whose  founda¬ 
tion  he  had  been  so  assiduous  in  laying. 


COUNT  EGMONT  IN  SPAIN. 

Count  Egmont  was  dispatched  to  Spain,  to 
make  a  forcible  representation  to  the  king  on  the 
subject  of  these  decrees  ;  to  persuade  him,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  to  adopt  a  milder  policy  toward  his  Pro¬ 
testant  subjects,  and  to  propose  to  him  the  incor¬ 
poration  of  the  three  councils,  was  the  commis¬ 
sion  he  received  from  the  malcontents.  By  the 


52 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


regent,  he  was  charged  to  apprise  the  monarch  of 
the  refractory  spirit  of  the  people  ;  to  convince 
him  of  the  impossibility  of  enforcing  those  edicts 
of  religion  in  their  full  severity  ;  and  lastly,  to 
acquaint  him  with  the  bad  state  of  the  military 
defences,  and  the  exhausted  condition  of  the 
exchequer. 

The  count’s  public  instructions  were  drawn  up 
by  the  President  Viglius.  They  contained  heavy 
complaints  of  the  decay  of  justice,  the  growth  of 
heresy,  and  the  exhaustion  of  the  treasury.  He 
was  also  to  press  urgently  a  personal  visit  from 
the  Kiug  to  the  Netherlands.  The  rest  was  left 
to  the  eloquence  of  the  envoy,  who  received  a 
hint  from  the  regent,  not  to  let  so  fair  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  escape  of  establishing  himself  in  the  favor 
of  his  sovereign. 

The  terms  in  which  the  count’s  instructions,  and 
the  representations  which  he  was  to  make  to  the 
king,  were  drawn  up,  appeared  to  the  Prince  of 
Orange  far  too  vague  and  general.  “The  presi¬ 
dent’s  statement,”  he  said,  “of  our  grievances 
comes  very  far  short  of  the  truth.  How  can  the 
king  apply  the  suitable  remedies,  if  we  conceal 
from  him  the  full  extent  of  the  evil  ?  Let  us  not 
represent  the  numbers  of  the  heretics  inferior  to 
what  it  is  in  reality.  Let  us  candidly  acknow¬ 
ledge  that  they  swarm  in  every  province,  and  in 
every  hamlet,  however  small.  Neither  let  ns  dis¬ 
guise  from  him  the  truth,  that  they  despise  the 
penal  statutes,  and  entertain  but  little  reverence 
for  the  government.  What  good  can  come  of  this 
concealment  ?  Let  us  rather  openly  avow  to  the 
king,  that  the  republic  cannot  long  continue  in 
its  present  condition.  The  Privy  Council,  indeed, 
will  perhaps  pronounce  differently,  for  to  them  the 
existing  disorders  are  welcome.  For  what  else  is 
the  source  of  the  abuse  of  justice,  and  the  uni¬ 
versal  corruption  of  the  courts  of  law,  but  its  in¬ 
satiable  rapacity?  By  what  means  can  the  pomp 
and  scandalous  luxury  of  its  members,  whom  we 
have  seen  rise  from  the  dust,  be  supported,  if  not 
by  bribery?  Do  not  the  people  daily  complain 
that  no  other  key  but  gold  can  open  an  access  to 
them  ;  and  do  not  even  their  quarrels  prove  how 
little  they  are  swayed  by  a  care  for  the  common 
weal  ?  Are  they  likely  to  consult  the  public  good, 
who  are  the  slaves  of  their  private  passions  ?  Do 
they  think,  forsooth,  that  we,  the  governors  of 
the  provinces,  are  with  our  soldiers  to  stand  ready 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  an  infamous  lictor?  Let 
them  set  bounds  to  their  indulgences  and  free 
pardons,  which  they  so  lavishly  bestow  on  the 
very  persons  to  whom  we  think  it  just  and  expe¬ 
dient  to  deny  them.  No  one  can  remit  the  pun¬ 
ishment  of  a  crime,  without  sinning  against  socie¬ 
ty,  and  contributing  to  the  increase  of  the  general 
evil.  To  my  mind,  and  I  have  no  hesitation  to 
avow  it,  the  distribution  amongst  so  many  coun¬ 
cils  of  the  state  secrets,  and  the  affairs  of  govern¬ 
ment,  has  always  appeared  highly  objectionable. 
The  Council  of  State  is  sufficient  for  all  the  duties 
of  the  administration  ;  several  patriots  have  al¬ 
ready  felt  this  in  silence,  and  now  I  openly  declare 
it.  It  is  my  decided  conviction,  that  the  only 
sufficient  remedy  for  all  the  evils  complained  of, 
is  to  merge  the  other  two  chambers  in  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State.  This  is  the  point  which  we  must 


endeavor  to  obtain  from  the  king,  or  the  present 
embassy,  like  all  others,  will  be  entirely  useless 
and  ineffectual.”  The  prince  now  laid  before  the 
assembled  senate  the  plan  which  we  have  already 
described.  Viglius,  against  whom  this  new  pro¬ 
position  was  individually  and  mainly  directed,  and 
whose  eyes  were  now  suddenly  opened,  was  over¬ 
come  by  the  violence  of  his  vexation.  The  agi¬ 
tation  of  his  feelings  was  too  much  for  his  feeble 
body,  and  he  was  found,  on  the  following  morning, 
paralyzed  by  apoplexy,  and  in  danger  of  his  life. 

His  place  was  supplied  by  Jaachim  Hopper,  a 
member  of  the  Privy  Council,  at  Brussels,  a  man 
of  old-fashioned  morals  and  unblamable  integrity, 
the  president’s  most  trusted  and  worthiest  friend.* 
To  meet  the  wishes  of  the  Orange  party,  he  made 
some  additions  to  the  instructions  of  the  ambassa¬ 
dor,  relating  chiefly  to  the  abolition  of  the  Inqui¬ 
sition,  and  the  incorporation  of  the  three  coun¬ 
cils,  not  so  much  with  the  consent  of  the  regent, 
as  in  the  absence  of  her  prohibition.  Upon  Count 
Egmont  taking  leave  of  the  president,  who  had 
recovered  from  his  attack,  the  latter  requested 
him  to  procure  in  Spain,  permission  to  resign  his 
appointment.  His  day,  he  declared,  was  past ; 
like  the  example  of  his  friend  and  predecessor 
Granvella,  he  washed  to  retire  into  the  quiet  of 
private  life,  and  to  anticipate  the  uncertainty  of 
fortune.  His  genius  warned  him  of  impending 
storm,  by  which  he  could  have  no  desire  to  be 
overtaken. 

Count  Egmont  embarked  on  his  journey  to 
Spain,  in  January,  1565,  and  wras  received  there 
with  a  kindness  and  respect  which  none  of  his 
rank  had  ever  before  experienced.  The  nobles 
of  Castile,  taught  by  the  king’s  example  to  con¬ 
quer  their  feelings,  or  rather,  true  to  his  policy, 
seemed  to  have  laid  aside  their  ancient  grudge 
against  the  Flemish  nobility,  and  vied  with  one 
another  in  winning  his  heart  by  their  affability. 
All  his  private  matters  were  immediately  settled 
to  his  wishes  by  the  king,  nay,  even  his  expecta¬ 
tions  exceeded  ;  and  during  the  whole  period  of 
his  stay,  he  had  ample  cause  to  boast  of  the  hos¬ 
pitality  of  the  monarch.  The  latter  assured  him 
in  the  strongest  terms  of  his  love  for  his  Belgian 
subjects,  and  held  out  hopes  of  his  acceding 
eventually  to  the  general  wish,  and  remitting 
somewhat  of  the  severity  of  the  religious  edicts. 
At  the  same  time,  however,  he  appointed  in  Ma¬ 
drid  a  commission  of  theologians,  to  whom  he 
propounded  the  question:  “Is  it  necessary,  to 
grant  to  the  provinces  the  religious  toleration 
they  demand  ?”  As  the  majority  of  them  were 
of  opinion  that  the  peculiar  constitution  of  the 
Netherlands,  and  the  fear  of  a  rebellion,  might 
well  excuse  a  degree  of  forbearance  in  their  case, 
the  question  was  repeated  more  pointedly.  “  He 
did  not  seek  to  know,”  he  said,  “if  he  might  do 
so,  but  if  he  must?”  When  the  latter  question 
was  answered  in  the  negative,  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  kneeling  down  before  a  crucifix,  prayed 

*  Vita  Vigl.  89.  The  person,  from  whose  memoirs 
I  have  already  drawn  so  many  illustrations  of  the  times 
of  this  epoch.  His  subsequent  journey  to  Spain  gave 
rise  to  the  correspondence  between  him  and  the  presi¬ 
dent,  which  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  documents  for 
our  history. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


53 


in  these  words:  “  Almighty  Majesty,  suffer  me  not 
at  any  time  to  fall  so  low  as  to  consent  to  reign 
over  those  who  reject  thee  !”  In  perfect  accord¬ 
ance  with  the  spirit  of  this  prayer,  were  the  mea¬ 
sures  which  he  resolved  to  adopt  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands.  On  the  article  of  religion,  this  monarch 
had  taken  his  resolution  once  forever  ;  urgent  ne¬ 
cessity  might,  perhaps,  have  constrained  him  tem¬ 
porarily  to  suspend  the  execution  of  the  penal 
statutes,  but  never,  formally,  to  repeal  them 
legally,  or  even  to  modify  them.  In  vain  did  Eg- 
mont  represent  to  him  that  the  public  execution 
of  the  heretics  daily  augmented  the  number  of 
their  followers,  while  the  courage  and  even  joy 
with  which  they  met  their  death,  filled  the  specta¬ 
tors  with  the  deepest  admiration,  and  awakened 
in  them  high  opinions  of  a  doctrine  which  could 
make  such  heroes  of  its  disciples.  This  represen¬ 
tation  was  not  indeed  lost  upon  the  king,  but  it 
had  a  very  different  effect  from  what  it  was  in¬ 
tended  to  produce.  In  order  to  prevent  these 
seductive  scenes,  without,  however,  compromising 
the  severity  of  the  edicts,  he  fell  upon  an  expe¬ 
dient,  and  determined  in  future  that  the  execu¬ 
tions  should  take  place  in  private.  The  answer 
of  the  king  on  the  subject  of  the  embassy,  was 
given  to  the  count  in  writing,  and  addressed  to  the 
regent.  The  king,  when  he  granted  him  an 
audience  to  take  leave,  did  not  omit  to  call  him  to 
account  for  his  behavior  to  Grauvella,  and  al¬ 
luded  particularly  to  the  livery  invented  in  deri¬ 
sion  of  the  cardinal.  Egmont  protested  that  the 
whole  affair  had  originated  in  a  convivial  joke, 
and  nothing  was  further  from  their  meaning  than 
to  derogate  in  the  least  from  the  respect  that  was 
due  to  royalty.  “If  he  knew,”  he  said,  “  that  any 
individual  among  them  had  entertained  such  dis¬ 
loyal  thoughts,  he  himself  would  challenge  him  to 
answer  for  it  with  his  life.” 

At  his  departure,  the  monarch  made  him  a  pre¬ 
sent  of  50,000  florins,  and  engaged,  moreover,  to 
furnish  a  portion  for  his  daughter,  on  her  mar¬ 
riage.  He  also  consigned  to  his  care  the  young 
Farnese  of  Parma,  whom,  to  gratify  the  regent 
his  mother,  he  was  sending  to  Brussels.  The  king’s 
pretended  mildness,  and  his  professions  of  regard 
for  the  Belgian  nation,  deceived  the  openhearted 
Fleming.  Happy  in  the  idea  of  being  the  bearer 
of  so  much  felicity  to  his  native  country,  when,  in 
fact,  it  was  more  remote  than  ever,  he  quitted  Mad¬ 
rid,  satisfied  beyond  measure  to  think  of  the  joy 
with  which  the  provinces  would  welcome  the  mes¬ 
sage  of  their  good  king  ;  but  the  opening  of  the 
royal  answer  in  the  Council  of  State  at  Brussels, 
disappointed  all  these  pleasing  hopes.  “  Although 
in  regard  to  the  religious  edicts,”  this  was  its  te¬ 
nor,  “  his  resolve  was  firm  and  immovable,  and  he 
would  rather  lose  a  thousand  lives  than  consent 
to  alter  a  single  letter  of  it ;  still,  moved  by  the 
representations  of  Count  Egmont,  he  was,  on  the 
other  hand,  equally  determined  not  to  leave  any 
gentle  means  untried  to  guard  the  people  against 
the  delusions  of  heresy,  and  so  to  avert  from 
them  that  punishment  which  must  otherwise  in¬ 
fallibly  overtake  them.  As  he  had  now  learned 
from  the  Count,  that  the  principal  source  of  the 
existing  errors  in  the  faith  was  in  the  moral  de¬ 
pravity  of  the  clergy,  the  bad  instruction  and  the 


neglected  education  of  the  young,  he  hereby  em¬ 
powered  the  regent  to  appoint  a  special  commis¬ 
sion  of  three  bishops,  and  a  convenient  number 
of  learned  theologians,  whose  business  it  should 
be  to  consult  about  the  necessary  reforms,  in 
order  that  the  people  might  no  longer  be  led 
astray  through  scandal,  nor  plunge  into  error 
through  ignorance.  As,  moreover,  he  had  been 
informed  that  the  public  executions  of  the  here¬ 
tics  did  but  afford  them  an  opportunity  of  boast¬ 
fully  displaying  a  foolhardy  courage,  and  of  delud¬ 
ing  the  common  herd  by  an  affectation  of  the 
glory  of  martyrdom,  the  commission  was  to  de¬ 
vise  means  for  putting  in  force  the  final  sentence 
of  the  Inquisition  with  greater  secrecy,  and  there¬ 
by  depriving  condemned  heretics  of  the  honor  of 
their  obduracy.”  In  order,  however,  to  provide 
against  the  commission  going  beyond  its  pre¬ 
scribed  limits,  Philip  expressly  required  that  the 
Bishop  of  Ypres,  a  man  whom  he  could  rely  on  as 
a  determined  zealot  for  the  Romish  faith,  should 
be  one  of  the  body.  Their  deliberations  were  to 
be  conducted,  if  possible,  in  secrecy,  while  the 
object  publicly  assigned  to  them  should  be  the  in¬ 
troduction  of  the  Tridentine  decrees.  For  this, 
his  motive  seems  to  have  been  twofold  ;  on  the 
one  hand,  not  to  alarm  the  court  of  Rome  bv  the 
assembling  of  a  private  council ;  nor,  on  the 
other,  to  afford  any  encouragement  to  the  spirit 
of  rebellion  in  the  provinces.  At  its  sessions  the 
duchess  was  to  preside,  assisted  by  some  of  the 
more  loyally  disposed  of  her  counselors,  and  regu¬ 
larly  transmit  to  Philip  a  written  account  of  its 
transactions.  To  meet  her  most  pressing  wants, 
he  sent  her  a  small  supply  in  money,  lie  also 
gave  her  hopes  of  a  visit  from  himself ;  first, 
however,  it  was  necessary  that  the  war  with  the 
Turks,  who  were  then  expected  in  hostile  force 
before  Malta,  should  be  terminated.  As  to  the 
proposed  augmentation  of  the  Council  of  State, 
and  its  union  with  the  Privy  Council  and  Cham¬ 
ber  of  Finance,  it  was  passed  over  in  perfect  si¬ 
lence  :  the  Duke  of  Arschot,  however,  who  is  al¬ 
ready  known  to  us  as  a  zealous  royalist,  obtained 
a  voice  and  seat  in  the  latter.  Yiglius,  indeed, 
was  allowed  to  retire  from  the  Presidency  of  the 
Privy  Council,  but  he  was  obliged,  nevertheless, 
to  continue  to  discharge  its  duties  for  four  more 
years,  because  his  successor,  Carl  Tyssenaque,  of 
the  Council  for  Netherlandish  affairs  in  Madrid, 
could  not  sooner  be  spared. 


SEVERER  RELIGIOUS  EDICTS. — UNIVERSAL  OPPOSI¬ 
TION  OF  THE  NATION. 

Scarcely  was  Egmont  returned,  when  severer 
edicts  against  heretics,  which,  as  it  were,  pursued 
him  from  Spain,  contradicted  the  joyful  tidings 
which  he  had  brought  of  a  happy  change  in  the 
sentiments  of  the  monarch.  They  were  at  the 
same  time  accompanied  with  a  transcript  of  the 
decrees  of  Trent,  as  they  were  acknowledged  in 
Spain,  and  were  now  to  be  proclaimed  in  the 
Netherlands  also  ;  with  it  came  likewise  the  death 
warrants  of  some  Anabaptists  and  other  kinds  of 
heretics.  “The  count  had  been  beguiled,”  Wil¬ 
liam  the  Silent  was  now  heard  to  say,  “  and  do- 


54 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


luded  by  Spanish  cunning.  Self-love  and  vanity 
have  blinded  his  penetration  ;  for  his  own  advan¬ 
tage  he  has  forgotten  the  general  welfare."  The 
treachery  of  the  Spanish  ministry  was  now  ex¬ 
posed,  and  this  dishonest  proceeding  roused  the 
indignation  of  the  noblest  in  the  land.  But  no 
one  felt  it  more  acutely  than  Count  Egmont,  who 
now  perceived  himself  to  have  been  the  tool  of 
Spanish  duplicity,  and  to  have  become  unwit¬ 
tingly  the  betrayer  of  his  own  country.  “  These 
specious  favors  then,"  he  exclaimed  loudly  and 
bitterly,”  were  nothing  but  an  artifice,  to  expose 
me  to  the  ridicule  of  my  fellow-citizens,  and  to 
destroy  my  good  name.  If  this  is  the  fashiou 
after  which  the  king  purposes  to  keep  the  pro¬ 
mises  which  he  made  to  me  in  Spain,  let  who  will 
take  FJTnders ;  for  my  part,  I  will  prove  by  my 
retirement  from  public  business  that  I  have  no 
share  in  this  breach  of  faith.”  In  fact,  the  Spa¬ 
nish  ministry  could  not  have  adopted  a  surer  me¬ 
thod  of  breaking  the  credit  of  so  important  a 
man,  than  by  exhibiting  him  to  his  fellow-citizens, 
who  adored  'him,  as  one  whom  they  had  succeeded 
in  deluding. 

Meanwhile  the  commission  had  been  appointed, 
and  had  unanimously  come  to  the  following  deci¬ 
sion  :  “  Whether  for  the  moral  reformation  of  the 
clergy,  or  for  the  religious  instruction  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  or  for  the  education  of  youth,  such  abundant 
provision  had  already  been  made  in  the  decrees 
of  Trent,  that  nothing  now  was  requisite  but  to 
put  these  decrees  in  force  as  speedily  as  possible. 
The  imperial  edicts  against  the  heretics  already, 
ought  on  no  account  to  be  recalled  or  modified  ; 
the  courts  of  justice,  however,  might  be  secretly 
instructed  to  punish  with  death  none  but  obsti¬ 
nate  heretics  or  preachers,  to  make  a  difference 
between  the  different  sects,  and  to  show  conside¬ 
ration  to  the  age,  rank,  sex,  or  disposition  of  the 
accused.  If  it  were  really  the  case,  that  public 
executions  did  but  inflame  fanaticism,  then,  per¬ 
haps,  the  unheroic,  less  observed,  but  still  equally 
severe  punishment  of  the  galleys,  would  be  well 
adapted  to  bring  down  all  high  notions  of  martyr¬ 
dom.  As  to  the  delinquencies  which  might  have 
arisen  out  of  mere  levity,  curiosity,  and  thought¬ 
lessness,  it  would  perhaps  be  sufficient  to  punish 
them  by  fines,  exile,  or  even  corporal  chastise¬ 
ment.” 

During  these  deliberations,  which,  moreover,  it 
was  requisite  to  submit  to  the  king  at  Madrid, 
and  to  wait  for  the  notification  of  his  approval  of 
them,  the  time  passed  away  unprofitably,  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  against  the  sectaries  being  either  sus¬ 
pended,  or,  at  least,  conducted  very  supinely. 
Since  the  recall  of  Granvella,  the  disunion  which 
prevailed  in  the  higher  councils,  and  from  thence 
had  extended  to  the  provincial  courts  of  justice, 
combined  with  the  mild  feelings  generally  of  the 
nobles  on  the  subject  of  religion,  had  raised  the 
courage  of  the  sects,  and  allowed  free  scope  to 
the  proselyting  mania  of  their  apostles.  The  in¬ 
quisitors,  too,  had  fallen  into  contempt,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  secular  arm  withdrawing  its  sup¬ 
port,  and  in  many  places  even  openly  taking  their 
victims  under  its  protection.  The  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  part  of  the  nation  had  formed  great  expecta¬ 


tions  from  the  decrees  of  the  Synod  of  Trent,  as 
well  as  from  Egmont’s  embassy  to  Spain;  but  in 
the  latter  case,  their  hopes  had  scarcely  been  jus¬ 
tified  by  the  joyous  tidings  which  the  Count  had 
brought  back,  and,  in  the  integrity  of  his  heart, 
left  nothing  undone  to  make  known  as  widely  as 
possible.  The  more  disused  the  nation  had  be¬ 
come  to  severity  in  matters  pertaining  to  religion, 
the  more  acutely  was  it  likely  to  feel  the  sudden 
adoption  of  even  still  more  rigorous  measures. 
In  this  position  of  affairs,  the  royal  rescript  ar¬ 
rived  from  Spain,  in  answer  to  the  proposition  of 
the  bishops  and  the  last  dispatches  of  the  regent. 
“Whatever  interpretation  (such  was  its  tenor) 
Count  Egmont  may  have  given  to  the  king’s 
verbal  communications,  it  had  never,  in  the  re¬ 
motest  manner,  entered  his  mind  to  think  of  al¬ 
tering  in  the  slightest  degree  the  penal  statutes 
which  the  Emperor,  his  father,  had  five-and-thirty 
years  ago  published  in  the  provinces.  These 
edicts  he  therefore  commanded  should  henceforth 
be  carried  rigidly  into  effect,  the  Inquisition 
should  receive  the  most  active  support  from  the 
secular  arm,  and  the  decrees  of  the  Council  of 
Trent  be  irrevocably  and  unconditionally  acknow¬ 
ledged  in  all  the  provinces  of  his  Netherlands. 
He  acquiesced  fully  in  the  opinion  of  the  bishops 
and  canonists,  as  to  the  sufficiency  of  the  Triden¬ 
tine  decrees  as  guides  in  all  points  of  reformation 
of  the  clergy  or  instruction  of  the  people  ;  but 
he  could  not  concur  with  them  as  to  the  mitiga¬ 
tion  of  punishment  which  they  proposed,  in  con¬ 
sideration  either  of  the  age,  sex,  or  character  of 
individuals,  since  he  was  of  opinion  that  his  edicts 
were  in  no  degree  wanting  in  moderation.  To 
nothing,  but  want  of  zeal  and  disloyalty  on  the 
part  of  the  judges,  could  he  ascribe  the  progress 
which  heresy  had  already  made  in  the  country. 
In  future,  therefore,  whoever  among  them  should 
be  thus  wanting  in  zeal,  must  be  removed  from 
his  office,  and  make  room  for  a  more  honest  judge. 
The  Inquisition  ought  to  pursue  its  appointed 
path  firmly,  fearlessly,  and  dispassionately,  with¬ 
out  regard  to  or  consideration  of  human  feelings, 
and  was  to  look  neither  before  nor  behind.  He 
would  always  be  ready  to  approve  of  all  its  mea¬ 
sures,  however  extreme,  if  it  only  avoided  public 
scandal." 

This  letter  of  the  king,  to  which  the  Orange 
party  have  ascribed  all  the  subsequent  troubles 
of  the  Netherlands,  caused  the  most  violent  ex¬ 
citement  amongst  the  state  counselors,  and  the 
expressions  which  in  society  they  either  acciden¬ 
tally  or  intentionally  let  fall  from  them  with  re¬ 
gard  to  it,  spread  terror  and  alarm  amongst  the 
people.  The  dread  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition  re¬ 
turned  with  new  force,  and  with  it  came  fresh  ap¬ 
prehensions  of  the  subversion  of  their  liberties. 
Already  the  people  fancied  they  could  hear  pri¬ 
sons  building,  chains  and  fetters  forging,  and  see 
piles  of  fagots  collecting.  Society  was  occupied 
with  this  one  theme  of  conversation,  and  fear 
kept  no  longer  within  bounds.  Writings  were 
affixed  to  houses  of  the  nobles,  in  which  they 
were  called  upon,  as  formerly  Rome  called  on  her 
Brutus,  to  come  forward  and  save  expiring  free¬ 
dom.  Biting  pasquinades  were  published  agaiust 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


55 


the  new  bishops — tormenters  as  they  were  called; 
the  clergy  were  ridiculed  in  comedies,  and  abuse 
spared  the  throne  as  little  as  the  Romish  See. 

Terrified  by  the  rumors  which  were  afloat,  the 
regent  called  together  all  the  counselors  of  state 
to  consult  them  on  the  course  she  ought  to  adopt 
in  this  perilous  crisis.  Opinion  varied  and  dis¬ 
putes  were  violent.  Undecided  between  fear  and 
duty,  they  hesitated  to  come  to  a  conclusion,  un¬ 
til,  at  last,  the  aged  senator,  Yiglius,  rose  and 
surprised  the  whole  assembly  by  his  opinion.  “It 
would,”  he  said,  “  be  the  height  of  folly  in  us  to 
think  of  promulgating  the  royal  edict  at  the  pre¬ 
sent  moment:  the  king  must  be  informed  of  the 
reception  which,  in  all  probability,  it  will  now 
meet.  In  the  mean  time,  the  inquisitors  must  be 
enjoined  to  use  their  power  with  moderation,  and 
to  abstain  from  severity.”  But  if  these  words  of 
the  aged  president  surprised  the  whole  assembly, 
still  greater  was  the  astonishment  when  the  Prince 
of  Orange  stood  up  and  opposed  his  advice.  “The 
royal  will,”  he  said,  “is  too  clearly  and  too  pre¬ 
cisely  stated  ;  it  is  the  result  of  too  long  and  too 
mature  deliberation  for  us  to  venture  to  delay  its 
execution,  without  bringing  on  ourselves  the  re¬ 
roach  of  the  most  culpable  obstinacy.”  “  That 
take  on  myself,”  interrupted  Yiglius,  “  I  oppose 
myself  to  his  displeasure.  If,  by  this  delay,  we 
purchase  for  him  the  peace  of  the  Netherlands, 
our  opposition  will  eventually  secure  for  us  the 
lasting  gratitude  of  the  king.”  The  regent  al¬ 
ready  began  to  incline  to  the  advice  of  Viglius, 
when  the  prince  vehemently  interposing,  “What,” 
he  demanded,  “  what  have  the  many  representa¬ 
tions  which  we  have  already  made  effected  ?  of 
what  avail  was  the  embassy  we  so  lately  dis¬ 
patched?  Nothing!  And  what  then  do  we  wait 
for  more?  Shall  we,  his  state  counselors,  bring 
upon  ourselves  the  whole  weight  of  his  displeasure, 
by  determining,  at  our  own  peril,  to  render  him  a 
service  for  which  he  will  never  thank  us?”  Un¬ 
decided  and  uncertain,  the  whole  assembly  re¬ 
mained  silent:  but  no  one  had  courage  enough  to 
assent  to  or  reply  to  him.  But  the  prince  had 
appealed  to  the  fears  of  the  regent,  and  these  left 
her  no  choice.  The  consequences  of  her  unfor¬ 
tunate  obedience  to  the  king’s  command  will  soon 
appear.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  by  a  wise 
disobedience  she  had  avoided  these  fatal  conse¬ 
quences,  is  it  clear  that  the  result  would  not  have 
been  the  same  ?  However,  she  had  adopted  the 
most  fatal  of  the  two  counsels;  happen  what 
would,  the  royal  ordinance  was  to  be  promul¬ 
gated.  This  time,  therefore,  faction  prevailed, 
and  the  advice  of  the  only  true  friend  of  the  go¬ 
vernment  who,  to  serve  his.  monarch,  was  ready 
to  incur  his  displeasure,  was  disregarded.  With 
this  session  terminated  the  peace  of  the  regent ; 
from  this  day  the  Netherlands  dated  all  the  trou¬ 
ble  which  uninterruptedly  visited  their  country. 
As  the  counselors  separated,  the  Prince  of 
Orange  said  to  one  who  stood  nearest  to  him, 
“  Now  will  soon  be  acted  a  great  tragedy.”* 

*  The  conduct  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  in  this  meeting 
of  the  Council  has  been  appealed  to  by  historians  of  the 
Spanish  party  as  a  proof  of  his  dishonesty,  and  they  have 
availed  themselves  over  and  over  again  to  blacken  his 
character.  “He,”  say  they,  “who  had,  invariably  up  to 


An  edict,  therefore,  was  issued  to  all  the  gov¬ 
ernors  of  provinces,  commanding  them  rigorously 
to  enforce  the  mandates  of  the  emperor  against 
heretics,  as  well  as  those  which  had  been  passed 
under  the  present  government,  the  decrees  of  the 
Council  of  Trent,  and  those  of  the  episcopal 
commission,  which  had  lately  sat  to  give  all  the 
aid  of  the  civil  force  to  the  Inquisition,  and  also 
to  enjoin  a  similar  line  of  conduct  on  the  officers 
of  government  under  them.  More  effectually  to 
secure  their  object,  every  governor  was  to  select 
from  his  own  council  an  efficient  officer  who 
should  frequently  make  the  circuit  of  the  prov¬ 
ince.  and  institute  strict  inquiries  into  the  obe¬ 
dience  shown  by  the  inferior  officers  to  these  com¬ 
mands,  and  then  transmit  quarterly  to  the  capital 
an  exact  report  of  their  visitation.  A  copy  of 
the  Tridentine  decrees,  according  to  the  Spanish 
original,  was  also  sent  to  the  archbishops  and 
bishops,  with  an  intimation,  that  in  case  of  their 
needing  the  assistance  of  the  secular  power,  the 
governors  of  their  dioceses,  with  their  troops, 
were  placed  at  their  disposal.  Against  these  de- 
crees  no  privilege  was  to  avail ;  however,  the  king 
willed  and  commanded  that  the  particular  territo- 

this  period,  both  by  word  and  deed,  opposed  the  measures 
of  the  court,  so  long  as  he  had  any  ground  to  fear  that 
the  king’s  measures  could  be  successfully  carried  out, 
supported  them  now  for  the  first  time,  when  he  was  con¬ 
vinced  that  a  scrupulous  obedience  to  the  royal  orders 
would  inevitably  prejudice  him.  In  order  to  convince 
the  king  of  his  folly  in  disregarding  his  warnings  ;  in 
order  to  be  able  to  boast,  ‘this  I  foresaw,’  and  ‘I  foretold  . 
that,’  he  was4  willing  to  risk  the  welfare  of  his  nation,  for 
which  alone  he  had  hitherto  professed  to  struggle.  The 
whole  tenor  of  his  previous  conduct  proved  that  he  held 
the  enforcement  of  the  edicts  to  be  an  evil ;  nevertheless, 
he  at  once  becomes  false  to  his  own  convictions,  and  fol¬ 
lows  an  opposite  course;  although,  so  far  as  the  nation 
was  concerned,  the  same  grounds  existed  as  had  dictated 
his  former  measures;  and  he  changed  his  conduct  sim¬ 
ply  that  the  result  might  be  different  to  the  king.”  “It 
is  clear,  therefore,”  continue  his  adversaries,  “  that  the 
welfare  of  the  nation  had  less  weight  with  him  than  his 
animosity  to  his  sovereign.  In  order  to  gratify  his  hatred 
to  the  latter  he  does  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  the  former.” 
But  is  it  then  true,  that  by  calling  for  the  promulgation 
of  these  edicts,  he  sacrificed  the  nation  ?  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  did  he  carry  the  edicts  into  effect  by  in¬ 
sisting  on  their  promulgation  ?  Can  it  not,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  be  shown  with  far  more  probability,  that  this  was 
really  the  only  way  effectually  to  frustrate  them  ?  The 
nation  was  in  a  ferment,  and  the  indignant  people  would 
(there  was  reason  to  expect,  and  as  Viglius  himself  seems 
to  have  apprehended)  show  so  decided  a  spirit  of  opposi¬ 
tion  as  must  compel  the  king  to  yield.  “Now,”  says 
Orange,  “my  country  feels  all  the  impulse  necessary  for 
it  to  contend  successfully  with  tyranny  !  If  I  neglect 
the  present  moment,  the  tyrant  will,  by  secret  negotia¬ 
tion  and  intrigue,  find  means  to  obtain  by  stealth  what 
by  open  force  he  could  not.  The  same  object  will  be 
steadily  pursued,  only  with  greater  caution  and  forbear¬ 
ance  ;  but  extremity  alone  can  combine  the  people  to 
unity  of  purpose,  and  move  them  to  bold  measures.”  It 
is  clear,  therefore,  that,  with  regard  to  the  king,  the 
prince  did  but  change  his  language  only ;  but  that,  as 
far  as  the  people  was  concerned,  his  conduct  was  per¬ 
fectly  consistent.  And  what  duties  did  he  owe  the  king, 
apart  from  those  he  owed  the  republic  ?  Was  he  to  op¬ 
pose  an  arbitrary  act  in  the  very  moment  when  it  was 
about  to  entail  a  just  retribution  on  its  author?  Would 
he  have  done  his  duty  to  his  country,  if  he  had  deterred 
its  oppressor  from  a  precipitate  step,  which  alone  could 
save  it  from  its  otherwise  unavoidable  misery  ? 


56 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


rial  rights  of  the  provinces  and  towns  should  in 
no  case  be  infringed. 

These  commands,  which  were  publicly  read  in 
every  town  by  an  herald,  produced  an  effect  on  the 
people,  which  in  the  fullest  manner  verified  the 
fears  of  the  President  Viglius  and  the  hopes  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange.  Nearly  all  the  governors 
of  provinces  refused  compliances  with  them, 
and  threatened  to  throw  up  their  appointments, 
if  the  attempt  should  be  made  to  compel  their 
obedience.  “  The  ordinance,”  they  wrote  back, 
“  was  based  on  a  statement  of  the  numbers  of 
the  sectaries,  which  was  altogether  false.*  Jus¬ 
tice  was  appalled  at  the  prodigious  crowd  of  vic¬ 
tims  which  daily  accumulated  under  its  hands  ;  to 
destroy  by  the  flames  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  per¬ 
sons  from  their  districts  was  no  commission  for 
them.”  The  inferior  clergy  too,  in  particular, 
were  loud  in  their  outcries  against  the  decrees  of 
Trent,  which  cruelly  assailed  their  ignorance  and 
corruption,  and  which  moreover  threatened  them 
with  a  re  for  01  they  so  much  detested.  Sacrificing 
therefore  the  highest  interests  of  their  church  to 
their  own  private  advantage,  they  bitterly  reviled 
the  decrees  and  the  whole  Council,  and  with  liberal 
hand,  scattered  the  seeds  of  revolt  in  the  minds 
of  the  people.  The  same  outcry  was  now  revived, 
which  the  monks  had  formerly  raised  against  the 
new  bishops.  The  archbishop  of  Cambray  suc¬ 
ceeded  at  last,  but  not  without  great  opposition, 
in  causing  the  decrees  to  be  proclaimed.  It  cost 
more  labor  to  effect  this  in  M alines  and  Utrecht, 
where  the  archbishops  were  at  strife  with  their 
clergy,  who,  as  they  were  accused,  preferred  to 
involve  the  whole  church  in  ruin,  rather  than 
submit  to  a  reformation  of  morals. 

Of  all  the  provinces,  Brabant  raised  its  voice 
the  loudest.  The  states  of  this  province  appealed 
to  their  great  privilege  which  protected  their 
members  from  being  brought  before  a  foreign 
court  of  justice.  They  spoke  loudly  of  the  oath 
by  which  the  king  had  bound  himself  to  observe 
all  their  statutes,  and  of  the  conditions  under 
which  they  alone  had  sworn  allegiance  to  him. 
Louvain,  Antwerp,  Brussels,  and  Herzogenbusch, 
solemnly  protested  against  the  decrees,  and  trans¬ 
mitted  their  protests  in  distinct  memorials  to  the 
regent.  The  latter,  always  hesitating  and  waver¬ 
ing,  too  timid  to  obey  the  king,  and  far  more 
afraid  to  disobey  him,  again  summoned  her  coun¬ 
cil,  again  listened  to  the  arguments  for  and 
against  the  question,  and  at  last,  again  gave  her 
assent  to  the  opinion,  which,  of  all  others,  was 
the  most  perilous  for  her  to  adopt.  A  new  refer¬ 
ence  to  the  king  in  Spain  was  proposed  at  one 
moment;  in  the  next,  that  the  urgency  of  the 

*  The  number  of  the  heretics  was  very  unequally  com¬ 
puted  by  the  two  parties,  according  as  the  interests  and 
passions  of  either  made  its  increase  or  diminution  de¬ 
sirable,  and  the  same  party  often  contradicted  itself,  when 
its  interest  changed.  If  the  question  related  to  new 
measures  of  oppression,  to  the  introduction  of  the  inqui¬ 
sitional  tribunal,  <fec.,  the  numbers  of  the  Protestants 
were  countless  and  interminable.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  question  was  of  lenity  toward  them,  of  ordinances  to 
their  advantage,  they  were  now  reduced  to  such  an  insig¬ 
nificant  number,  that  it  would  not  repay  the  trouble  of 
making  an  innovation  for  this  small  body  of  ill-minded 
people. 


crisis  did  not  admit  of  so  dilatory  a  remedy;  it 
was  necessary  for  the  regent  to  act  on  her  own 
responsibility,  and  either  defy  the  threatening  as¬ 
pect  of  despair,  or  to  yield  to  it  by  modifying  or 
retracting  the  royal  ordinance.  She,  finally,  caused 
the  annals  of  Brabant  to  be  examined,  in  order 
to  discover,  if  possible,  a  precedent  for  the  pres¬ 
ent  case,  in  the  instructions  of  the  first  inquisitcr, 
whom  Charles  Y.  had  appointed  to  the  province. 
These  instructions,  indeed,  did  not  exactly  cor¬ 
respond  with  those  now  given  ;  but  had  not  the 
king  declared  that  he  introduced  no  innova¬ 
tion  ?  This  was  precedent  enough,  and  it  was  de¬ 
clared  that  the  new  edicts  must  also  be  interpreted 
in  accordance  with  old  and  existing  statutes  of 
the  province.  This  explanation  gave,  indeed,  no 
satisfaction  to  the  states  of  Brabant,  who  had 
loudly  demanded  the  entire  abolition  of  the  Inqui¬ 
sition,  but  it  was  an  encouragement  to  the  other 
provinces  t()  make  similar  protests,  and  an  equally 
bold  opposition.  Without  giving  the  duchess 
time  to  decide  upon  their  remonstrances,  they,  on 
their  own  authority,  ceased  to  obey  the  Inquisi¬ 
tion,  and  withdrew  their  aid  from  it.  The  inqui¬ 
sitors,  who  had  so  recently  been  expressly  urged 
to  a  more  rigid  execution  of  their  duties,  now  saw 
themselves  suddenly  deserted  by  the  secular  arm, 
and  robbed  of  all  authority;  while,  in  answer  to 
their  application  for  assistance,  the  court  could 
give  them  only  empty  promises.  The  regent,  by 
thus  endeavoring  to  satisfy  all  parties,  had  dis¬ 
pleased  all. 

During  these  negotiations  between  the  court, 
the  councils,  and  the  states,  a  universal  spirit  of 
revolt  pervaded  the  whole  nation.  Men  began 
to  investigate  the  rights  of  the  subject,  and  to 
scrutinize  the  prerogative  of  kings.  “  The  Neth- 
erlanders  were  not  so  stupid,”  many  were  heard  to 
say,  with  very  little  attempt  at  secrecy,  “  as  not 
to  know  right  well  what  was  due  from  the  subject 
to  the  sovereign,  and  from  the  king  to  the  sub¬ 
ject  ;  and  that,  perhaps,  means  would  yet  be 
found  to  repel  force  with  force,  although  at  pres¬ 
ent  there  might  be  no  appearance  of  it.”  In 
Antwerp,  a  placard  was  set  up  in  several  places, 
calling  upon  the  town  council  to  accuse  the  King 
of  Spain  before  the  supreme  court,  at  Spires,  of 
having  broken  his  oath,  and  violated  the  liberties 
of  the  country,  for  Brabant,  being  a  portion  of 
the  Burgundian  circle,  was  included  in  the  reli¬ 
gious  peace  of  Passua  and  Augsburg.  About 
this  time,  too,  the  Calvinists  published  their  con¬ 
fession  of  faith,  and  in  a  preamble,  addressed  to 
the  king,  declared  that  they,  although  a  hundred 
thousand  strong,  kept  themselves,  nevertheless, 
quiet,  and  like  the  rest  of  his  subjects,  contri¬ 
buted  to  all  the  taxes  of  the  country  ;  from  which 
it  was  evident,  they  added,  that  of  themselves 
they  entertained  no  ideas  of  insurrection.  Bold 
and  incendiary  writings  were  publicly  dissemi¬ 
nated,  which  depicted  the  Spanish  tyranny  in 
the  most  odious  colors,  and  reminded  the  nation 
of  its  privileges,  and  occasionally  also  of  its 
powers.* 

&  The  regent  mentioned  to  the  king  a  number  (3,000) 
of  these  writings.  Strada  117.  It  is  remarkable  how 
important  a  part  printing,  and  publicity  in  general, 


I 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS.  57 


The  warlike  preparations  of  Philip  against  the 
Po  rte,  as  well  as  those  which,  for  no  intelligible 
reason,  Eric,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  about  this  time 
made  in  the  vicinity,  contributed  to  strengthen 
the  general  suspicion  that  the  Inquisition  was  to 
be  forcibly  imposed  on  the  Netherlands.  Many 
of  the  most  eminent  merchants  already  spoke  of 
quitting  their  houses  and  business,  to  seek  in 
some  other  part  of  the  world  the  liberty  of  which 
they  were  here  deprived ;  others  looked  about  for 
a  leader,  and  let  fall  hints  of  forcible  resistance 
and  of  foreign  aid. 

That,  in  this  distressing  position  of  affairs,  the 
regent  might  be  left  entirely  without  an  adviser 
and  without  support,  she  was  now  deserted  by  the 
only  person  who  was  at  the  present  moment  in¬ 
dispensable  to  her,  and  who  had  contributed  to 
plunge  her  into  this  embarrassment.  “Without 
kindling  a  civil  war,”  wrote  to  her  William  of 
Orange,  “it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  comply 
now  with  the  orders  of  the  king.  If,  however, 
obedieuce  was  to  be  insisted  upon,  he  must  beg 
that  his  place  might  be  supplied  by  another,  who 
would  better  answer  the  expectations  of  his 
majesty,  and  have  more  power  than  he  had  over 
the  minds  of  the  nation.  The  zeal  which  on  every 
other  occasion  he  had  shown  in  the  service  of  the 
crown,  would,  he  hoped,  secure  his  present  pro¬ 
ceeding  from  misconstruction ;  for,  as  the  case 
now  stood,  he  had  no  alternative  between  diso¬ 
beying  the  king,  and  injuring  his  country  and 
himself.”  From  this  time  forth,  William  of  Or¬ 
ange  retired  from  the  Council  of  State  to  his  town 
of  Breda,  where,  in  observant  but  scarcely  inac¬ 
tive  repose,  he  watched  the  course  of  affairs. 
Count  Horn  followed  his  example.  Egmont,  ever 
vacillating  between  the  republic  and  the  throne, 
ever  wearying  himself  in  the  vain  attempt  to  unite 
the  good  citizen  with  the  obedient  subject — Eg¬ 
mont,  who  was  less  able  than  the  rest  to  dispense 
with  the  favor  of  the  monarch,  and  to  whom, 
therefore,  it  was  less  an  object  of  indifference, 
could  not  bring  himself  to  abandon  the  bright 
prospects  which  were  now  opening  for  him  at  the 
court  of  the  regent.  The  Prince  of  Orange  had, 
by  his  superior  intellect,  gained  an  influence  over 
the  regent  which  great  minds  cannot  fail  to  com¬ 
mand  from  inferior  spirits.  His  retirement  had 
opened  a  void  in  her  confidence,  which  Count 
Egmont  was  now  to  fill  by  virtue  of  that  sympa¬ 
thy  which  so  naturally  subsists  between  timidity, 
weakness,  and  good  nature.  As  she  was  as  much 
afraid  of  exasperating  the  people  by  an  exclusive 
confidence  in  the  adherents  of  the  crown,  as  she 
was  fearful  of  displeasing  the  king  by  too  close 
an  understanding  with  the  declared  leaders  of  the 
faction,  a  better  object  for  her  confidence  could 
now  hardly  be  presented,  than  this  very  Count 
Egmont,  of  whom  it  could  not  be  said  that  he  be¬ 
longed  to  either  of  the  two  conflicting  parties. 

played  in  the  rebellion  of  the  Netherlands.  Through  this 
organ,  one  restless  spirit  spoke  to  millions.  Beside  the 
lampoons,  which  for  the  most  part  were  composed  with 
all  the  low  scurrility  and  brutality,  which  was  the  distin¬ 
guishing  character  of  most  of  the  Protestant  polemical 
writings  of  the  time,  works  were  occasionally  published 
which  defended  religious  liberty  in  the  fullest  sense  of 
the  word. 


BOOK  III. 

CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  NOBLES. 

(1565.)  Up  to  this  point  the  general  peace  had, 
it  appears,  been  the  sincere  wish  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  the  Counts  Egmont  and  Horn,  and  their 
friends.  They  had  pursued  the  true  interest  of 
their  sovereign  as  much  as  the  general  weal  ;  at 
least  their  exertions  and  their  actions  had  been 
as  little  at  variance  with  the  former  as  with  the 
latter.  Nothing  had  as  yet  occurred  to  make 
their  motives  suspected,  or  to  manifest  in  them  a 
rebellious  spirit.  What  they  had  done,  they  had 
done  in  discharge  of  their  bounden  duty  as  mem¬ 
bers  of  a  free  state,  as  the  representatives  of  the 
nation,  as  advisers  of  the  king,  as  men  of  integ¬ 
rity  and  honor.  The  only  weapons  they  had  used 
to  oppose  the  encroachments  of  the  court  had 
been  remonstrances,  modest  complaints,  petitions. 
They  had  never  allowed  themselves  to  be  so  far 
carried  away  by  a  just  zeal  for  their  good  cause, 
as  to  transgress  the  limits  of  prudence  and  mode¬ 
ration,  which,  on  many  occasions,  are  so  easily 
overstepped  by  party  spirit.  But  all  the  nobles 
of  the  republic  did  not  now  listen  to  the  voice  of 
that  prudence  ;  all  did  not  abide  within  the  bounds 
of  moderation. 

While  in  the  Council  of  State  the  great  ques¬ 
tion  was  discussed,  whether  the  nation  was  to  be 
miserable  or  not,  while  its  sworn  deputies  sum¬ 
moned  to  their  assistance  all  the  arguments  of 
reason  and  of  equity,  and  while  the  middle  classes 
and  the  people  contented  themselves  with  empty 
complaints,  menaces,  and  curses,  that  part  of  the 
nation  which  of  all  seemed  least  called  upon,  and 
on  whose  support  least  reliance  had  been  placed, 
began  to  take  more  active  measures.  We  have 
already  described  a  class  of  the  nobility  whose 
services  and  wants  Philip,  at  his  accession,  had 
not  considered  it  necessary  to  remember.  Of 
these,  by  far  the  greater  number  had  asked  for 
promotion  from  a  much  more  urgent  reason  than 
a  love  of  the  mere  honor.  Many  of  them  were 
deeply  sunk  in  debt,  from  which,  by  their  own 
resources,  they  could  not  hope  to  emancipate 
themselves.  When  then,  in  filling  up  appoint¬ 
ments,  Philip  passed  them  over,  he  wounded  them 
in  a  point  far  more  sensitive  than  their  pride.  In 
these  suitors  he  had,  by  his  neglect,  raised  up  so 
many  idle  spies  and  merciless  judges  of  his  ac¬ 
tions,  so  many  collectors  and  propagators  of 
malicious  rumor.  As  their  pride  did  not  quit 
them  with  their  prosperity,  so  now,  driven  by 
necessity,  they  trafficked  with  the  sole  capital, 
which  they  could  not  alienate — their  nobility,  and 
the  political  influence  of  their  names ;  and  brought 
into  circulation  a  coin,  which  only  in  such  a  pe¬ 
riod  could  have  found  currency — their  protection. 
With  a  self-pride,  to  which  they  gave  the  more 
scope  as  it  was  all  they  could  now  call  their  own, 
they  looked  upon  themselves  as  a  strong  interme¬ 
diate  power  between  the  sovereign  and  the  citi¬ 
zen,  and  believed  themselves  called  upon  to  hasten 
to  the  rescue  of  the  oppressed  state,  which  looked 
imploringly  to  them  for  succor.  This  idea  was 
ludicrous  only  so  far  as  their  self-conceit  was 
concerned  in  it ;  the  advantages  which  they  con- 


68 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


trived  to  draw  from  it  were  substantial  enough. 
The  Protestant  merchants,  who  held  in  their 
hands  the  chief  part  of  the  wealth  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  and  who  believed  they  could  not,  at  any 
price,  purchase  too  dearly  the  undisturbed  exer¬ 
cise  of  their  religion,  did  not  fail  to  make  use  of 
this  class  of  people,  who  stood  idle  in  the  market 
and  ready  to  be  hired.  These  very  men,  whom, 
at  any  other  time,  the  merchants,  in  the  pride  of 
riches,  would  most  probably  have  looked  down 
upon,  now  appeared  likely  to  do  them  good  ser¬ 
vice  through  their  numbers,  their  courage,  their 
credit  with  the  populace,  their  enmity  to  the 
government,  nay,  through  their  beggarly  pride 
itself  and  their  despair.  On  these  grounds,  they 
zealously  endeavored  to  form  a  close  union  with 
them,  and  diligently  fostered  the  disposition  for 
rebellion,  while  they  also  used  every  means  to 
keep  alive  their  high  opinions  of  themselves,  and 
what  was  most  important,  lured  their  poverty  by 
well-applied  pecuniary  assistance  and  glittering 
promises.  Few  of  them  were  so  utterly  insignifi¬ 
cant  as  not  to  possess  some  influence,  if  not  per¬ 
sonally,  yet  at  least  by  their  relationship  with 
higher  and  more  powerful  nobles  ;  and  if  united, 
they  would  be  able  to  raise  a  formidable  voice 
against  the  crown.  Many  of  them  had  either 
already  joined  the  new  sect,  or  were  secretly 
inclined  to  it ;  and  even  those  who  were  zealous 
Roman  Catholics,  had  political  or  private  grounds 
enough  to  set  them  against  the  decrees  of  Trent 
and  the  Inquisition.  All,  in  fine,  felt  the  call  of 
vanity  sufficiently  powerful,  not  to  allow  the  only 
moment  to  escape  them  in  which  they  might  pos¬ 
sibly  make  some  figure  in  the  republic. 

But  much  as  might  be  expected  from  the  co¬ 
operation  of  these  men  in  a  body,  it  would  have 
been  futile  and  ridiculous  to  build  any  hopes  on 
any  one  of  them  singly ;  and  the  great  difficulty 
was  to  effect  a  union  among  them.  Even  to  bring 
them  together,  some  unusual  occurrence  was  ne¬ 
cessary;  and,  fortunately,  such  an  incident  pre¬ 
sented  itself.  The  nuptials  of  Baron  Montigny, 
one  of  the  Belgian  nobles,  as  also  those  of  the 
Prince  Alexander  of  Parma,  which  took  place 
about  this  time  in  Brussels,  assembled  in  that 1 
town  a  great  number  of  the  Belgian  nobles.  On 
this  occasion,  relations  met  relations  ;  new  friend¬ 
ships  were  formed,  and  old  renewed  ;  and  while 
the  distress  of  the  country  was  the  topic  of  con¬ 
versation,  wine  and  mirth  unlocked  lips  and  hearts, 
hints  were  dropped  of  union  among  themselves, 
and  of  an  alliance  with  foreign  powers.  These 
accidental  meetings  soon  led  to  concealed  ones, 
and  public  discussions  gave  rise  to  secret  consul¬ 
tations.  Two  German  barons,  moreover,  a  Count 
of  Holle  and  of  Schwarzenberg,  who  happened  at 
this  time  to  be  on  a  visit  to  the  Netherlands, 
omitted  nothing  to  awaken  expectations  of  assist¬ 
ance  from  their  neighbors.  Count  Louis  of 
Nassau,  too,  had  also,  a  short  time  before,  visited 
several  German  courts  to  ascertain  their  senti¬ 
ments.*  It  has  even  been  asserted,  that  secret 

It  was  not  without  cause,  that  the  Prince  of  Orange 
suddenly  disappeared  from  Brussels  in  order  to  be  present 
at  the  election  of  a  king  of  Rome  in  Frankfort.  An 
assembly  of  so  many  German  princes  must  have  greatly 
favored  a  negotiation. 


emissaries  of  the  admiral  Coligny  were  seen  at 
this  time  in  Brabant ;  but  this,  however,  may  be 
reasonably  doubted. 

If  ever  a  political  crisis  was  favorable  to  an  at¬ 
tempt  at  revolution,  it  was  the  present.  A  woman 
at  the  helm  of  government ;  the  governors  of  pro¬ 
vinces  disaffected  themselves,  and  disposed  to 
wink  at  insubordination  in  others  ;  most  of  the 
state  counselors  quite  inefficient  ;  no  army  to 
fall  back  upon  ;  the  few  troops  there  were  long 
since  discontented  on  account  of  the  outstanding 
arrears  of  pay,  and  already  too  often  deceived  by 
false  promises  to  be  enticed  by  new ;  commanded, 
moreover,  by  officers  who  despised  the  Inquisition 
from  their  hearts,  and  would  have  blushed  to  draw 
a  sword  in  its  behalf ;  and  lastly,  no  money  in  the 
treasury  to  enlist  new  troops  or  to  hire  foreigners. 
The.  court  at  Brussels,  as  well  as  the  three  coun¬ 
cils,  ndt  only  divided  by  internal  dissensions,  but 
in  the  highest  degree  venal  and  corrupt ;  the 
regent  without  full  powers  to  act  on  the  spot,  and 
the  king  at  a  distance  ;  his  adherents  in  the  pro¬ 
vinces  few,  uncertain,  and  dispirited  ;  the  faction 
numerous  and  powerful  ;  two-thirds  of  the  people 
irritated  against  popery  and  desirous  of  a  change 
■ — such  was  the  unfortunate  weakness  of  the  gov¬ 
ernment,  and  the  more  unfortunate  still  that  this 
weakness  was  so  well  known  to  its  enemies  ! 

In  order  to  unite  so  many  minds  in  the  prose¬ 
cution  of  a  common  object,  a  leader  was  still 
wanting,  and  a  few  influential  names,  to  give 
political  weight  to  their  enterprise.  The  two 
were  supplied  by  Count  Louis  of  Nassau,  and 
Henry  Count  Brederode,  both  members  of  the 
most  illustrious  houses  of  the  Belgian  nobility, 
who  voluntarily  placed  themselves  at  the  head  of 
the  undertaking.  Louis  of  Nassau,  brother  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  united  many  splendid 
qualities,  which  made  him  worthy  of  appearing  on 
so  noble  and  important  a  stage.  In  Geneva, 
where  he  had  studied,  he  had  imbibed  at  once  a 
hatred  to  the  hierarchy,  and  a  love  to  the  new  re¬ 
ligion  ;  and  on  his  return  to  his  native  country, 
had  not  failed  to  enlist  proselytes  to  his  opinions. 
The  republican  bias  which  his  mind  had  received 
1  in  that  school,  kindled  in  him  a  bitter  hatred  of  all 
that  bore  the  Spanish  name,  which  animated  his 
whole  conduct,  and  only  left  him  with  his  latest 
breath.  Popery  and  Spanish  rule  were  in  his 
mind  identical,  as  indeed  they  were  in  reality  ;  and 
the  abhorrence  which  he  entertained  for  the  one, 
helped  to  strengthen  his  dislike  to  the  other. 
Closely  as  the  brothers  agreed  in  their  inclinations 
and  aversions,  the  ways  by  which  each  sought  to 
gratify  them  were  widely  dissimilar.  Youth  and 
an  ardent  temperament  did  not  allow  the  younger 
brother  to  follow  the  tortuous  course  through 
which  the  elder  wound  himself  to  his  object.  A 
cold,  calm  circumspection  carried  the  latter 
slowly,  but  surely,  to  his  aim  ;  and  with  a  pliable 
subtilty  he  made  all  things  subserve  his  purpose  ; 
with  a  fool-hardy  impetuosity,  which  overthrew  all 
obstacles,  the  other  at  times  compelled  success, 
but  often  accelerated  disaster.  For  this  reason, 
William  was  a  general,  and  Louis  never  more 
than  an  adventurer;  a  sure  and  powerful  arm,  if 
only  it  were  directed  by  a  wise  head.  Louis’s 
pledge  once  given  was  good  for  ever ;  his  alliances 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


59 


survived  every  vicissitude,  for  they  were  mostly 
formed  in  the  pressing  moment  of  necessity,  and 
misfortune  binds  more  firmly  than  thoughtless  joy. 
He  loved  his  brother  as  dearly  as  he  did  his  cause, 
and  for  the  latter  he  died. 

Henry  of  Brederode,  Baron  of  Yiane,  and  Bur- 
grave  of  Utrecht,  was  descended  from  the  old 
Butch  counts,  who  formerly  ruled  that  province  as 
sovereign  princes.  So  ancient  a  title  endeared 
him  to  the  people,  amoug  whom  the  memory  of 
their  former  lords  still  survived  and  was  the  more 
treasured,  the  less  they  felt  they  had  gained  by  the 
change.  This  hereditary  splendor  increased  the 
self-conceit  of  a  man  upon  whose  tongue  the  glory 
of  his  ancestors  continually  hung,  and  who  dwelt 
the  more  on  former  greatness  even  amidst  its  ruins, 
the  more  unpromising  the  aspect  of  his  own  con¬ 
dition  became.  Excluded  from  the  honors  and 
employments  to  which*  in  his  opinion,  his  own 
merits  and  his  noble  ancestry  fully  entitled  him, 
(a  squadron  of  light  cavalry  being  all  which  was 
intrusted  to  him,)  he  hated  the  government,  and 
did  not  scruple  boldly  to  canvass  and  to  rail  at 
its  measures.  By  these  means,  he  won  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  He  also  favored  in  secret  the  evan¬ 
gelical  belief ;  less,  however,  as  a  conviction  of  his 
better  reason,  than  as  an  opposition  to  the  govern¬ 
ment.  With  more  loquacity  than  eloquence,  and 
more  audacity  than  courage,  he  was  brave  rather 
from  not  believing  in  danger,  than  from  being 
superior  to  it.  Louis  of  Nassau  burned  for  the 
cause  which  he  defended,  Brederode  for  the  glory 
of  being  its  defender;  the  former  was  satisfied  in 
acting  for  his  party ;  the  latter  discontented  if  he 
did  not  stand  at  its  head.  No  one  was  more  fit  to 
lead  off  the  dance  in  a  rebellion,  but  it  could  hardly 
have  a  worse  ballet-master.  Contemptible  as  his 
threatened  designs  really  were,  the  illusion  of  the 
multitude  might  have  imparted  to  them  weight  and 
terror,  if  it  had  occurred  to  them  to  set  up  a  pre¬ 
tender  in  his  person.  His  claim  to  the  possessions 
of  his  ancestors  was  an  empty  name ;  but  even  a 
name  was  now  sufficient  for  the  general  disaffec¬ 
tion  to  rally  round.  A  pamphlet,  which  was  at 
the  time  disseminated  amongst  the  people,  openly 
called  him  the  heir  of  Holland,  and  his  engraved 
portrait,  which  was  publicly  exhibited,  bore  the 
boastful  inscription  : — • 

Sum  Brederodus  ego,  Batavse  non  infirna  gentis 
Gloria,  virtutem  non  unica  pagina  claudit. 

(1565.)  Besides  these  two,  there  were  others 
also  from  among  the  most  illustrious  of  the 
Flemish  nobles — the  young  Count  Charles  of 
Mansfeld,  a  son  of  that  nobleman,  whom  we  have 
found  among  the  most  zealous  royalists,  the 
Count  Kuilemburg,  two  Counts  of  Bergen  and  of 
Battenburg,  John  of  Marnix,  Baron  of  Thoulouse, 
Philip  of  Marnix,  Baron  of  St.  Aldegonde,  with 
several  others,  who  joined  the  league,  which  about 
the  middle  of  November,  in  the  year  1565,  was 
formed  at  the  house  of  Von  Hammes,  king  at 
arms  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  Here  it  was  that  six 
men  decided  the  destiny  of  their  country,  (as 
formerly  a  few  confederates  consummated  the 
liberty  of  Switzerland,)  kindled  the  torch  of  a 
forty  years’  war,  and  laid  the  basis  of  a  freedom 
which  they  themselves  were  never  to  enjoy.  The  i 


objects  of  the  league  were  set  forth  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  declaration,  to  which  Philip  of  Marnix  was 
the  first  to  subscribe  his  name.  “  Whereas  cer¬ 
tain  ill-disposed  persons,  under  the  mask  of  a 
pious  zeal,  but  in  reality  under  the  impulse  of 
avarice  and  ambition,  have  by  their  evil  counsels 
persuaded  our  most  gracious  sovereign  the  king, 
to  introduce  into  these  countries  the  abominable 
tribunal  of  the  Inquisition — a  tribunal  diametri¬ 
cally  opposed  to  all  laws  human  and  divine,  and 
in  cruelty  far  surpassing  the  barbarous  institutions 
of  heathenism — which  raises  the  inquisitors  above 
every  other  power,  and  debases  man  to  a  perpetual 
bondage,  and  by  its  snares  exposes  the  honest 
citizen  to  a  constant  fear  of  death,  inasmuch  as 
any  one  (priest,  it  may  be,  or  a  faithless  friend,  a 
Spaniard  or  a  reprobate,)  has  it  in  his  power,  at 
any  moment,  to  cause  whom  he  will  to  be  dragged 
before  that  tribunal,  to  be  placed  in  confinement, 
condemned  and  executed,  without  the  accused 
ever  being  allowed  to  face  his  accuser,  or  to 
adduce  proof  of  his  innocence — we,  therefore,  the 
undersigned,  have  bound  ourselves  to  watch  over 
the  safety  of  our  families,  our  estates,  and  our 
own  persons.  To. this  we  hereby  pledge  ourselves, 
and  to  this  end  bind  ourselves  as  a  sacred  fra¬ 
ternity,  and  vow  with  a  solemn  oath,  to  oppose  to 
the  best  of  our  power  the  introduction  of  this 
tribunal  into  these  countries,  whether  it  be  at¬ 
tempted  openly  or  secretly,  and  under  whatever 
name  it  may  be  disguised.  We  at  the  same  time 
declare,  that  we  are  far  from  intending  any  thing 
unlawful  against  the  king  our  sovereign  ;  rather 
is  it  our  unalterable  purpose  to  support  and 
defend  the  royal  prerogative,  and  to  maintain 
peace,  and,  as  far  as  lies  in  our  power,  to  put 
down  all  rebellion.  In  accordance  with  this  pur¬ 
pose,  we  have  sworn,  and  now  again  swear,  to  hold 
sacred  the  government,  and  to  respect  it  both  in 
word  and  deed,  which  witness  Almighty  God ! 

“  Further,  we  vow  and  swear  to  protect  and 
defend  one  another,  in  all  times,  and  places, 
against  all  attacks  whatsoever  touching  the 
articles  which  are  set  forth  in  this  covenant.  We 
hereby  bind  ourselves,  that  no  accusation  of  any 
of  our  followers,  in  whatever  name  it  may  be 
clothed,  whether  rebellion,  sedition,  or  otherwise, 
shall  avail  to  annul  our  oath  toward  the  accused, 
or  absolve  us  from  our  obligation  toward  him. 
No  act  which  is  directed  against  the  Inquisition, 
can  deserve  the  name  of  a  rebellion.  Whoever, 
therefore,  shall  be  placed  in  arrest  on  any  such 
charge,  we  here  pledge  ourselves  to  assist  him  to 
the  utmost  of  our  ability,  and  to  endeavor  by 
every  allowable  means  to  effect  his  liberation.  In 
this,  however,  as  in  all  matters,  but  especially  in 
the'conduct  of  all  measures  against  the  tribunal 
of  the  Inquisition,  we  submit  ourselves  to  the 
general  regulations  of  the  league,  or  to  the  deci¬ 
sion  of  those  whom  we  may  unanimously  appoint 
our  counselors  and  leaders. 

“  In  witness  hereof,  and  in  confirmation  of  this 
our  common  league  and  covenant,  we  call  upon 
the  holy  name  of  the  living  God,  maker  of  heaven 
and  earth,  and  of  all  that  are  therein,  who 
searches  the  hearts,  the  consciences,  and  the 
thoughts,  and  knows  the  purity  of  ours.  We  im- 
i  plore  the  aid  of  his  Holy  Spirit,  that  success  and 


60 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS, 


honor  may  crown  our  undertaking  to  the  glory 
of  his  name,  and  to  the  peace  and  blessing  of  our 
country !” 

This  covenant  was  immediately  translated  into 
several  languages,  and  quickly  disseminated 
through  the  provinces.  To  swell  the  league  as 
speedily  as  possible,  each  of  the  confederates 
assembled  all  his  friends,  relations,  adherents,  and 
retainers.  Great  banquets  were  held,  which  lasted 
whole  days — irresistible  temptations  for  a  sensual 
luxurious  people,  in  whom  the  deepest  wretched¬ 
ness  could  not  stifle  the  propensity  for  voluptuous 
living.  Whoever  repaired  to  these  banquets,  and 
every  one  was  welcome,  was  plied  with  officious 
assurances  of  friendship,  and  when  heated  with 
wine,  carried  away  by  the  example  of  numbers, 
and  overcome  by  the  fire  of  a  wild  eloquence. 
The  hands  of  many  were  guided  while  they  sub¬ 
scribed  their  signatures ;  the  hesitating  were 
derided,  the  pusillanimous  threatened,  the  scruples 
of  loyalty  clamored  down  ;  some  even  were  quite 
ignorant  what  they  were  signing,  and  wrere 
ashamed  afterward  to  inquire.  To  many  whom 
mere  levity  had  brought  to  the  entertainment,  the 
general  enthusiasm  left  no  choice,  while  the  splen¬ 
dor  of  the  confederacy  allured  the  mean,  and  its 
numbers  encouraged  the  timorous.  The  abettors 
of  the  league  had  not  scrupled  at  the  artifice  of 
counterfeiting  the  signature  and  seals  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  Counts  Egmont,  Horn,  Megen, 
and  others,  a  trick  which  won  them  hundreds  of 
adherents.  This  was  done  especially  with  a  view 
of  influencing  the  officers  of  the  army,  in  order  to 
be  safe  in  this  quarter,  if  matters  should  come  at 
last  to  violence.  The  device  succeeded  with  many, 
especially  with  subalterns,  and  Count  Brederode 
even  drew  his  sword  upon  an  ensign  who  wished 
time  for  consideration.  Men  of  all  classes  and 
conditions  signed  it.  Religion  made  no  difference. 
Roman  Catholic  priests  even  were  associates  of 
the  league.  The  motives  were  not  the  same  with 
all,  but  the  pretext  was  similar.  The  Roman 
Catholics  desired  simply  the  abolition  of  the  In¬ 
quisition,  and  a  mitigation  of  the  edicts ;  the 
Protestants  aimed  at  unlimited  freedom  of  con¬ 
science.  A  few  daring  spirits  only  entertained  so 
bold  a  project  as  the  overthrow  of  the  present  go¬ 
vernment,  while  the  needy  and  indigent  based  the 
vilest  hopes  on  a  general  anarchy.  A  farewell 
entertainment,  which  about  this  very  time  was 
given  to  the  Counts  Schwarzenberg  and  Holle,  in 
Breda,  and  another  shortly  afterwards  in  Hog- 
straten,  drew  many  of  the  principal  nobility  to 
these  two  places,  and  of  these  several  had  already 
signed  the  covenant.  The  Prince  of  Orange, 
Counts  Egmont,  Horn,  and  Megeu  were  present 
at  the  latter  banquet,  but  without  any  concert  or 
design,  and  without  having  themselves  any  share 
in  the  league,  although  one  of  Egmont’s  own  sec¬ 
retaries,  and  some  of  the  servants  of  the  other 
three  noblemen  had  openly  joined  it.  At  this 
entertainment,  three  hundred  persons  gave  in 
their  adhesion  to  the  covenant,  and  the  question 
was  mooted  whether  the  whole  body  should  pre¬ 
sent  themselves  before  the  regent  armed  or  un¬ 
armed,  with  a  declaration,  or  with  a  petition  ? 
Horn  and  Orange  (Egmontwould  not  countenance 
the  business  in  any  way)  were  called  in  as  arbiters 


upon  this  point,  and  they  decided  in  favor  of  the 
more  moderate  and  submissive  procedure.  By 
taking  this  office  upon  them,  they  exposed  them¬ 
selves  to  the  charge  of  having  in  no  very  covert 
manner  lent  their  sanction  to  the  enterprise  of  the 
confederates.  In  compliance,  therefore,  with  their 
advice,  it  was  determined  to  present  their  address 
unarmed,  and  in  the  form  of  a  petition,  and  a  day 
was  appointed,  on  which  they  should  assemble  in 
Brussels. 

The  first  intimation  the  regent  received  of  this 
conspiracy  of  the  nobles,  was  given  by  the  Count 
of  Megen  soon  after  his  return  to  the  capital. 

“  There  was,”  he  said,  “  an  enterprise  on  foot ;  no 
less  than  three  hundred  of  the  nobles  were  impli¬ 
cated  in  it ;  it  referred  to  religion  ;  the  members 
of  it  had  bound  themselves  together  by  an  oath  ; 
they  reckoned  much  on  foreign  aid  ;  she  would 
soon  know  more  about  it.”  Though  urgen  tiy 
pressed,  he  would  give  her  no  further  information. 
“A  nobleman,”  he  said,  “had  confided  it  to  him 
under  the  seal  of  secrecy,  and  he  had  pledged  his 
word  of  honor  to  him.”  What  really  withheld 
him  from  giving  her  any  further  explanation,  was 
in  all  probability,  not  so  much  any  delicacy  about 
his  honor,  as  his  hatred  of  the  Inquisition,  which 
he  would  not  willingly  do  any  thing  to  advance. 
Soon  after  him,  Count  Egmont  delivered  to  the 
regent  a  copy  of  the  covenant,  and  also  gave  her 
the  names  of  the  conspirators,  with  some  few  ex¬ 
ceptions.  Nearly  about  the  same  time,  the 
Prince  of  Orange  wrote  to  her:  “There  was,  as 
he  had  heard,  an  army  enlisted,  four  hundred  offi¬ 
cers  were  already  named,  and  twenty  thousand 
men  would  presently  appear  in  arms.”  Thus  the 
rumor  was  intentionally  exaggerated,  and  the  dan¬ 
ger  was  multiplied  in  every  mouth. 

The  regent,  petrified  with  alarm  at  the  first 
announcement  of  these  tidings,  and  guided  solely 
by  her  fears,  hastily  called  together  all  the  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  Council  of  State  who  happened  to  be 
then  in  Brussels,  and  at  the  same  time  sent  a 
pressing  summons  to  the  Prince  of  Orange  and 
Count  Horn,  inviting  them  to  resume  their  seats 
in  the  senate.  Before  the  latter  could  arrive,  she 
consulted  with  Egmont,  Megen,  and  Burlaimont 
what  course  was  to  be  adopted  in  the  present 
dangerous  posture  of  affairs.  The  question  de¬ 
bated  was,  whether  it  would  be  better  to  have 
recourse  to  arms,  or  to  yield  to  the  emergency 
and  grant  the  demands  of  the  confederates  ;  or 
whether  they  should  be  put  off  with  promises,  and 
an  appearance  of  compliance,  in  order  to  gain 
time  for  procuring  instructions  from  Spain,  and 
obtaining  money  and  troops  ?  For  the  first  plan 
the  requisite  supplies  were  wanting,  and,  what 
was  equally  requisite,  confidence  in  the  army,  of 
which  there  seemed  reason  to  doubt  whether  it 
had  not  been  already  gained  by  the  conspirators. 
The  second  expedient  would,  it  was  quite  clear, 
never  be  sanctioned  by  the  king  ;  besides,  it  would 
serve  rather  to  raise  than  depress  the  courage  of 
the  confederates  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
compliance  with  their  reasonable  demands,  and  a 
ready,  unconditional  pardon  of  the  past,  would, 
in  all  probability,  stifle  the  rebellion  in  the  cradle! 
The  last  opinion  was  supported  by  Megen  and 
Egmont,  but  opposed  by  Burlaimont.  “  Rumor,” 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


61 


said  the  latter,  “had  exaggerated  the  matter;  it 
is  impossible  that  so  formidable  an  armament 
could  have  been  prepared  so  secretly  and  so  rap¬ 
idly.  It  was  but  a  band  of  a  few  outcasts  and 
desperadoes,  instigated  by  two  or  three  enthusi¬ 
asts,  nothing  more.  All  will  be  quiet  after  a  few 
heads  have  been  struck  off.”  The  regent  deter¬ 
mined  to  await  the  opinion  of  the  Council  of 
State,  which  was  shortly  to  assemble;  in  the 
meanwhile,  however,  she  was  not  inactive.  The 
fortifications  in  the  most  important  places  were 
inspected,  and  the  necessary  repairs  speedily  exe¬ 
cuted  ;  her  ambassadors  at  foreign  courts  received 
orders  to  redouble  their  vigilance  ;  expresses  were 
sent  off  to  Spain.  At  the  same  time,  she  caused 
the  report  to  be  revived  of  the  near  advent  of  the 
king,  and  in  her  external  deportment  put  on  a 
show  of  that  imperturbable  firmness,  which  awaits 
attack  without  intending  easily  to  yield  to  it.  At 
the  end  of  March  (four  whole  months  conse¬ 
quently  from  the  framing  of  the  covenant),  the 
whole  State  Council  assembled  in  Brussels. 
There  were  present,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  the 
Duke  of  Arschot,  Counts  Egmont,  Bergen,  Me- 
gen,  Arenberg,  Horn,  Hogstraten,  Barlaimont, 
and  others  ;  the  Barons  Montigny  and  Hachi- 
court,  all  the  knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  with 
the  President  Yiglius,  State  Counselor  Bruxel¬ 
les,  and  the  other  assessors  of  the  Privy  Council. 
Several  letters  were  produced,  which  gave  a 
clearer  insight  into  the  nature  and  objects  of  the 
conspiracy.  The  extremity  to  which  the  regent 
was  reduced,  gave  the  disaffected  a  power  which 
on  the  present  occasion  they  did  not  neglect  to 
use.  Tenting  their  long  suppressed  indignation, 
they  indulged  in  bitter  complaints  against  the 
court,  and  against  the  government.  “  But  lately,” 
said  the  Prince  of  Orange,  “the  king  sent  forty 
thousand  gold  florins  to  the  Queen  of  Scotland, 
to  support  her  in  her  undertakings  against  Eng¬ 
land,  and  he  allows  his  Netherlands  to  be  bur¬ 
dened  with  debt..  Not  to  mention  the  unseason¬ 
ableness  of  this  subsidy,  and  its  fruitless  expendi¬ 
ture,  why  should  he  bring  upon  us  the  resentment 
of  a  queen,  who  is  both  so  important  to  us  as  a 
friend,  and  as  an  enemy  so  much  to  be  dreaded  ?” 
The  prince  did  not  even  refrain  on  the  present 
occasion  from  glancing  at  the  concealed  hatred 
which  the  king  was  suspected  of  cherishing  against 
the  family  of  Nassau,  and  against  him  in  particu¬ 
lar.  “It  is  well  known,”  he  said,  “that  he  has 
plotted  with  the  hereditary  enemies  of  my  house 
to  take  away  my  life,  and  that  he  waits  with  im¬ 
patience  only  for  a  suitable  opportunity.”  His 
example  opened  the  lips  of  Count  Horn  also,  and 
of  many  others  besides,  who,  with  passionate  ve¬ 
hemence,  descanted  on  their  own  merits  and  the 
ingratitude  of  the  king.  With  difficulty  did  the 
regent  succeed  in  silencing  the  tumult,  and  in  re¬ 
calling  attention  to  the  proper  subject  of  the 
debate.  The  question  was,  whether  the  confeder¬ 
ates,  of  whom  it  was  now  known  that  they  in¬ 
tended  to  appear  at  court  with  a  petition,  should 
be  admitted  or  not  ?  The  Duke  of  Arschot, 
Counts  Aremberg,  Megen,  and  Barlaimont  gave 
their  negative  to  the  proposition.  “  What  need 
of  five  hundred  persons,”  said  the  latter,  “to  de¬ 
liver  a  small  memorial  ?  This  paradox  of  humility 


and  defiance  implies  no  good.  Let  them  send  to 
us  one  respectable  man  from  among  their  number, 
without  pomp,  without  assumption,  and  so  submit 
their  application  to  us.  Otherwise,  shut  the  gates 
upon  them,  or  if  some  insist  on  their  admission, 
let  them  be  closely  watched,  and  let  the  first  act 
of  insolence  which  any  one  of  them  shall  be  guilty 
of  be  punished  with  death.”  In  this  advice  con¬ 
curred  Count  Mansfield,  whose  own  son  was 
among  the  conspirators  ;  he  had  even  threatened 
to  disinherit  his  son,  if  he  did  not  quickly  aban¬ 
don  the  league. 

Counts  Megen,  also,  and  Aremberg  hesitated 
to  receive  the  petition;  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
however,  Counts  Egmont,  Horn,  Hogstraten,  and 
others  voted  emphatically  for  it.  “  The  confede¬ 
rates,”  they  declared,  “  were  known  to  them  as 
men  of  integrity  and  honor ;  a  great  part  of  them 
were  connected  with  themselves  by  friendship  and 
relationship,  and  they  dared  vouch  for  their  be¬ 
havior.  Every  subject  was  allowed  to  petition  ; 
a  right  which  was  enjoyed  by  the  meanest  indivi¬ 
dual  in  the  state,  could  not,  without  injustice,  be 
denied  to  so  respectable  a  body  of  men.”  It  was 
therefore  resolved,  by  a  majority  of  votes,  to  ad¬ 
mit  the  confederates,  on  the  condition  that  they 
should  appear  unarmed,  and  conduct  themselves 
temperately.  The  squabbles  of  the  members  of 
Council  had  occupied  the  greater  part  of  the  sit¬ 
ting,  so  that  it  was  necessary  to  adjourn  the  dis¬ 
cussion  to  the  following  day.  In  order  that  the 
principal  matter  in  debate  might  not  again  be 
lost  sight  of  in  useless  complaints,  the  regent  at 
once  hastened  to  the  point.  “  Brederode,  we  are 
informed,”  she  said,  “  is  coming  to  us,  with  an 
address  in  the  name  of  the  league,  demanding  the 
abolition  of  the  Inquisition,  and  a  mitigation  of 
the  edicts.  The  advice  of  my  senate  is  to  guide 
me  in  my  answer  to  him  ;  but  before  you  give 
your  opinions  on  this  point,  permit  me  to  premise 
a  few  words.  I  am  told  that  there  are  many,  even 
amongst  yourselves,  who  load  the  religious  edicts 
of  the  Emperor,  my  father,  with  open  reproaches, 
and  describe  them  to  the  people  as  inhuman  and 
barbarous.  Now  I  ask  you,  lords  and  gentlemen, 
knights  of  the  Fleece,  counselors  of  his  majesty 
and  of  the  state,  whether  you  did  not  yourselves 
vote  for  these  edicts,  whether  the  states  of  the 
realm  have  not  recognized  them  as  lawful  ?  Why 
is  that  now  blamed,  which  was  formerly  declared 
right?  Is  it  because  they  have  now  become  even 
more  necessary  than  they  then  were  ?  Since 
when  is  the  Inquisition  a  new  thing  in  the  Ne¬ 
therlands?  Is  it  not  full  sixteen  years  ago  since 
the  Emperor  established  it  ?  And  wherein  is  it 
more  cruel  than  the  edicts  ?  If  it  be  allowed  that 
the  latter  were  the  work  of  wisdom,  if  the  uni¬ 
versal  consent  of  the  states  has  sanctioned  them 
— why  this  opposition  to  the  former,  w'hich  is 
nevertheless  far  more  humane  then  the  edicts,  if 
they  are  to  be  observed  to  the  letter  ?  Speak  now 
freely;  I  am  not  desirous  of  fettering  your  deci¬ 
sion  ;  but  it  is  your  business  to  see  that  it  is  not 
misled  by  passion  and  prejudice.”  The  Council 
of  State  was  again,  as  it  always  had  been,  divided 
between  two  opinions  ;  but  the  few  who  spoke  for 
the  Inquisition,  and  the  literal  execution  of  the 
edicts,  were  outvoted  by  the  opposite  party,  with 


62 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


the  Prince  of  Orange  at  its  head.  “Would  to 
heaven,”  he  began,  “  that  my  representations  had 
been  then  thought  worthy  of  attention,  when  as 
yet  the  grounds  Of  apprehension  were  remote ; 
things  would,  in  that  case,  never  have  been  car¬ 
ried  so  far  as  to  make  recourse  to  extreme  mea¬ 
sures  indispensable,  nor  would  men  have  been 
plunged  deeper  in  error  by  the  very  means  which 
were  intended  to  beguile  them  from  their  delu¬ 
sion.  We  are  all  unanimous  on  the  one  main 
point.  We  all  wish  to  see  the  Catholic  religion 
safe ;  if  this  end  can  be  secured  without  the  aid 
of  the  Inquisition,  it  is  well,  and  we  offer  our 
wealth  and  our  blood  to  its  service;  but  on  this 
very  point  it  is  thott  our  opinions  are  divided. 

“There  are  two  kinds  of  Inquisition;  the  See 
of  Rome  lays  claim  to  the  one,  the  other  has] 
from  time  immemorial,  been  exercised  by  the 
bishops.  The  force  of  prejudice  and  of  custom, 
has  made  the  latter  light  and  supportable  to  us. 
It  will  find  little  opposition  in  the  Netherlands, 
and  the  augmented  numbers  of  the  bishops  will 
make  it  effective.  To  what  purpose  then  insist 
on  the  former,  the  mere  name  of  which  is  revolt¬ 
ing  to  all  the  feelings  of  our  minds  ?  When  so 
many  nations  exist  without  it,  why  should  it  be 
imposed  on  us  ?  Before  Luther  appeared  it  was 
never  heard  of ;  but  the  troubles  with  Luther 
happened  at  a  time  when  there  was  an  inadequate 
number  of  spiritual  overseers,  and  when  the  few 
bishops  were  moreover  indolent,  and  the  licen¬ 
tiousness  of  the  clergy  excluded  them  from  the 
office  of  judges.  Nowall  is  changed;  we  now 
count  as  many  bishops  as  there  are  provinces. 
Why  should  not  the  policy  of  the  government 
adjust  itself  to  the  altered  circumstances  of  the 
times?  We  want  leniency,  not  severity.  The 
repugnance  of  the  people  is  manifest — this  we 
must  seek  to  appease,  if  we  would  not  have  it 
burst  out  into  rebellion.  With  the  death  of  Pius 
IV.  the  full  powers  of  the  Inquisitors  have  ex¬ 
pired  ;  the  new  Pope  has  as  yet  sent  no  ratification 
of  their  authority,  without  which  no  one  formerly 
ventured  to  exercise  his  office.  Now,  therefore, 
is  the  time  when  it  can  be  suspended  without  in¬ 
fringing  the  rights  of  any  party. 

“  What  I  have  stated  with  regard  to  the  In¬ 
quisition,  holds  equally  good  in  respect  to  the 
edicts  also.  The  exigency  of  the  times  called 
them  forth,  but  are  not  those  times  past?  So 
long  an  experience  of  them  ought  at  last  to  have 
taught  us,  that  against  heresy  no  means  are  less 
successful  than  the  fagot  and  the  sword.  What 
incredible  progress  has  not  the  new  religion  made 
during  only  the  last  few  years  in  the  provinces  ; 
and  if  we  investigate  the  cause  of  this  increase, 
we  shall  find  it  principally  in  the  glorious  con¬ 
stancy  of  those  who  have  fallen  sacrifices  to  the 
truth  of  their  opinion.  Carried  away  by  sympa¬ 
thy  and  by  admiration,  to  weigh  in  silence  that 
what  is  maintained  with  such  invincible  courage 
might  really  be  the  truth.  In  France  and  in 
England,  the  same  severities  have  been  inflicted 
on  the  Protestants,  but  have  they  been  attended 
with  any  better  success  there  than  here  ?  The 
very  early  Christians  boasted  that  the  blood  of 
the  martyrs  was  the  seed  of  the  church.  The 
Emperor  Julian,  the  most  terrible  enemy  that 


Christianity  ever  experienced  was  fully  persuaded 
of  this.  Convinced  that  persecution  did  but  kin¬ 
dle  enthusiasm,  he  betook  himself  to  ridicule  and 
derision,  and  found  these  weapons  far  more  effect¬ 
ive  than  force.  In  the  Greek  empire,  different 
teachers  of  heresy  have  arisen  at  different  times. 
Arius  under  Constantine,  Aetius  under  Constan- 
tius,  Nestorius  under  Theodosius.  But  even 
against  these  arch  heretics  and  their  disciples, 
such  cruel  measures  were  never  resorted  to  as  are 
thought  necessary  against  our  unfortunate  coun¬ 
try — and  yet  where  are  all  those  sects  now,  which 
once  a  whole  world,  I  had  almost  said,  could  not 
contain?  This  is  the  natural  course  of  heresy. 
If  it  is  treated  with  contempt,  it  crumbles  into 
insignificance.  It  is  as  iron,  which  if  it  lies  idle, 
corrodes,  and  only  becomes  sharp  by  use.  Let 
no  notice  be  paid  to  it,  and  it  loses  its  most  pow¬ 
erful  attraction, — the  magic  of  what  is  new  and 
what  is  forbidden.  Why  will  we  not  content  our¬ 
selves  with  the  measures  which  have  been  ap¬ 
proved  of  by  the  wisdom  of  such  great  rulers  ? 
Example  is  ever  the  safest  guide. 

“  But  what  need  to  go  to  pagan  antiquity  for 
guidance  and  example,  when  we  have  near  at 
hand  the  glorious  precedent  of  Charles  V.,  the 
greatest  of  kings,  who,  taught  at  last  by  experi¬ 
ence,  abandoned  the  bloody  path  of  persecution, 
and  for  many  years  before  his  abdication,  adopted 
milder  measures.  And  Philip  himself,  our  most 
gracious  sovereign,  seemed  at  first  strongly  in¬ 
clined  to  leniency,  until  the  counsels  of  a  Gran- 
vella  and  of  others  like  him  changed  these  views  ; 
but  with  what  right  or  wisdom,  they  may  settle  be¬ 
tween  themselves.  To  me,  however,  it  has  always 
appeared  indispensable,  that  legislation,  to  be  wise 
and  successful,  must  adjust  itself  to  the  manners 
and  maxims  of  the  times.  In  conclusion,  I  would 
beg  to  remind  you  of  the  close  understanding 
which  subsists  between  the  Huguenots  and  the 
Flemish  Protestants.  Let  us  beware  of  exaspe¬ 
rating  them  any  further.  Let  us. not  act  the  part 
of  French  Catholics  towards  them,  lest  they 
should  play  the  Huguenots  against  us,  and  like  the 
latter,  plunge  their  country  into  the  horrors  of  a 
civil  war.”* 

It  was,  perhaps,  not  so  much  the  irresistible 
truth  of  his  arguments,  which  moreover  were 
supported  by  a  decisive  majority  in  the  senate,  as 
rather  the  ruinous  state  of  the  military  resources, 
and  the  exhaustion  of  the  treasury,  that  prevented 
the  adoption  of  the  opposite  opinion  which  recom¬ 
mended  an  appeal  to  the  force  of  arms,  that  the 
Prince  of  Orange  had  chiefly  to  thank  for  the  at¬ 
tention  which  now,  at  last,  was  paid  to  his  repre¬ 
sentations.  In  order  to  avert  at  first  the  violence 
of  the  storm,  and  to  gain  time,  which  was  so  ne¬ 
cessary,  to  place  the  government  in  a  better  state 
of  preparation,  it  was  agreed  that  a  portion  of  the 
demands  should  be  accorded  to  the  confederates. 
It  was  also  resolved  to  mitigate  the  penal  statutes 
of  the  emperor,  as  he  himself  would  certainly 

*  No  one  need  wonder,  says  Burgundias,  [a  vehement 
stickler  for  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  and  the  Spanish 
party,]  that  the  speoch  of  this  Prince  evinced  so  much 
acquaintance  with  philosophy;  he  had  acquired  it  in  his 
intercourse  with  Balduin.  180.  Barrg,  174-178.  Hop¬ 
per,  72.  Strada,  123,  124. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  'REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


63 


mitigate  them,  were  he  again  to  appear  among 
them  at  that  day — and  as,  indeed,  he  had  once 
shown,  under  circumstances  very  similar  to  the 

{) resent,  that  he  did  not  think  it  derogatory  to  his 
ligh  dignity  to  do.  The  Inquisition  was  not  to 
be  introduced  in  any  place  where  it  did  not  al¬ 
ready  exist,  and  where  it  had  been,  it  should 
adopt  a  milder  system,  or  even  be  entirely  sus¬ 
pended,  especially  since  the  inquisitors  had  not 
yet  been  confirmed  in  their  office  by  the  pope. 
The  latter  reason  was  put  prominently  forward,  in 
order  to  deprive  the  Protestants  of  the  gratification 
of  ascribing  the  concessions  to  any  fear  of  their 
own  power,  or  to  the  justice  of  their  demands. 
The  Privy  Council  was  commissioned  to  draw  out 
this  decree  of  the  senate  without  delay.  Thus 
prepared,  the  confederates  were  awaited. 


THE  GUEUX. 

The  members  of  the  senate  had  not  yet  dis¬ 
persed,  when  all  Brussels  resounded  with  the 
report,  that  the  confederates  were  approaching 
the  town.  They  consisted  of  no  more  than  two 
hundred  horse,  but  rumor  greatly  exaggerated 
their  numbers.  Filled  with  consternation,  the 
regent  consulted  with  her  ministers  whether  it 
was  best  to  close  the  gates  on  the  approaching 
party,  or  to  seek  safety  in  flight  ?  Both  sugges¬ 
tions  were  rejected  as  dishonorable ;  and  the 
peaceable  entry  of  the  nobles  soon  allayed  all 
fears  of  violence.  The  first  morning  after  their 
arrival,  they  assembled  at  Kuilemburg  house, 
where  Brederode  administered  to  them  a  second 
oath,  binding  them,  before  all  other  duties,  to 
stand  by  one  another,  and  even  with  arms  if  ne¬ 
cessary.  At  this  meeting  a  letter  from  Spain  was 
produced,  in  which  it  was  stated,  that  a  certain 
Protestant,  whom  they  all  knew  and  valued,  had 
been  burned  alive  in  that  country  by  a  slow  fire. 
After  these,  and  similar  preliminaries,  he  called 
on  them  one  after  another  by  name,  to  take  the 
new  oath,  and  renew  the  old  one  in  their  own* 
names  and  in  those  of  the  absent.  The  next  day, 
the  5th  of  April,  1566,  was  fixed  for  the  presenta¬ 
tion  of  the  petition.  Their  numbers  now  amount¬ 
ed  to  between  three  and  four  hundred.  Amongst 
them  were  many  retainers  of  the  high  nobility,  as 
also  several  servants  of  the  king  himself,  and 
of  the  duchess. 

Wjth  the  Counts  of  Nassau  and  Brederode  at 
their  head,  and  formed  in  ranks  of  four  by  four, 
they  advanced  in  procession  to  the  palace;  all 
Brussels  attended  the  unwonted  spectacle  in  silertt 
astonishment.  Here  were  to  be  seen  a  body  of 
men,  advancing  with  too  much  boldness  and  confi¬ 
dence  to  look  like  supplicants,  and  led  by  two  men 
who  were  not  wont  to  be  petitioners  ;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  with  so  much  order  and  stillness,  as 
do  not  usually  accompany  rebellion.  The  regent 
received  the  procession,  surrounded  by  all  her 
counselors  and  the  Knights  of  the  Fleece.  “These 
noble  Netherlanders,”  thus  Brederode  respectfully 
addressed  her,  “  who  here  present  themselves 
before  your  highness,  wish  in  their  own  name,  and 
of  many  others  besides,  who  are  shortly  to  arrive, 
to  present  to  you  a  petition,  of  whose  importance, 


as  well  as  of  their  own  humility,  this  solemn  pro¬ 
cession  must  convince  you.  I,  as  speaker  of  this 
body,  entreat  you  to  receive  our  petition,  which 
contains  nothing  but  what  is  in  unison  with  the 
laws  of  our  country  and  the  honor  of  the  king.” 

“  If  this  petition,”  replied  Margaret,  “  really 
contains  nothing  which  is  at  variance  either  with 
the  good  of  the  country,  or  with  the  authority  of 
the  king,  there  is  no  doubt,  that  it  will  be  favora¬ 
bly  'considered. ”  “They  had  learned,”  continued 
the  spokesman,  “with  indignation  and  regret,  that 
suspicious  objects  had  been  imputed  to  their  asso¬ 
ciation,  and  that  interested  parties  had  endeav¬ 
ored  to  prejudice  her  highness  against  him,  they 
therefore  crave  that  she  would  name  the  authors 
of  so  grave  an  accusation,  and  compel  them  to 
bring  their  charges  publicly,  and  in  due  form,  in 
order  that  he,  who  should  be  found  guilty,  might 
suffer  the  punishment  of  his  demerits.”  “Un¬ 
doubtedly,”  replied  the  regent,  “  she  had  received 
unfavorable  rumors  of  their  designs  and  alliance. 
She  could  not  be  blamed,  if,  in  consequence,  she 
had  thought  it  requisite  to  call  the  attention  of 
the  governors  of  the  provinces  to  the  matter;  but, 
as  to  giving  up  the  names  of  her  informants,  to 
betray  state  secrets,”  she  added,  with  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  displeasure,  “  that  could  not  in  justice 
be  .required  of  her.”  She  then  appointed  the 
next  day  for  answering  their  petition  ;  and,  in 
the  mean  time,  she  proceeded  to  consult  the 
members  of  her  council  upon  it. 

“Never,”  (so  ran  the  petition,  which,  accord¬ 
ing  to  some,  was  drawn  up  by  the  celebrated 
Balduin,)  “  never  had  they  failed  in  their  loyalty 
to  the  king,  and  nothing  now  could  be  further 
from  their  hearts  ;  but  they  would  rather  run  the 
risk  of  incurring  the  displeasure  of  their  sove¬ 
reign,  than  allow  him  to  remain  longer  in  igno¬ 
rance  of  the  evils  with  which  their  native  country 
was  menaced,  by  the  forcible  introduction  of  the 
Inquisition,  and  the  continued  enforcement  of  the 
edicts.  They  had  long  remained  consoling  them¬ 
selves  with  the  expectation,  that  a  general  assem¬ 
bly  of  the  states  would  be  summoned  to  remedy 
these  grievances  ;  but  now  that  even  this  hope 
was  extinguished,  they  held  it  to  be  their  duty  to 
give  timely  warning  to  the  regent.  They,  there¬ 
fore,  entreated  her  highness  to  send  to  Madrid  an 
envoy,  well  disposed,  and  fully  acquainted  with 
the  state  and  temper  of  the  times,  who  should  en¬ 
deavor  to  persuade  the  king  to  comply  with  the 
demands  of  the  whole  nation,  and  abolish  the  In¬ 
quisition,  to  revoke  the  edicts,  and  in  their  stead 
cause  new  and  more  humane  ones  to  be  drawn  up 
at  a  general  assembly  of  the  states.  But,  in  the 
mean  while,  until  they  could  learn  the  king’s  deci¬ 
sion,  they  prayed  that  the  edicts  and  the  opera¬ 
tions  of  the  Inquisition  be  suspended.”  “  If,” 
they  continued,  “  no  attention  should  be  paid  to 
their  humble  request,  they  took  God,  the  king,  the 
regent,  and  all  her  counselors  to  witness,  that  they 
had  done  their  part,  and  were  not  responsible  for 
any  unfortunate  result  that  might  happen.” 

The  following  day  the  confederates,  marching 
in  the  same  order  of  procession,  but  in  still 
greater  numbers,  (Counts  Bergen  and  Kuilem¬ 
burg  having,  in  the  interim,  joined  them  with 
their  adherents,)  appeared  before  the  regent,  in 


64 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


order  to  receive  her  answer.  It  was  written  on 
the  margin  of  the  petition,  and  was  to  the  effect, 
“that  entirely  to  suspend  the  Inquisition  and  the 
Edicts,  even  temporarily,  was  beyond  her  powers  ; 
but  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  the  confede¬ 
rates,  she  was  ready  to  dispatch  one  of  the  nobles 
to  the  king,  in  Spain,  and  also  to  support  their 
petition  with  all  her  influence.  In  the  mean 
time,  she  would  recommend  the  inquisitors  to  ad¬ 
minister  their  office  with  moderation  ;  but  in  re¬ 
turn,  she  should  expect,  on  the  part  of  the  league, 
that  they  should  abstain  from  all  acts  of  vio¬ 
lence,  and  undertake  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of 
the  Catholic  faith.”  Little  as  these  vague  aud 
general  promises  satisfied  the  confederates,  they 
were,  nevertheless,  as  much  as  they  could  have 
reasonably  expected  to  gain  at  first.  The  grapt- 
ing  or  refusing  of  the  petition  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  primary  object  of  the  league.  Enough 
for  them  at  present,  that  it  was  once  recognized  ; 
enough  that  it  was  now,  as  it  were,  an  established 
body,  which  by  its  power  and  threats  might,  if 
necessary,  overawe  the  government.  The  con¬ 
federates,  therefore,  acted  quite  consistently  with 
their  designs,  in  contenting  themselves  with  this 
answer,  and  referring  the  rest  to  the  good  pleasure 
of  the  king.  As,  indeed,  the  whole  pantomime 
of  petitioning  had  only  been  invented,  to  cover 
the  more  daring  plan  of  the  league,  until  it  should 
have  strength  enough  to  show  itself  in  its  true 
light;  they  felt  that  much  more  depended  on  their 
being  able  to  continue  this  mask,  and  on  the 
favorable  reception  of  their  petition,  than  on  its 
speedily  being  granted.  In  a  new  memorial,  which 
they  delivered  three  days  after,  they  pressed  for 
an  express  testimonial  from  the  regent,  that  they 
had  done  no  more  than  their  duty,  and  been 
guided  simply  by  their  zeal  for  the  service  of  the 
king.  When  the  duchess  evaded  a  declaration, 
they  even  sent  a  person  to  repeat  this  request  in 
a  private  interview.  “  Time  alone  and  their  fu¬ 
ture  behavior,”  she  replied  to  this  person,  “would 
enable  her  to  judge  of  their  designs.” 

The  league  had  its  origin  in  banquets,  and  a 
banquet  gave  it  form  and  perfection.  On  the 
very  day  that  the  second  petition  was  presented, 
Brederode  entertained  the  conferates  in  Kuilem- 
burg  house ;  about  three  hundred  guests  assem¬ 
bled  ;  intoxication  gave  them  courage,  and  their 
audacity  rose  with  their  numbers.  During  the 
conversation,  one  of  their  number  happened  to 
remark  that  he  had  overheard  the  Count  of  Bar- 
laimont  whisper  in  French  to  the  regent,  who  was 
seen  to  turn  pale  on  the  delivery  of  the  petitions, 
that  “  she  need  not  be  afraid  of  a  band  of  beggars 
(gueux) (in  fact,  the  majority  of  them  had  by 
their  bad  management  of  their  incomes  only  too 
well  deserved  this  appellation.)  Now,  as  the  very 
name  for  their  fraternity  was  the  very  thing  which 
had  most  perplexed  them,  an  expression  was 
eagerly  caught  up,  which,  while  it  cloaked  the 
presumption  of  their  enterprise  in  humility,  was 
at  the  same  time  appropriate  to  them  as  petition¬ 
ers.  Immediately  they  drank  to  one  another  un¬ 
der  this  name,  and  the  cry  “  Long  live  the  Gueux  !” 
was  accompanied  with  a  general  shout  of  applause. 
Alter  the  cloth  had  been  removed,  Brederode  ap¬ 
peared  with  a  wallet  over  his  shoulder,  similar  to 


that  which  the  vagrant  pilgrims  and  mendicant 
monks  of  the  time  used  to  carry;  and  after  re¬ 
turning  thanks  to  all  for  their  accession  to  the 
league,  and  boldly  assuring  them  that  he  was 
ready  to  venture  life  and  limb  for  every  individual 
present,  he  drank  to  the  health  of  the  whole  com¬ 
pany  out  of  a  wooden  beaker.  The  cup  went 
round,  and  every  one  uttered  the  same  vow  as  he 
set  it  to  his  lips.  Then  one  after  the  other  they 
received  the  beggar’s  purse,  and  each  hung  it  on 
a  nail  which  he  had  appropriated  to  himself. 
The  shouts  and  uproar  attending  this  buffoonery 
attracted  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  Counts  Eg- 
mont  and  Horn,  who,  by  chance,  were  passing  the 
spot  at  the  very  moment,  aad  on  entering  the 
house  were  boisterously  pressed  by  Brederode,  as 
host,  to  remain  and  drink  a  glass  with  them.* 

The  entrance  of  three  such  influential  person¬ 
ages  renewed  the  mirth  of  the  guests,  and  their 
festivities  soon  passed  the  bounds  of  moderation. 
Many  were  intoxicated  ;  guests  and  attendants 
mingled  together  without  distinction,  the  serious 
and  the  ludicrous,  drunken  fancies  and  affairs  of 
state  were  blended  one  with  the  other  in  a  bur¬ 
lesque  medley ;  and  the  discussions  on  the  general 
distress  of  the  country  ended  in  the  wild  uproar 
of  a  bacchanalian  revel.  But  it  did  not  stop  here  ; 
what  they  had  resolved  in  the  moment  of  intoxi¬ 
cation,  they  attempted  when  sober  to  carry  into 
execution.  It  was  necessary  to  manifest  to  the 
people  in  some  striking  shape,  the  existence  of 
their  protectors,  and  likewise  to  fan  the  zeal  of 
the  faction  by  a  visible  emblem  ;  for  this  end,  no¬ 
thing  could  be  better  than  to  adopt  publicly  this 
name  of  Gueux,  and  to  borrow  from  it  the  tokens 
of  the  association.  In  a  few  days,  t ->e  town  of 
Brussels  swarmed  with  ash-gray  garments,  such 
as  were  usually  worn  by  mendicant  friars  and  peni¬ 
tents.  Every  confederate  put  his  whole  family  and 
domestics  in  this  dress.  Some  carried  wooden 
bowls  thinly  overlaid  with  plates  of  silver,  cups 
of  the  same  kind,  and  wooden  knives  ;  in  short, 
the  whole  paraphernalia  of  the  beggar  tribe, 
which  they  either  fixed  around  their  hats  or  sus¬ 
pended  from  their  girdles.  Bound  their  neck  they 
wore  a  golden  or  silver  coin,  afterward  called  the 
Geusen  penny,  of  which  one  side  bore  the  effigy 
of  the  king,  with  the  inscription,  “  True  to  the 
king ;”  on  the  other  side  were  seen  two  hands 
folded  together,  holding  a  wallet,  with  the  words, 
“  as  far  as  the  beggar’s  scrip.”  Hence  the  origin 
of  the  name  “  Gueux,”  which  was  subsequently 
borne  in  the  Netherlands  by  all  who  seceded  from 
popery,  and  took  up  arms  against  the  king. 

Before  the  confederates  separated  and  dispersed 
among  the  provinces,  they  presented  themselves 
once  more  before  the  duchess,  in  order  to  remind 
mr  of  the  necessity  of  leniency  toward  the  here¬ 
tics,  until  the  arrival  of  the  king’s  answer  from 

*  “  But,”  Egmont  asserted  in  his  written  defense,  “  we 
drank  only  one  single,  small  glass,  and  thereupon  they 
cried,  ‘  long  live  the  king  and  the  Gueux  !’  This  was  the 
irst  time  that  I  heard  that  appellation,  and  it  certainly 
did  not  please  me.  But  the  times  were  so  had,  that  one 
was  often  compelled  to  share  in  much  that  was  against 
one’s  inclination,  and  I  knew  not  but  I  was  doing  an 
innocent  thing.”  Proces  criminels  des  comtes  d’Egmont, 
etc.  7.  1.  Egmont’s  defense,  Hopper,  94.  Strada,  127-130. 
Burgund,  185,  187. 


2— G.  p.  72, 


2— E.  p.  64 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


65 


Spain,  if  she  did  not  wish  to  drive  the  people  to 
extremities.  “  If,  however,”  they  added,  “  a  con¬ 
trary  behaviour  should  give  rise  to  any  evils,  they 
at  least  must  be  regarded  as  having  done  their 
duty.” 

To  this  the  regent  replied,  “  she  hoped  to  be 
able  to  adopt  such  measures  as  would  render  it 
impossible  for  disorders  to  ensue  ;  but  if,  never¬ 
theless,  they  did  occur,  she  could  ascribe  them  to 
no  one  but  the  confederates.  She,  therefore, 
earnestly  admouished  them  on  their  part  to  fulfill 
their  engagements,  but  especially  to  receive  no 
new  members  into  the  league,  to  hold  no  more 
private  assemblies,  and  generally,  not  to  attempt 
any  novel  and  unconstitutional  measures.”  And 
in  order  to  tranquilize  their  minds,  she  commanded 
her  private  secretary,  Berti,  to  show  them  the 
letters  to  the  inquisitors  and  secular  judges, 
wherein  they  were  enjoined  to  observe  moderation 
toward  all  those  who  had  not  aggravated  their 
heretical  offenses  by  any  civil  crime.  Before 
their  departure  from  Brussels,  they  named  four 
presidents  from  among  their  number,  who  were  to 
take  care  of  the  affairs  of  the  league ;  and  also, 
particular  administrators  for  each  province.  A 
few  were  left  behind  in  Brussels,  to  keep  a  watch¬ 
ful  eye  on  all  the  movements  of  the  court.  Brede- 
rode,  Kuilemburg,  and  Bergen,  at  last  quitted  the 
town,  attended  by  550  horsemen,  saluted  it  once 
more  beyond  the  walls  with  a  discharge  of  mus¬ 
ketry,  and  then  the  three  leaders  parted ;  Brederode 
taking  the  road  to  Antwerp,  and  the  two  others 
to  Guelders.  The  regent  had  sent  off  an  express  to 
Antwerp,  to  warn  the  magistrate  of  that  town 
against  him  ;  on  his  arrival,  more  than  a  thousand 
persons  thronged  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  taken 
up  his  abode.  Showing  himself  at  a  window,  with 
a  full  wiue-glass  in  his  hand,  he  thus  addressed 
them  :  “  Citizens  of  Antwerp  !  I  am  here  at  the 
hazard  of  my  life  and  my  property,  to  relieve  you 
from  the  oppressive  burden  of  the  Inquisition.  If 
you  are  ready  to  share  this  enterprise  with  me, 
and  to  acknowledge  me  as  your  leader,  accept  the 
health  which  I  here  drink  to  you,  and  hold  up 
your  hands  in  testimony  of  your  approbation.” 
Hereupon  he  drank  to  their  health,  and  all  hands 
were  raised  amidst  clamorous  shouts  of  exultation. 
After  this  heroic  deed,  he  quitted  Antwerp. 

Immediately  after  the  delivery  of  the  “  Petition 
of  the  Nobles,”  the  regent  had  caused  a  new  form 
of  the  edicts  to  be  drawn  up  in  the  Privy  Coun¬ 
cil,  which  should  keep  the  mean  between  the 
commands  of  the  king  and  the  demands  of  the 
confederates.  But  the  next  question  that  arose 
was,  to  determine  whether  it  would  be  advisable 
immediately  to  promulgate  this  mitigated  form  or 
moderation,  as  it  was  commonly  called,  or  to  sub¬ 
mit  it  first  to  the  king  for  his  ratification.  The 
Privy  Council,  who  maintained  that  it  would  be 
presumptuous  to  take  a  step  so  important  and  so 
contrary  to  the  declared  sentiments  of  the  mon¬ 
arch,  without  having  first  obtained  his  sanction, 
opposed  the  vote  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  who 
supported  the  former  proposition.  Besides,  they 
urged  there  was  cause  to  fear  that  it  would  not 
even  content  the  nation.  A  “  Moderation,”  de¬ 
vised  with  the  assent  of  the  states,*  was  what  they 
particularly  insisted  on.  In  order,  therefore,  to 

\  01*.  II.— O 


gain  the  consent  of  the  states,  or  rather  to  obtain 
it  from  them  by  stealth,  the  regent  artfully  pro¬ 
pounded  the  question  to  the  provinces  singly,  and 
first  of  all  to  those  which  possessed  the  least  free¬ 
dom,  such  as  Artois,  Namur,  and  Luxemburg. 
Thus  she  not  only  prevented  one  province  en¬ 
couraging  another  in  opposition,  but  also  gained 
this  advantage  by  it,  that  the  freer  provinces, 
such  as  Flanders  and  Brabant,  which  were  pru¬ 
dently  reserved  to  the  last,  allowed  themselves  to 
be.  carried  away  by  the  example  of  the  others. 
By  a  very  illegal  procedure,  the  representatives  of 
the  towns  were  taken  by  surprise,  and  their  con¬ 
sent  exacted  before  they  could  confer  with  their 
constituents,  while  complete  silence  was  imposed 
upon  them  with  regard  to  the  whole  transaction. 
By  these  means  the  regent  obtained  the  uncon¬ 
ditional  consent  of  some  of  the  provinces  to  the 
“  Moderation,”  and,  with  a  few  slight  changes, 
that  of  other  provinces.  Luxemburg  and  Namur 
subscribed  it  without  scruple.  The  states  of  Ar¬ 
tois  simply  added  the  condition,  that  false  in¬ 
formers  should  be  subjected  to  a  retributive 
penalty  ;  those  of  Hainault  demanded,  that  in¬ 
stead  of  confiscation  of  the  estates,  which  directly 
militated  against  their  privileges,  another  discre¬ 
tionary  punishment  should  be  introduced.  Flan¬ 
ders  called  for  the  entire  abolition  of  the  Inqui¬ 
sition,  and  desired  that  the  accused  might  be 
secured  in  right  of  appeal  to  their  own  province. 
The  states  of  Brabant  were  outwitted  by  the  in¬ 
trigues  of  the  court.  Zealand,  Holland,  Utrecht, 
Guelders,  and  Friesland,  as  being  provinces  which 
enjoyed  the  most  important  privileges,  and  which, 
moreover,  watched  over  them  with  the  greatest 
jealousy,  were  never  asked  for  their  opinion, 
'fhe  provincial  courts  of  judicature  had  also  been 
required  to  make  a  report  on  the  projected 
amendment  of  the  law,  but  we  may  well  suppose 
that  it  was  unfavorable,  as  it  never  reached  Spain. 
From  the  principal  clause  of  this  “  Moderation,” 
which,  however  really  deserved  its  name,  we  may 
form  a  judgment  of  the  general  character  of  the 
edicts  themselves.  “  Sectarian  writers,”  it  ran, 
“the  heads  and  teachers  of  sects,  as  also  those 
who  conceal  heretical  meetings,  or  cause  any  other 
public  scandal,  shall  be  punished  with  the  gallows, 
and  their  estates,  where  the  law  of  the  province, 
permit  it,  confiscated  ;  but  if  they  abjure  their 
errors,  their  punishment  shall  be  commuted  into 
decapitation  with  the  sword,  and  their  effects  shall 
be  preserved  to  their  families.”  A  cruel  snare  for 
parental  affection  !  Less  grievous  heretics,  it 
was  further  enacted,  shall,  if  penitent,  be  par¬ 
doned  ;  and  if  impenitent,  shall  be  compelled  to 
leave  the  country,  without,  however  forfeiting 
i  their  estates,  unless  by  continuing  to  lead  others- 
astray,  they  deprive  themselves  of  the  benefit 
of  this  provision.  The  Anabaptists,  however, 
were  expressly  excluded  from  benefiting  by  this 
clause;  these,  if  they  did  not  clear  themselves  by 
the  most  thorough  repentance,  were  to  forfeit 
their  possessions  ;  and  if,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
relapsed  after  penitence,  that  is,  were  blacksliding 
heretics,  they  were  to  be  put  to  death  without 
mercy.  The  greater  regard  for  life  and  property, 
which  is  observable  in  this  ordinance  as  compared 
with  the  edicts,  and  which  we  might  be  tempted 


66 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


to  ascribe  to  a  change  of  intention  in  the  Spanish 
ministry,  was  nothing  more  than  a  compulsory 
step,  extorted  by  the  determined  opposition  of 
the  nobles.  So  little,  too,  were  the  people  in  the 
Netherlands  satisfied  by  this  “  Moderation,” 
which,  fundamentally,  did  not  remove  a  single 
abuse,  that  instead  of  “  Moderation”  (mitigation), 
they  indignantly  called  it  “  Mooderation,”  that  is, 
murdering. 

After  the  consent  of  the  states  had,  in  this 
manner,  been  extorted  from  them,  the  “  Modera¬ 
tion”  was  submitted  to  the  Council  of  the  State, 
and  after  receiving  their  signatures,  forwarded  to 
the  king,  in  Spain,  in  order  to  receive  from  his 
ratification  the  force  of  law. 

The  embassy  to  Madrid,  which  had  been  agreed 
upon  with  the  confederates,  was  at  the  outlet  in¬ 
trusted  to  the  Marquis  of  Bergen,*  who,  how¬ 
ever,  from  a  distrust  of  the  present  disposition  of 
the  king,  which  was  only  too  well  grounded,  and 
from  reluctance  to  engage  alone  in  so  delicate  a 
business,  begged  for  a  coadjutor.  He  obtained 
one  in  the  Baron  of  Montigny,  who  had  previously 
been  employed  in  a  similar  duty,  and  had  dis¬ 
charged  it  with  high  credit.  As,  however,  cir¬ 
cumstances  had  since  altered  so  much,  that  he 
had  just  anxiety  as  to  his  present  reception  in 
Madrid,  for  his  greater  safety,  he  stipulated  with 
the  duchess  that  she  should  write  to  the  monarch 
previously;  and  that  he,  with  his  companion, 
should,  in  the  mean  while,  travel  slowly  enough  to 
give  time  for  the  king’s  answer  reaching  him  en 
route.  His  good  genius  wished,  it  appeared,  to 
save  him  from  the  terrible  fate  which  awaited  him 
in  Madrid,  for  his  departure  was  delayed  by  an 
unexpected  obstacle,  the  Marquis  of  Bergen 
being  disabled  from  setting  out  immediately, 
through  a  wound  which  he  received  from  the  blow 
of  a  tennis  ball.  At  last,  however,  yielding  to  the 
pressing  importunities  of  the  regent,  who  was 
anxious  to  expedite  the  business,  he  set  out  alone, 
not  as  he  hoped,  to  carry  the  cause  of  his  nation, 
but  to  die  for  it. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  posture  of  affairs  had 
changed  so  greatly  in  the  Netherlands,  the  step 
which  the  nobles  had  recently  taken,  had  so 
nearly  brought  on  a  complete  rupture  with  the 
government,  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  the 
Prince  of  Orange  and  his  friends  to  maintain  any 
longer  the  intermediate  and  delicate  position 
which  they  had  hitherto  held  between  the  country 
and  the  court,  or  to  reconcile  the  contradictory 
duties  to  which  it  gave  rise.  Great  must  have 
Deen  the  restraint,  which,  with  their  mode  of 
thinking,  they  had  to  put  on  themselves  not  to 
take  part  in  this  contest ;  much,  too,  must  their 
natural  love  of  liberty,  their  patriotism,  and  their 
principles  of  toleration  have  suffered  from  the 
constraint  which  their  official  station  imposed 
upon  them.  On  the  other  hand,  Philip’s  distrust, 
the  little  regard  which  now  for  a  long  time  had 
been  paid  to  their  advice,  and  the  marked  slights 
which  the  duchess  publicly  put  upon  them,  had 
greatly  contributed  to  cool  their  zeal  for  the  ser¬ 
vice,  and  to  render  irksome  the  longer  continu- 

*  This  Marquis  of  Bergen  is  to  be  distinguished  from 
Count  William  of  Bergen,  who  was  among  the  first  who 
subscribed  the  covenant.  Vigl.  ad  Hopper,  Letter  vii. 


ance  of  a  part  which  they  played  with  so  much 
repugnance  and  with  so  little  thanks.  This  feel¬ 
ing  was  strengthened  by  several  intimations  they 
received  from  Spain,  which  placed  beyond  doubt 
the  great  displeasure  of  the  king  at  the  petition 
of  the  nobles,  and  his  little  satisfaction  with  their 
own  behavior  on  that  occasion,  while  they  were 
also  led  to  expect  that  he  was  about  to  enter 
upon  measures,  to  which,  as  favorable  to  tho 
liberties  of  their  country,  and  for  the  most  part 
friends  or  blood  relations  of  the  confederates,  they 
could  never  lend  their  countenance  or  support. 
On  the  name,  which  should  be  applied  in  Spain  to 
the  confederacy  of  the  nobles,  it  principally  de¬ 
pended  what  course  they  should  follow  for  the 
future.  If  the  petition  should  be  called  rebellion, 
no  alternative  would  be  left  them,  but  either  to 
come  prematurely  to  a  dangerous  explanation  with 
the  court,  or  to  aid  it  in  treating  as  enemies,  those 
with  whom  they  had  both  a  fellow  feeling  and 
a  common  interest.  This  perilous  alternative 
could  only  be  avoided  by  withdrawing  entirely 
from  public  affairs ;  this  plan  they  had  once 
before  practically  adopted,  and  under  present 
circumstances,  it  was  something  more  than  a 
simple  expedient.  The  whole  nation  had  their 
eyes  upon  them.  An  unlimited  confidence  in 
their  integrity,  and  the  universal  veneration  for 
their  persons,  which  closely  bordered  on  idolatry, 
would  ennoble  the  cause  which  they  might  make 
their  own,  and  ruin  that  which  they  should  aban¬ 
don.  Their  share  in  the  administration  of  the 
state,  though  it  were  nothing  more  than  nominal, 
kept  the  opposite  party  in  check  ;  while  they  at¬ 
tended  the  senate,  violent  measures  were  avoided, 
because  their  continued  presence  still  favored 
some  expectations  of  succeeding  by  gentle  means. 
The  withholding  of  their  approbation,  even  if  it 
did  not  proceed  from  their  hearts,  dispirited  the 
faction,  which,  on  the  contrary,  would  exert  its 
full  strength  so  soon  as  it  could  reckon  even  dis¬ 
tantly  on  obtaining  so  weighty  a  sanction.  The 
very  measures  of  the  government,  which,  if  they 
came  through  their  hands,  were  certain  of  a 
favorable  reception  and  issue,  would  without  them 
prove  suspected  and  futile ;  even  the  royal  con¬ 
cessions,  if  they  were  not  obtained  by  the  media¬ 
tion  of  these  friends  of  the  people,  would  fail  of 
the  chief  part  of  their  efficacy.  Besides,  their 
retirement  from  public  affairs  would  deprive  the 
regent  of  the  benefit  of  their  advice,  at  a  time 
when  counsel  was  most  indispensable  to  her;  it 
would,  moreover,  leave  the  preponderance  with  a 
party  which,  blindly  dependent  on  the  court,  and 
ignorant  of  the  peculiarities  of  republican  char¬ 
acter,  would  neglect  nothing  to  aggravate  the 
evil,  and  to  drive  to  extremity  the  already  exaspe¬ 
rated  mind  of  the  public. 

All  these  motives  (and  it  is  open  to  every  one, 
according  to  his  good  or  bad  opinion  of  the  prince, 
to  say  which  was  the  most  influential)  tended  alike 
to  move  him  to  desert  the  regent,  and  to  divest 
himself  of  all  share  in  public  affairs.  An  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  putting  this  resolve  into  execution  soon 
presented  itself.  The  prince  had  voted  for  the 
immediate  promulgation  of  the  newly  revised 
edicts  ;  but  the  regent,  following  the  suggestion 
of  her  Privy  Council,  had  determined  to  transmit 


HISTORY  OP  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


67 


them  first  to  the  king.  “  I  now  see  clearly,"  he 
broke  out  with  well-acted  vehemence,  “that  all 
the  advice  which  I  give  is  distrusted.  The  king 
requires  no  servants  whose  loyalty  he  is  deter¬ 
mined  to  doubt ;  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  thrust 
my  services  upon  a  sovereign  who  is  unwilling  to 
receive  them.  Better,  therefore,  for  him  and  me, 
that  I  withdraw  from  public  affairs.”  Count 
Horn  expressed  himself  nearly  to  the  same  effect. 
^Egmont  requested  permission  to  visit  the  baths 
of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  the  use  of  which  had  been 
prescribed  to  him  by  his  physician,  although  (as 
it  is  stated  in  his  accusation)  he  appeared  health 
itself.  The  regent,  terrified  at  the.  consequences 
which  must  inevitably  follow  this  step,  spoke 
sharply  to  the  prince.  “  If  neither  my  represen¬ 
tations,  nor  the  general  welfare  can  prevail  upon 
you,  so  far  as  to  induce  you  to  relinquish  this  in¬ 
tention,  let  me  advise  you  to  be  more  careful,  at 
least,  of  your  own  reputation.  Louis  of  Nassau 
is  your  brother;  he  and  Count  Brederode,  the 
heads  of  the  confederacy,  have  publicly  been  your 
guests.  The  petition  is  in  substance  identical 
with  your  own  representations  in  the  Council  of 
State.  If  you  now  suddenly  desert  the  cause  of 
your  king,  will  it  not  be  universally  said  that  you 
favor  the  conspiracy?”  We  do  not  find  it  any 
where  stated,  whether  the  prince  really  withdrew 
at  this  time  from  the  Council  of  State  ;  at  all 
events,  if  he  did,  he  must  soon  have  altered  his 
mind,  for  shortly  after,  he  appears  again  in  public 
transactions.  Egmont  allowed  himself  to  be  over¬ 
come  by  the  remonstrances  of  the  regent;  Horn 
alone  actually  withdrew  himself  to  one  of  his 
estates,*  with  the  resolution  of  never  more 
serving  either  emperor  or  king.  Meanwhile  the 
Gueux  had  dispersed  themselves  through  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  and  spread  everywhere  the  most  favora¬ 
ble  reports  of  their  success.  According  to  their 
assertions,  religious  freedom  was  finally  assured  ; 
and  in  order  to  confirm  their  statements,  they 
helped  themselves,  where  the  truth  failed,  with 
falsehood.  For  example,  they  produced  a  forged 
letter  of  the  Knights  of  the  Fleece,  in  which  the 
latter  were  made  solemnly  to  declare  that,  for  the 
future,  no  one  need  fear  imprisonment,  or  banish¬ 
ment,  or  death,  on  account  of  religion,  unless  he 
also  committed  a  political  crime ;  and  even  in 
that  case,  the  confederates  alone  were  to  be  his 
judges ;  and  this  regulation  was  to  be  in  force 
until  the  king,  with  the  consent  and  advice  of  the 
states  of  the  realm,  should  otherwise  dispose. 
Earnestly  as  the  knights  applied  themselves,  upon 
the  first  information  of  the  fraud,  to  rescue  the 
nation  from  their  delusion,  still  it  had  already, 
in  this  short  interval,  done  good  service  to  the 
faction.  If  there  are  truths  whose  effect  is  limited 
to  a  single  instant,  then  inventions  which  last  so 
long  can  easily  assume  their  place.  Besides,  the 
report,  however  false,  was  calculated  both  to 
awaken  distrust  between  the  regent  and  the 
knights,  and  to  support  the  courage  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  by  fresh  hopes,  while  it  also  furnished 
those  who  were  meditating  innovation  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  right,  which,  however  unsubstantial  they 
themselves  knew  it  to  be,  served  as  a  colorable 

*  Where  he  remained  three  months  inactive. 


pretext  for  their  proceedings.  Quickly  as  this 
delusion  was  dispelled,  still,  in  the  short  space  of 
time  that  it  obtained  belief,  it  had  occasioned  so 
many  extravagances,  had  introduced  so  much  of 
irregularity  and  license,  that  a  return  to  the  for¬ 
mer  state  of  things  became  impossible,  and  con¬ 
tinuance  in  the  course  already  commenced,  was 
rendered  necessary  as  well  by  habit  as  by  despair. 
On  the  very  first  news  of  this  happy  result,  the 
fugitive  Protestants  had  returned  to  their  homes, 
which  they  had  so  unwillingly  abandoned  ;  those 
who  had  been  in  concealment  came  forth  from 
their  hiding  places  ;  those  who  had  hitherto  paid 
homage  to  the  new  religion  in  their  hearts  alone, 
emboldened  by  these  pretended  acts  of  toleration, 
now  gave  in  their  adhesion  to  it  publicly  and  de¬ 
cidedly.  The  name  of  the  “  Gueux”  was  extolled 
in  all  the  provinces  ;  they  were  called  the  pillars 
of  religion  and  liberty :  their  party  increased 
daily,  and  many  of  the  merchants  began  to  wear 
their  insignia.  The  latter  made  an  alteration  in 
the  “  Geusen”  penny,  by  introducing  two  travel¬ 
ers’  staffs  laid  crosswise,  to  intimate  that  they 
stood  prepared  and  ready,  at  any  instant,  to  for¬ 
sake  house  and  hearth  for  the  sake  of  religion. 
The  Geusen  League,  in  short,  had  now  given  to 
things  an  entirely  different  form.  The  murmurs 
of  the  people,  hitherto  impotent  and  despised,  as 
being  the  cries  of  individuals,  had  now,  that  they 
were  concentrated,  become  formidable  ;  and  had 
gained  power,  direction,  and  firmness,  through 
union.  Every  one  who  was  rebelliously  disposed, 
now  looked  on  himself  as  the  member  of  a  vene¬ 
rable  and  powerful  body,  and  believed  that  by 
carrying  his  own  complaints  to  the  general  stock 
of  discontent,  he  secured  the  free  expression  of 
them.  To  be  called  an  important  acquisition  to 
the  league  flattered  the  vain  ;  to  be  lost,  unno¬ 
ticed,  and  irresponsible,  in  the  crowd,  was  an  in¬ 
ducement  to  the  timid.  The  face  which  the  con¬ 
federacy  showed  to  the  nation,  was  very  unlike 
that  which  it  had  turned  to  the  court.  But  had 
its  objects  been  the  purest,  had  it  really  been  as 
well  disposed  toward  the  throne  as  it  wished  to 
appear,  still  the  multitude  would  have  regarded 
only  what  was  illegal  in  its  proceedings,  and 
upon  them  its  better  intentions  would  have  been 
entirely  lost. 


PUBLIC  PREACHING. 

No  moment  could  be  more  favorable  to  the 
Huguenots  and  the  German  Protestants  than  the 
present,  to  seek  a  market  for  their  dangerous 
commodity  in  the  Netherlands.  Accordingly, 
every  considerable  town  now  swarmed  with  suspi¬ 
cious  arrivals,  masked  spies,  and  the  apostles  of 
every  description  of  heresy.  Of  the  religious 
parties  which  had  sprung  up  by  secession  from  the 
ruling  church,  three  chiefly  had  made  considerable 
progress  in  the  provinces.  Friesland,  and  the 
adjoining  districts,  were  overrun  by  the  Anabap¬ 
tists,  who,  however,  as  the  most  indigent,  without 
organization  and  government,  destitute  of  mili¬ 
tary  resources,  and  moreover  at  strife  amongst 
themselves,  awakened  the  least  apprehension.  Of 
far  more  importance  were  the  Calviuists,  who 


68 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


prevailed  in  the  southern  provinces,  and  above  all 
in  Flanders,  who  were  powerfully  supported  by 
their  neighbors  the  Huguenots,  the  republic  of 
Geneva,  the  Swiss  Cantons,  and  part  of  Germany, 
and  whose  opinions,  with  the  exception  of  a  slight 
difference,  were  also  held  by  the  throne  in  Eng¬ 
land.  They  were  also  the  most  numerous  party, 
especially  among  the  merchants  and  common 
citizens.  The  Huguenots  expelled  from  France 
had  been  the  chief  disseminators  of  the  tenets  of 
this  party.  The  Lutherans  were  inferior  both  in 
•numbers  and  wealth,  but  derived  weight  from 
having  many  adherents  among  the  nobility.  They 
occupied,  for  the  most  part,  the  eastern  portion 
of  the  Netherlands,  which  borders  on  Germany, 
and  were  also  to  be  found  in  some  of  the  northern 
territories.  Some  of  the  most  powerful  ^princes 
of  Germany  were  their  allies  ;  and  the  religious 
freedom  of  that  empire,  of  which  by  the  Burgun¬ 
dian  treaty  the  Netherlands  formed  an  integral 
part,  was  claimed  by  them  with  some  appearance 
of  right.  These  three  religious  denominations 
met  together  in  Antwerp,  where  the  crowded  po¬ 
pulation  concealed  them,  and  the  mingling  of  all 
nations  favored  liberty.  They  had  nothing  in 
common,  except  an  equally  inextinguishable 
hatred  of  Popery,  of  the  Inquisition  in  particular, 
and  of  the  Spanish  government,  whose  instru¬ 
ment  it  was;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
watched  each  other  with  a  jealousy  which  kept 
their  zeal  in  exercise,  and  prevented  the  glowing 
ardor  of  fanaticism  from  waxing  dull. 

The  regent,  in  expectation  that  the  projected 
“  Moderation”  would  be  sanctioned  by  the  king, 
had,  in  the  mean  time,  to  gratify  the  “  Gueux,” 
recommended  the  governors  and  municipal  offi¬ 
cers  of  the  provinces  to  be  as  moderate  as  pos¬ 
sible  in  their  proceedings  against  heretics  ;  in¬ 
structions  which  were  eagerly  followed,  and  inter¬ 
preted  in  the  widest  sense  by  the  majority,  who 
had  hitherto  administered  the  painful  duty  of 
punishment  with  extreme  repugnance.  Most  of 
the  chief  magistrates  were  in  their  hearts  averse 
to  the  Inquisition  and  the  Spanish  tyranny,  and 
many  were  even  secretly  attached  to  one  or  other 
of  the  religious  parties ;  even  the  others  were  un¬ 
willing  to  inflict  punishment  on  their  countrymen, 
to  gratify  their  sworn  enemies,  the  Spaniards. 
All,  therefore,  purposely  misunderstood  the  re¬ 
gent,  and  allowed  the  Inquisition  and  the  edicts 
to  fall  almost  entirely  into  disuse.  This  forbear¬ 
ance  of  the  government,  combined  with  the  bril¬ 
liant  representations  of  the  “  Gueux,”  lured  from 
their  obscurity  the  Protestants,  who,  however,  had 
now  grown  too  powerful  to  be  any  longer  con¬ 
cealed.  Hitherto  they  had  contented  themselves 
with  secret  assemblies  by  night ;  now  they  thought 
themselves  numerous  and  formidable  enough  to 
venture  to  these  meetings  openly  and  publicly. 
This  license  commenced  somewhere  between  Ou- 
denarde  and  Ghent,  and  soon  spread  through  the 
rest  of  Flanders.  A  certain  Hermann  Strieker, 
born  at  Overyssel,  formerly  a  monk,  a  daring 
enthusi&st,  of  able  mind,  imposing  figure,  and 
ready  tongue,  was  the  first  who  collected  the  peo¬ 
ple  for  a  sermon  in  the  open  air.  The  novelty  of 
the  thing  gathered  together  a  crowd  of  about 
seven  thousand  persons.  A  magistrate  of  the 


neighborhood,  more  courageous  than  wise,  rushed 
amongst  the  crowd  with  his  drawn  sword,  and 
attempted  to  seize  the  preacher,  but  was  so 
roughly  handled  by  the  multitude,  who  for  want 
of  other  weapons  took  up  stones,  and  felled  him 
to  the  ground,  that  he  was  glad  to  beg  for  his 
life.* 

This  success  of  the  first  attempt  inspired  cour¬ 
age  for  a  second.  In  the  vicinity  of  Aalst,  they 
assembled  again  in  still  greater  numbers  ;  but  on 
this  occasion  they  provided  themselves  with  ra¬ 
piers,  firearms,  and  halberds,  placed  sentries  at 
all  the  approaches,  which  they  also  barricaded 
with  carts  and  carriages.  All  passers  by  were 
obliged,  whether  willing  or  otherwise,  to  take  part 
in  the  religious  service,  and  to  enforce  this  object, 
look-out  parties  were  posted  at  certain  distances 
round  the  place  of  meeting.  At  the  entrance, 
book-sellers  stationed  themselves,  offering  for  sale 
Protestant  catechisms,  religious  tracts,  and  pas¬ 
quinades  on  the  bishops.  The  preacher,  Her¬ 
mann  Strieker,  held  forth  from  a  pulpit,  which  was 
hastily  constructed  for  the  occasion  out  of  carts 
and  trunks  of  trees.  A  canvas  awning  drawn 
over  it  protected  him  from  the  sun  and  the  rain  ; 
the  preacher’s  position  was  in  the  quarter  of  the 
wind  that  the  people  might  not  lose  any  part  of 
his  sermon,  which  consisted  principally  of  revilings 
against  Popery.  Here  the  sacraments  were  ad¬ 
ministered  after  the  Calvinist.ic  fashion  and  water 
was  procured  from  the  nearest  river  to  baptize 
infants  without  further  ceremony,  after  the  prac¬ 
tice,  it  was  pretended,  of  the  earliest  times  of 
Christianity.  Couples  were  also  united  in  wed¬ 
lock,  and  the  marriage  ties  dissolved  between 
others.  To  be  present  at  this  meeting,  half  the 
population  of  Ghent  had  left  its  gates  ;  their  ex¬ 
ample  was  soon  followed  in  other  parts,  and  ere 
long  spread  over  the  whole  of  East  Flanders. 
In  like  manner,  Peter  Dathen,  another  renegade 
monk,  from  Poperingen,  stirred  up  West  Flan¬ 
ders  ;  as  many  as  fifteen  thousand  persons  at  a 
time  attended  his  preaching  from  the  villages  and 
hamlets  ;  their  number  made  them  bold,  and  they 
broke  into  the  prisons,  where  some  Anabaptists 
were  reserved  for  martyrdom.  In  Tournay,  the 
Protestants  were  excited  to  a  similar  pitch  of 
daring  by  Ambrosius  Ville,  a  French  Calvinist. 
They  demanded  the  release  of  the  prisoners  of 
their  sect,  and  repeatedly  threatened,  if  their  de¬ 
mands  were  not  complied  with,  to  deliver  up 
the  town  to  the  French.  It  was  entirely  destitute 
of  a  garrison,  for  the  commandant,  for  fear  of 
treason,  had  withdrawn  it  into  the  castle,  and  the 
soldiers,  moreover,  refused  to  act  against  their 
fellow-citizens.  The  sectarians  carried  their  au¬ 
dacity  to  such  great  lengths,  as  to  require  one  of 
the  churches  within  the  town  to  be  assigned  to 
them  ;  and  when  this  was  refused,  they  entered 
into  a  league  with  Yalenciennes  and  Antwerp,  to 
obtain  a  legal  recognition  of  their  worship,  after 

**  The  unheard-of  foolhardiness  of  a  single  man  rush- 
ing  into  the  midst  of  a  fanatical  crowd  of  7,000  people, 
to  seize  before  their  eyes  one  whom  they  adored,  proves, 
more  than  all  that  can  be  said  on  the  subject,  the  inso¬ 
lent  contempt  with  which  the  Roman  Catholics  of  the 
time  looked  down  upon  the  so-called  heretics  as  an  infe¬ 
rior  race  of  beings. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


69 


the  example  of  the  other  towns,  by  open  force. 
These  three  towns  maintained  a  close  connection 
with  each  other,  and  the  Protestant  party  was 
equally  powerful  in  all.  While,  however,  no  one 
would  venture  singly  to  commence  the  disturbance, 
they  agreed  simultaneously  to  make  a  beginning 
with  public  preaching.  Brederode’s  appearance* 
in  Antwerp  at  last  gave  them  courage.  Six  thou¬ 
sand  persons,  men  and  women,  poured  forth  from 
the  town  on  an  appointed  day,  on  which  the  same 
thing  happened  in  Tournay  and  Valenciennes. 
The  place  of  meeting  was  closed  in  with  a  line  of 
vehicles,  firmly  fastened  together,  and  behind 
them  armed  men  were  secretly  posted,  with  a  view 
to  protect  the  service  from  any  surprise.  Of  the 

f)reache‘rs,  most  of  whom  were  men  of  the  very 
owest  class — some  were  Germans,  some  were 
Huguenots — -and  spoke  in  the  Walloon  dialect; 
some  even  of  the  citizens  felt  themselves  called 
upon  to  take  a  part  in  this  sacred  work,  now  that 
no  fears  of  the  officers  of  justice  alarmed  them. 
Many  were  drawn  to  the  spot  by  mere  curiosity, 
to  hear  what  kind  of  new  and  unheard-of  doctrines 
these  foreign  teachers,  whose  arrival  had  caused  so 
much  talk,  would  set  forth.  Others  were  attracted 
by  the  melody  of  the  psalms,  which  were  sung  in  a 
French  version,  after  the  custom  in  Geneva.  A 
great  number  came  to  hear  these  sermons  as  so 
many  amusing  comedies  ;  such  was  the  buffoonery 
with  which  the  pope,  the  fathers  of  the  ecclesias¬ 
tical  Council  of  Trent,  purgatory,  and  other  dog¬ 
mas  of  the  ruliug  church  were  abused  in  them. 
And,  in  fact,  the  more  extravagant  was  this  abuse 
and  ridicule,  the  more  it  tickled  the  ears  of  the 
lower  orders,  and  a  universal  clapping  of  hands, 
as  in  the  theatre,  rewarded  the  speaker  who  had 
surpassed  others  in  the  wildness  of  his  jokes  and 
denunciations.  But  the  ridicule  which  was  thus 
cast  upon  the  ruling  church  was,  nevertheless,  not 
entirely  lost  on  the  minds  of  the  hearers,  as 
neither  were  the  few  grains  of  truth  or  reason, 
which  occasionally  slipped  in  among  it ;  and 
many  a  one,  who  had  sought  from  these  sermons 
any  thing  but  conviction,  unconsciously  carried 
away  a  little  also  of  it. 

These  assemblies  were  several  times  repeated, 
and  each  day  augmented  the  boldness  of  the 
sectarians  ;  till  at  last  they  even  ventured,  after 
concluding  the  service,  to  conduct  their  preachers 
home  in  triumph,  with  an  escort  of  armed  horse¬ 
men,  and  ostentatiously  to  brave  the  law.  The 
town  council  sent  express  after  express  to  the 
duchess,  entreating  her  to  visit  them  in  person, 
and  if  possible  to  reside  for  a  short  time  in  Ant¬ 
werp,  as  the  only  expedient  to  curb  the' arrogance 
of  the  populace  ;  and  assuring  her  that  the  most 
eminent  merchants,  afraid  of  being  plundered, 
were  already  preparing  to  quit  it.  Fear  of  staking 
the  royal  dignity  on  so  hazardous  a  stroke  of 
policy,  forbade  her  compliance ;  but  she  dis¬ 
patched  in  her  stead  Count  Megen,  in  order  to 
treat  with  the  magistrate  for  the  introduction  of 
a  garrison.  The  rebellious  mob,  who  quickly 
got  an  inkling  of  the  object  of  his  visit,  gathered 
around  him  with  tumultuous  cries,  shouting — 
“  fie  was  known  to  them  as  a  sworn  enemy  of  the 
Gueux ;  that  it  was  notorious  he  was  bringing 
upon  them  prisons,  and  the  Inquisition,  and  that 


he  should  leave  the  town  instantly.”  Nor  was 
the  tumult  quieted  till  Megen  was  beyond  the 
gates.  The  Calvinists  now  handed  in  to  the 
magistrate  a  memorial,  in  which  they  showed 
that  their  great  numbers  made  it  impossible  for 
them  henceforward  to  assemble  in  secrecy,  and  re¬ 
quested  a  separate  place  of  worship  to  be  allowed 
them  inside  the  town.  The  town  council  renewed 
its  entreaties  to  the  duchess  to  assist,  by  her  per¬ 
sonal  presence,  their  perplexities,  or  at  least  to 
send  to  them  the  Prince  of  Orange,  as  the  only 
person  for  whom  the  people  still  had  any  respect ; 
and  moreover,  as  specially  bound  to  the  town  of 
Antwerp  by  his  hereditary  title  of  its  Burgrave. 
In  order  to  escape  the  greater  evil,  she  was  com¬ 
pelled  to  consent  to  the  second  demand,  however 
much  against  her  inclination  to  intrust  Antwerp  to 
the  prince.  After  allowing  himself  to  be  long 
and  fruitlessly  entreated,  for  he  had  all  at  once 
resolved  to  take  no  farther  share  in  public  affairs, 
he  yielded  at  last  to  the  earnest  persuasions  of 
the  regent,  and  the  boisterous  wishes  of  the 
people.  Brederode,  with  a  numerous  retinue, 
came  half  a  mile  out  of  the  town  to  meet  him, 
and  both  parties  saluted  each  other  with  a  dis¬ 
charge  of  pistols.  Antwerp  appeared  to  have 
poured  out  all  her  inhabitants  to  welcome  her 
deliverer.  The  high  road  swarmed  with  multi¬ 
tudes  ;  the  roofs  were  taken  off  the  houses,  in 
order  that  they  might  accommodate  more  specta¬ 
tors  ;  behind  fences,  from  churchyard  walls,  even 
out  of  graves  started  up  men.  The  attachment 
of  the  people  to  the  prince  showed  itself  in  child¬ 
ish  effusions.  “  Long  live  the  Gueux  !”  was  the 
shout  with  which  young  and  old  received  him. 
“  Behold,”  cried  others,  “the  man  who  shall  give 
us  liberty.”  “He  brings  us,”  cried  others,  “the 
Confession  of  Augsburg!”  “We  don’t  want 
the  Gueux  now  !”  exclaimed  others;  “we  have  no 
more  need  of  the  troublesome  journey  to  Brus¬ 
sels.  He  alone  is  every  thing  to  us !”  Those 
who  knew  not  what  to  say,  vented  their  extrava¬ 
gant  joy  in  psalms,  which  they  vociferously 
chanted  as  they  moved  along.  He,  however, 
maintained  his  gravity,  beckoned  for  silence,  and 
at  last,  when  no  one  would  listen  to  him,  exclaim¬ 
ed  with  indignation,  half  real  and  half  affected — 
“  By  God,  they  ought  to  consider  what  they  did, 
or  they  would  one  day  repent  what  they  had  now 
done.”  The  shouting  increased  even  as  he  rode 
into  the  town.  The  first  conference  of  the  prince 
with  the  heads  of  the  different  religious  sects, 
whom  he  sent  for  and  separately  interrogated, 
presently  convinced  him  that  the  chief  source  of 
the  evil,  was  the  mutual  distrust  of  the  several 
parties,  and  the  suspicions  which  the  citizens  en¬ 
tertained  of  the  designs  of  the  government;  and 
that,  therefore,  it  must  be  his  first  business  to  re¬ 
store  confidence  among  them  all.  First  ot  all  he 
attempted,  both  by  persuasion  and  artifice,  to 
induce  the  Calvinists,  as  the  most  numerous  body, 
to  lay  down  their  weapons,  and  in  this  he  at  last, 
with  much  labor,  succeeded.  When,  however, 
some  wagons  were  soon  after  laden  with  ammuni¬ 
tion  in  Malines,  and  the  High  Bailiff’  of  Brabant 
showed  himself  frequently  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Antwerp  with  an  armed  force,  the  Calvinists  fear¬ 
ing  hostile  interruption  cf  their  religious  worship, 


70 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


besought  the  prince  to  allot  them  a  place  within 
the  walls  for  their  sermons,  which  should  be 
secure  from  a  surprise.  He  succeeded  once  more 
in  pacifying  them,  and  his  presence  fortunately 
prevented  an  outbreak  on  the  Assumption  of  the 
Virgin,  which,  as  usual,  had  drawn  a  crowd  to 
the  town,  and  from  whose  sentiments  there  was 
but  too  much  reason  for  alarm.  The  image  of 
the  Virgin  was,  with  the  usual  pomp,  carried 
round  the  town  without  interruption  ;  a  few  words 
of  abuse,  and  a  suppressed  murmur  about  idolatry, 
w'as  all  that  the  disapproving  multitudes  indulged 
in  against  the  procession. 

L566.  While  the  regent  received  from  one  pro¬ 
vince  after  another  the  most  melancholy  accounts 
of  the  excesses  of  the  Protestants,  and  while  she 
trembled  for  Antwerp,  which  she  was  compelled 
to  leave  in  the  dangerous  hands  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  a  new  terror  assailed  her  from  another 
quarter.  Upon  the  first  authentic  tidings  of  the 
public  preaching,  she  immediately  called  upon  the 
league  to  fulfill  its  promise,  and  to  assist  her  in 
restoring  order.  Count  Brederode  used  this  pre¬ 
text  to  summon  a  general  meeting  of  the  whole 
league,  for  which  he  could  not  have  selected  a 
more  dangerous  moment  than  the  present.  So 
ostentatious  a  display  of  the  strength  of  the 
league,  whose  existence  and  protection  had  alone 
encouraged  the  Protestant  mob  to  go  the  length 
it  had  already  gone,  would  now  raise  the  confi¬ 
dence  of  the  sectarians,  while,  in  the  same  degree, 
it  depressed  the  courage  of  the  regent.  The  con¬ 
vention  took  place  in  the  town  of  Liege  St.  Tru- 
yen,  into  which  Brederode  and  Louis  of  Nassau 
had  thrown  themselves  at  the  head  of  2,000  con¬ 
federates.  As  the  long  delay  of  the  royal  answer 
from  Madrid  seemed  to  presage  no  good  from 
that  quarter,  they  considered  it  advisable,  in  any 
case,  to  extort  from  the  regent  a  letter  of  indem¬ 
nity  for  their  persons. 

Those  among  them  who  were  conscious  of  a 
disloyal  sympathy  with  the  Protestant  mob, 
looked  on  its  licentiousness  as  a  favorable  circum¬ 
stance  for  the  league  ;  the  apparent  success  of 
those  to  whose  degrading  fellowship  they  had 
deigned  to  stoop,  led  them  to  alter  their  tone  ; 
their  former  laudable  zeal  began  to  degenerate 
into  insolence  and  defiance.  Many  thought  that 
they  ought  to  avail  themselves  of  the  general  con¬ 
fusion  and  the  perplexity  of  the  duchess,  to  as¬ 
sume  a  bolder  tone  and  heap  demand  upon  de¬ 
mand.  'The  Roman  Catholic  members  of  the 
league,  among  whom  many  were,  in  their  hearts, 
still  strongly  inclined  to  the  royal  cause,  and  who 
had  been  drawn  into  a  connection  with  the  league 
by  occasion  and  example,  rather  than  from  feel¬ 
ing  and  conviction,  now  heard,  to  their  astonish¬ 
ment,  propositions  for  establishing  universal  free¬ 
dom  of  religion,  and  were  not  a  little  shocked  to 
discover  in  how  perilous  an  enterprise  they  had 
hastily  implicated  themselves.  On  this  discovery, 
the  young  Count  Mansfeld  withdrew  immediately 
from  it,  and  internal  dissensions  already  began  to 
undermine  the  work  of  precipitation  and  haste, 
and  imperceptibly  to  loosen  the  joints  of  the 
league. 

Count  Egmont  and  'William  of  Orange  were 
empowered  by  the  regent  to  treat  with  the  confe¬ 


derates.  Twelve  of  the  latter,  among  whom  were 
Louis  of  Nassau,  Brederode,  and  Kuilemburg, 
conferred  with  them  in  Duffle,  a  village  near  Ma- 
lines.  “Wherefore  this  new  step?"  demanded 
the  regent  by  the  mouth  of  these  two  noblemen. 
“I  was  required  to  dispatch  ambassadors  to 
Spain  ;  and  I  sent  them.  The  edicts  and  the  In¬ 
quisition  were  complained  of  as  too  rigorous  ;  I 
have  rendered  both  more  lenient.  A  general  as¬ 
sembly  of  the  states  of  the  realm  was  proposed  ; 
I  have  submitted  this  request  to  the  king,  be¬ 
cause  I  could  not  grant  it  from  my  own  authority. 
What,  then,  have  I  unwittingly  either  omitted  or 
done,  that  should  render  necessary  this  assem¬ 
bling  in  St.  Truyen  ?  Is  it  perhaps  fear  of  the 
king’s  anger,  and  of  its  consequences,. that  dis¬ 
turbs  the  confederates  ?  The  provocation  is  cer¬ 
tainly  great,  but  his  mercy  is  even  greater. 
Where  now  is  the  promise  of  the  league,  to  ex¬ 
cite  no  disturbances  amongst  the  people  ?  Where 
those  high-sounding  professions,  that  they  were 
ready  to  die  at  my  feet,  rather  than  offend 
against  any  of  the  prerogatives  of  the  crown  ? 
The'  innovators  already  venture  on  things  which 
border  closely  on  rebellion,  and  threaten  the  state 
with  destruction  ;  and  it  is  to  the  league  that 
they  appeal.  If  it  continues  silently  to  tolerate 
this,  it  will  justly  bring  on  itself  the  charge  of 
participating  in  the  guilt  of  their  offenses  ;  if  it 
is  honestly  disposed  toward  the  sovereign,  it  can¬ 
not  remain  longer  inactive  in  this  licentiousness 
of  the  mob.  But,  in  truth,  does  it  not  itself  out¬ 
strip  the  insane  population  by  its  dangerous  ex¬ 
ample,  concluding,  as  it  is  known  to  do,  alliances 
with  the  enemies  of  the  country,  and  confirming 
the  evil  report  of  its  designs  by  the  present  ille¬ 
gal  meeting?" 

Against  these  reproaches  the  league  formally 
justified  itself,  in  a  memorial  which  it  deputed 
three  of  its  members  to  deliver  to  the  Council  of 
State  at  Brussels. 

“  All,”  it  commenced,  “  that  your  highness  has 
done  in  respect  to  our  petition  we  have  felt  with 
the  most  lively  gratitude;  and  we  cannot  com¬ 
plain  of  any  new  measure  subsequently  adopted, 
inconsistent  with  your  promise  ;  but  we  cannot 
help  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  orders  of 
your  highness  are,  by  the  judicial  courts  at  least, 
very  little  regarded  ;  for  we  are  continually  hear¬ 
ing — and  our  own  eyes  attest  to  the  truth  of  the 
report — that  in  all  quarters  our  fellow-citizens 
are,  in  spite  of  the  orders  of  your  highness,  still 
mercilessly  dragged  before  the  courts  of  justice, 
and  condemned  to  death  for  religion.  What  the 
league  engaged  on  its  part  to  do,  it  has  honestly 
fulfilled  ;  it  has,  too,  to  the  utmost  of  its  power, 
endeavored  to  prevent  the  public  preachings  ;  but 
it  certainly  is  no  wonder  if  the  long  delay  of  an 
answer  from  Madrid  fills  the  mind  of  the  people 
with  distrust,  and  if  the  disappointed  hopes  of  a 
general  assembly  of  the  states  disposes  them  to 
put  little  faith  in  any  further  assurances.  The 
league  has  never  allied,  nor  ever  felt  any  tempta¬ 
tion  to  ally,  itself  with  the  enemies  of  the  country. 
If  the  arms  of  France  were  to  appear  in  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  we,  the  confederates,  would  be  the  first  to 
mount  and  drive  them  back  again.  The  league, 
however,  desires  to  be  candid  with  your  highness. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


71 


We  thought  we  read  marks  of  displeasure  in  your 
countenance;  we  see  men  in  exclusive  possession 
of  your  favor,  who  are  notorious  for  their  hatred 
against  us.  We  daily  hear  that  persons  are 
warned  from  associating  with  us,  as  with  those 
infected  with  the  plague,  while  we  are  denounced 
with  the  arrival  of  the  king,  as  with  the  opening 
of  a  day  of  judgment — what  is  more  natural  than 
that  such  distrust  shown  to  us,  should  at  last 
rouse  our  own  ?  That  the  attempt  to  blacken  our 
league  with  the  reproach  of  treason,  that  the  war¬ 
like  preparations  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  other 
princes,  which,  according  to  common  report,  are 
directed  against  ourselves  ;  the  negotiations  of 
the  king  with  the  French  court,  to  obtain  a  pas¬ 
sage  through  that  kingdom  for  a  Spanish  army, 
which  is  destined,  it  is  said,  for  the  Netherlands — 
what  wonder  if  these,  and  similar  occurrences, 
should  have  stimulated  us  to  think  in  time  of  the 
means  of  self-defense,  and  to  strengthen  ourselves 
by  an  alliance  with  our  friends  beyond  the  fron¬ 
tier  ?  On  a  general,  uncertain,  and  vague  rumor, 
we  are  accused  of  a  share  in  this  licentiousness 
of  the  Protestant  mob  ;  but  who  is  safe  from  ge¬ 
neral  rumor?  True  it  is,  certainly,  that  of  our 
numbers  some  are  Protestants,  to  whom  religious 
toleration  would  be  a  welcome  boon;  but  even 
they  have  never  forgotten  what  they  owe  to  their 
sovereign.  It  is  not  fear  of  the  king’s  anger 
which  instigated  us  to  hold  this  assembly.  The 
king  is  good,  and  we  still  hope  that  he  is  also 
just.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  pardon  that  we 
seek  from  him,  and  just  as  little  can  it  be  oblivion, 
that  we  solicit  for  our  actions,  which  are  far  from 
being  the  least  considerable  of  the  services  we 
have  at  different  times  rendered  his  majesty. 
Again,  it  is  true,  that  the  delegates  of  the  Luthe¬ 
rans  and  Calvinists  are  with  us  in  St.  Truyen  ; 
nay,  more,  they  have  delivered  to  us  a  petition 
which,  annexed  to  this  memorial,  we  here  present 
to  your  highness.  In  it  they  offer  to  go  unarmed 
to  their  preachings,  if  the  league  will  tender  its 
security  to  them,  and  be  willing  to  engage  for  a 
general  meeting  of  the  states.  We  have  thought 
it  incumbent  upon  us  to  communicate  both  these 
matters  to  you,  for  our  guarantee  can  have  no 
force,  unless  it  is  at  the  same  time  confirmed  by 
your  highness  and  some  of  your  principal  coun¬ 
selors.  Among  these,  no  one  can  be  so  well  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  circumstances  of  our  cause,  or 
be  so  upright  in  intention  toward  us,  as  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  and  Counts  Horn  and  Eg- 
mont.  We  gladly  accept  these  three  as  media¬ 
tors,  if  the  necessary  powers  are  given  to  them, 
and  assurance  is  afforded  us,  that  no  troops  will 
be  enlisted  without  their  knowledge.  This  gua¬ 
rantee,  however,  we  only  require  for  a  given  pe¬ 
riod,  before  the  expiration  of  which  it  will  rest 
with  the  king,  whether  he  will  cancel  or  confirm 
it  for  the  future.  If  the  first  should  be  his  will, 
it  will  then  be  but  fair  that  time  should  be  allowed 
us  to  place  our  persons  and  our  property  in  secu¬ 
rity ;  for  this,  three  weeks  will  be  sufficient.  Fi¬ 
nally,  and  in  conclusion,  we  on  our  part  also 
pledge  ourselves  to  undertake  nothing  new,  with¬ 
out  the  concurrence  of  those  three  persons,  our 
mediators.” 

The  league  would  not  have  ventured  to  hold 


such  bold  language,  if  it  had  not  reckoned  on 
powerful  support  and  protection  ;  but  the  regent 
was  as  little  in  a  condition  to  concede  their  de¬ 
mands,  as  she  was  incapable  of  vigorously  oppo¬ 
sing  them.  Deserted  in  Brussels  by  most  of  her 
counselors  of  state,  who  had  either  departed  to 
heir  provinces,  or  under  some  pretext  or  other 
rad  altogether  withdrawn  from  public  affairs; 
destitute  as  well  of  advisers  as  of  money,  (the 
after  want  had  compelled  her,  in  the  first  in¬ 
stance,  to  appeal  to  the  liberality  of  the  clergy, 
when  this  proved  insufficient,  to  have  recourse  to 
a  lottery,)  dependent  on  orders  from  Spain,  which 
were  ever  expected  and  never  received,  she  was 
at  last  reduced  to  the  degrading  expedient  of  en¬ 
tering  into  a  negotiation  with  the  confederates  in 
St.  Truyen,  that  they  should  wait  twenty-four 
days  longer  for  the  king’s  resolution,  before  they 
took  any  further  steps.  It  was  certainly  surpri¬ 
sing,  that  the  king  still  continued  to  delay  a  deci¬ 
sive  answer  to  the  petition,  although  it  was  uni¬ 
versally  known  that  he  had  answered  letters  of  a 
much  later  date,  and  that  the  regent  earnestly 
importuned  him  on  this  head.  She  had  also,  on 
the  commencement  of  the  public  preaching,  im¬ 
mediately  dispatched  the  Marquis  of  Bergen 
after  the  Baron  of  Montigny,  who,  as  an  eye  wit¬ 
ness  of  these  new  occurrences,  could  confirm  her 
written  statements,  to  move  the  king  to  an  earlier 
decision. 

1566.  In  the  mean  while,  the  Flemish  Ambas¬ 
sador,  Florence  of  Montigny,  had  arrived  in  Mad¬ 
rid,  where  he  was  received  with  a  great  show  of 
consideration.  His  instructions  were  to  press  for 
the  abolition  of  the  Inquisition,  and  the  mitiga¬ 
tion  of  the  edicts  ;  the  augmentation  of  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State,  and  the  incorporation  with  it  of  the 
two  other  councils ;  the  calling  of  a  general  as¬ 
sembly  of  the  states,  and,  lastly,  to  urge  the 
solicitations  of  the  regent  for  a  personal  visit 
from  the  king.  As  the  latter,  however,  was  only 
desirous  of  gaining  time,  Montigny  was  put  off 
with  fair  words  until  the  arrival  of  his  coadjutor, 
without  whom  the  king  was  not  willing  to  come 
to  any  final  determination.  In  the  mean  time, 
Montigny  had,  every  day  and  at  any  hour  that  he 
desired,  an  audience  with  the  king,  who  also  com¬ 
manded,  that  on  all  occasions  the  dispatches  of 
the  duchess  and  the  answers  to  them  should  be 
communicated  to  himself.  He  was,  too,  frequently 
admitted  to  the  council  for  Belgian  affairs,  where 
he  never  omitted  to  call  the  king’s  attention  to 
the  necessity  of  a  general  assembly  of  the  states, 
as  being  the  only  means  of  successfully  meeting 
the  troubles  which  had  arisen,  and  as  likely  to 
supersede  the  necessity  of  any  other  measure. 
He  moreover  impressed  upon  him,  that  a  general 
and  unreserved  indemnity  for  the  past  would  alone 
eradicate  the  distrust,  which  was  the  source  of 
all  existing  complaints,  and  would  always  coun¬ 
teract  the  good  etfects  of  every  measure,  however 
well  advised.  He  ventured,  from  a  thorough  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  circumstances  and  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  his  countrymen,  to 
pledge  himself  to  the  king  for  their  inviolable 
loyalty,  as  soon  as  they  should  be  convinced  of 
the  honesty  of  his  intentions  by  the  straightfor¬ 
wardness  of  his  proceedings  ;  while,  on  the  con- 


72 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


trary,  he  assured  him  that  there  would  be  no 
hopes  of  it,  as  long  as  they  were  not  relieved  of 
the  fear  of  being  made  the  victims  of  the  oppres¬ 
sion,  and  sacrificed  to  the  envy,  of  the  Spanish 
nobles.  At  last,  Montigny’s  coadjutor  made  his 
appearance,  and  the  objects  of  their  embassy  were 
made  the  subject  of  repeated  deliberations. 

1566.  The  king  was  at  that  time  at  his  palace 
at  Segovia,  where  also  he  assembled  his  State 
Council.  The  members  were  :  the  Duke  of  Alva ; 
Don  Gomez  de  Figueroa;  the  Count  of  Feria; 
Don  Antonio  of  Toledo,  Grand  Commander  of 
St  John;  Don  John  Manriquez  of  Lara,  Lord 
Steward  to  the  Queen;  Buy  Gomez,  Prince  of 
Eboli  and  Count  of  Melito  ;  Louis  of  Quixada, 
Master  of  the  Horse  to  the  Prince;  Charles 
Tyssenacque,  President  of  the  Council  for  the 
Netherlands  ;  Hopper,  State  Counselor  and 
Keeper  of  the  Seal ;  and  State  Counselor  Corte- 
ville.  The  sitting  of  the  council  was  protracted 
for  several  days ;  both  ambassadors  were  in  at¬ 
tendance,  but  the  king  was  not  himself  present. 
Here,  then,  the  conduct  of  the  Belgian  nobles 
was  examined  by  Spanish  eyes  ;  step  by  step  it 
was  traced  back  to  the  most  distant  source  ;  cir¬ 
cumstances  were  brought  into  relation  with 
others,  which,  in  reality,  never  had  any  connec¬ 
tion  ;  and  what  had  been  the  offspring  of  the 
moment,  was  made  out  to  be  a  well-matured  and 
far-sighted  plan.  All  the  different  transactions 
and  attempts  of  the  nobles  which  had  been  gov¬ 
erned  solely  by  chance,  and  to  which  the  natural 
order  of  events  alone  assigned  their  particular 
shape  and  succession,  were  said  to  be  the  result 
of  a  preconcerted  scheme  for  introducing  univer¬ 
sal  liberty  in  religion,  and  for  placing  all  the 
power  of  the  state  in  the  hands  of  the  nobles. 
The  first  step  to  this  end  was,  it  was  said,  the 
violent  expulsion  of  the  minister  Granvella, 
against  whom  nothing  could  be  charged,  except 
that  he  was  in  possession  of  an  authority  which 
they  preferred  to  exercise  themselves.  The  second 
step  was  sending  Count  Egmont  to  Spain,  to 
urge  the  abolition  of  the  Inquisition,  and  the  miti¬ 
gation  of  the  penal  statutes,  and  to  prevail  on 
the  king  to  consent  to  an  augmentation  of  the 
Council  of  State.  As,  however,  this  could  not 
be  surreptitiously  obtained  in  so  quiet  a  manner, 
the  attempt  was  made  to  extort  it  from  the  court 
by  a  third  and  more  daring  step— by  a  formal 
conspiracy,  the  League  of  the  Gueux.  The  fourth 
step  to  the  same  end  was  the  present  embassy, 
which  at  length  boldly  cast  aside  the  mask,  and 
by  the  insane  proposals  which  they  were  not 
ashamed  to  make  to  tfieir  king,  clearly  brought 
to  light  the  object  to  which  all  the  preceding  steps 
had  tended.  Could  the  abolition  of  the  Inquisi¬ 
tion,  they  exclaimed,  lead  to  any  thing  less  than  a 
complete  freedom  of  belief?  Would  not  the  guid¬ 
ing  helm  of  conscience  be  lost  with  it?  Did  not 
the  proposed  “  moderation”  introduce  an  absolute 
impunity  for  all  heresies?  What  was  the  project 
of  augmenting  the  Council  of  State  and  of  sup¬ 
pressing  the  two  other  councils,  but  a  complete 
remodeling  of  the  government  of  the  country  in 
favor  of  the  nobles? — a  general  government  for 
all  the  provinces  of  the  Netherlands?  Again, 
what  was  this  compact  of  the  ecclesiastics  in 


their  public  preaching,  but  a  third  conspiracy, 
entered  into  with  the  very  same  objects  which  the 
league  of  the  nobles  in  the  Council  of  State,  and 
that  of  the  Gueux,  had  failed  to  effect  ? 

However,  it  was  confessed,  that  whatever  might 
be  the  source  of  the  evil,  it  was  not  on  that  ac¬ 
count  the  less  important  and  imminent.  The  im¬ 
mediate  personal  presence  of  the  king  in  Brussels 
was  indubitably,  the  most  efficacious  means,  speed¬ 
ily  and  thoroughly  to  remedy  it.  As,  however,  it 
was  already  so  late  in  the  year,  and  the  prepara¬ 
tions  alone  for  the  journey  would  occupy  the  short 
time  which  was  to  elapse  before  the  winter  set  in  ; 
as  the  stormy  season  of  the  year,  as  well  as  the 
danger  from  French  and  English  ships,  which 
rendered  the  sea  unsafe,  did  not  allow  of  the 
king’s  taking  the  northern  route,  which  was  the 
shorter  of  the  two ;  as  the  rebels  themselves 
meanwhile  might  become  possessed  of  the  island 
of  Walcheren,  and  oppose  the  landing  of  the 
king  ;  for  all  these  reasons,  the  journey  was  not 
to  be  thought  of  before  the  spring,  and  in  ab- 
sense  of  the  only  complete  remedy  it  was  neces¬ 
sary  to  rest  satisfied  with  a  partial  expedient. 
The  council,  therefore,  agreed  to  propose  to  the 
king’,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  should  recall  the 
Papal  Inquisition  from  the  provinces  and  rest  sa¬ 
tisfied  with  that  of  the  bishops  ;  in  the  second 
place,  that  a  new  plan  for  the  mitigation  of  the 
edicts  should  be  projected,  by  which  the  honor  of 
religion  and  the  king  would  be  better  preserved 
than  it  had  been  in  the  transmitted  “  modera¬ 
tion  ;”  thirdly,  that  in  order  to  reassure  the 
minds  of  the  people,  and  to  leave  no  means  un¬ 
tried,  the  king  should  impart  to  the  regent  full 
powers  to  extend  free  grace  and  pardon  to  all 
those  who  had  not  already  committed  any  heinous 
crime,  or  who  had  not  as  yet  been  condemned  by 
any  judicial  process  ;  but  from  the  benefit  of  this 
indemnity,  the  preachers,  and  all  who  harbored 
them,  were  to  be  excepted.  On  the  other  hand, 
all  leagues,  associations,  public  assemblies,  and 
preachings,  were  to  be  henceforth  prohibited  un¬ 
der  heavy  penalties;  if,  however,  this  prohibition 
should  be  infringed,  the  regent  was  to  be  at  liberty 
to  employ  the  regular  troops  and  garrisons  lor 
the  forcible  reduction  of  the  refractory,  and  also, 
in  case  of  necessity,  to  enlist  new  troops,  and  to 
name  the  commanders  over  them,  according  as 
should  be  deemed  advisable.  Finally,  it  would 
have  a  good  effect,  if  his  majesty  would  write  to 
the  most  eminent  towns,  prelates,  and  leaders  of 
the  nobility,  to  some  in  his  own  hand,  and  to  all  in 
a  gracious  tone,  in  order  to  stimulate  their  zeal  in 
his  service. 

When  this  resolution  of  the  Council  ot  State 
was  submitted  to  the  king,  his  first  measure  was 
to  command  public  processions  and  prayers  :n  all 
the  most  considerable  places  of  the  kingdom,  and 
also  of  the  Netherlands,  imploring  the  divine 
guidance  in  his  decision.  He  appeared  in  his  own 
person  in  the  Council  of  State  in  order  to  approve 
this  resolution,  and  render  it  effective.  He  de¬ 
clared  the  General  Assembly  of  the  States  to  be 
useless,  and  entirely  abolished  it.  He,  however, 
bound  himself  to  retain  some  German  regiments 
in  his  pay,  and  that  they  might  serve  with  the 
more  zeal,  to  pay  them  their  long-standing  arrears. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


73 


He  commanded  the  regent,  in  a  private  letter,  to 
prepare  secretly  for  war  ;  three  thousand  horse 
and  ten  thousand  infantry  were  to  be  assembled 
by  her  in  Germany,  to  which  end  he  furnished  her 
with  the  necessary  letters,  and  transmitted  to  her 
a  sum  of  three  hundred  thousand  gold  florins.  He 
also  accompanied  this  resolution  with  several 
autograph  letters  to  some  private  individuals  and 
towns,  in  which  he  thanked  them  in  the  most  gra¬ 
cious  terms  for  the  zeal  which  they  had  already 
displayed  in  his  service,  and  called  upon  them  to 
manifest  the  same  for  the  future.  Notwithstand¬ 
ing  that  he  was  inexorable  on  the  most  important 
point,  and  the  very  one  on  which  the  nation  most 
particularly  insisted — the  convocation  of  the 
states  ;  notwithstanding  that  his  limited  and  am¬ 
biguous  pardon  was  as  good  as  none,  and  depend¬ 
ed  too  much  on  arbitrary  will  to  calm  the  public 
mind ;  notwithstanding,  in  fine,  that  he  rejected, 
as  too  lenient,  the  proposed  “  moderation,”  but 
which,  on  the  part  of  the  people,  was  complained 
of  as  too  severe  ;  still  he  had  at  this  time  made 
an  unwonted  step  in  the  favor  of  the  nation  ;  he 
had  sacrificed  to  it  the  Papal  Inquisition  and  left 
only  the  Episcopal,  to  which  it  was  accustomed. 
The  nation  had  found  more  equitable  judges  in 
the  Spanish  council  than  they  could  reasonably 
have  hoped  for.  Whether,  at  another  time,  and 
under  other  circumstances,  this  wise  concession 
would  have  had  the  desired  effect,  we  will  not 
pretend  to  say.  It  came  too  late:  when  (1566) 
the  royal  letters  reached  Brussels,  the  attack  on 
images  had  already  commenced. 


BOOK  IT. 

THE  ICONOCLASTS. 

The  springs  of  this  extraordinary  occurrence  are 
plainly  not  to  be  sought. for  so  far  back  as  many 
historians  affect  to  trace  them.  It  is  certainly 
possible,  and  very  probable  that  the  French  Pro¬ 
testants  did  industriously  exert  themselves  to 
raise  in  the  Netherlands  a  nursery  for  their  reli¬ 
gion,  and  to  prevent,  by  all  means  in  their  power, 
an  amicable  adjustment  of  differences  between 
their  brethren  in  the  faith  in  that  quarter  and  the 
King  of  Spain,  in  order  to  give  that  implacable 
foe  of  their  party  enough  to  do  in  his  own  country. 
It  is  natural,  therefore,  to  suppose  that  their  agents 
in  the  provinces  left  nothing  undone  to  encourage 
their  oppressed  brethren  with  daring  hopes,  to 
nourish  their  animosity  against  the  ruling  church, 
and  by  exaggerating  the  oppression  under  which 
they  sighed,  to  hurry  them  imperceptibly  into 
illegal  courses.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  there 
wore  many  among  the  confederates  who  thought 
to  help  out  their  own  lost  cause  by  increasing  the 
number  of  their  partners  in  guilt ;  who  thought 
they  could  not  otherwise  maintain  the  legal  char¬ 
acter  of  their  league,  unless  the  unfortunate  re¬ 
sults,  against  which  they  had  warned  the  king, 
really  came  to  pass;  and  who  hoped  in  the  gen¬ 
eral  guilt  of  all  to  conceal  their  own  individual 
criminality.  It  is,  however,  incredible  that  the 
outbreak  of  the  Iconoclasts  was  the  fruit  of  a  de¬ 


liberate  plan,  preconcerted,  as  it  is  alleged,  at  thb 
convent  of  St.  Truyen.  It  does  not  seem  likely, 
that  in  a  solemn  assembly  of  so  many  nobles  and 
warriors,  of  whom  the  greater  part  were  the  adhe¬ 
rents  of  Popery,  an  individual  should  be  found  in¬ 
sane  enough  to  propose  an  act  of  positive  infamy, 
which  did  not  so  much  injure  any  religious  party 
in  particular,  as  rather  tread  under  foot  all  re¬ 
spect  for  religion  in  general,  and  even  all  mo¬ 
rality  too,  and  which  could  have  been  conceived 
only  in  the  mind  of  the  vilest  reprobate.  Besides, 
this  outrage  was  too  sudden  in  its  outbreak,  too 
vehement  in  its  execution  altogether,  too  mon¬ 
strous  to  have  been  any  thing  more  than  the  off¬ 
spring  of  the  moment  in  which  it  saw  the  light,  it 
seemed  to  flow  so  naturally  from  the  circumstances 
which  preceded  it,  that  it  does  not  require  to  be 
traced  far  back  to  remount  to  its  origin. 

A  rude  mob,  consisting  of  the  very  dregs  of  the 
populace,  rendered  brutal  by  harsh  treatment,  by 
sanguinary  decrees  which  dogged  them  in  every 
town,  scared  from  place  to  place,  and  driven  al¬ 
most  to  despair,  were  compelled  to  worship  their 
God,  and  to  hide,  like  a  work  of  darkness,  the 
universal  sacred  privilege  of  humanity,  Before 
their  eyes  proudly  rose  the  temples  of  the  domi¬ 
nant  church,  in  which  their  haughty  brethren  in¬ 
dulged  in  ease  their  magnificent  devotion,  while 
they  themselves  were  driven  from  the  walls,  ex¬ 
pelled,  too,  by  the  weaker  number  perhaps,  and 
forced,  here  in  the  wild  woods,  under  the  burning 
heat  of  noon,  in  disgraceful  secrecy  to  worship 
the  same  God — cast  out  from  civil  society  into  a 
state  of  nature,  and  reminded,  in  one  dread  mo¬ 
ment,  of  the  rights  of  that  state  !  The  greater 
their  superiority  of  numbers,  the  more  unnatural 
did  their  lot  appear — with  wonder  they  perceive 
the  truth.  The  free  heaven,  the  arms  lying  ready, 
the  frenzy  in  their  brains  and  fury  in  their  hearts 
combine  to  aid  the  suggestions  of  some  preach¬ 
ing  fanatic  ;  the  occasion  calls,  no  premeditation 
is  necessary,  where  all  eyes  at  once  declare  con¬ 
sent  ;  the  resolution  is  formed  ere  yet  the  word  is 
scarcely  uttered  ;  ready  for  any  unlawful  act,  no 
one  yet  clearly  knows  what,  the  furious  band 
rushes  onward.  The  smiling  prosperity  of  the 
hostile  religion  insults  the  poverty  of  their  own  ; 
the  pomp  of  the  authorized  temples  casts  con¬ 
tempt  on  their  proscribed  belief ;  every  cross  set 
up  upon  the  highway,  every  image  of  the  saints 
that  they  meet,  is  a  trophy  erected  over  their  hu¬ 
miliation,  and  they  all  must  be  removed  by  their 
avenging  hands.  Fanaticism  suggests  these  de¬ 
testable  proceedings,  but  base  passions  carry 
them  into  execution. 

1566.  The  commencement  of  the  attack  on 
images  took  place  in  West  Flanders  and  Artois, 
in  the  districts  between  Lys  and  the  sea.  A 
frantic  herd  of  artisans,  boatmen,  and  peasants, 
mixed  with  prostitutes,  beggars,  vagabonds,  and 
thieves,  about  three  hundred  in  number,  furnished 
with  clubs,  axes,  hammers,  ladders,  and  cords,  (a 
few  only  were  provided  with  swords  or  fire-arms,) 
cast  themselves,  with  fanatical  fury,  into  the 
villages  and  hamlets  near  St.  Omer,  and  breaking 
open  the  gates  of  such  churches  and  cloisters  as 
they  find  locked,  overthrow  everywhere  the  altars, 
break  to  pieces  the  images  of  the  sain+s,  and 


74 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


trample  them  under  foot.  With  their  excitement 
increased  by  its  indulgence,  and  reinforced  by  new 
comers,  they  press  on,  by  the  direct  road,  to 
Ypres,  where  they  can  count  on  the  support  of  a 
strong  body  of  Calvinists.  Unopposed,  they 
break  into  the  cathedral,  and  mounting  on  ladders, 
they  hammer  to  pieces  the  pictures,  hew  down 
with  axes  the  pulpits  and  pews,  despoil  the  altars 
of  their  ornaments,  and  steal  the  holy  vessels. 
This  example  was  quickly  followed  in  Menin, 
Coniines,  Verrich,  Lille,  and  Oudenard  ;  in  a  few 
days,  the  same  fury  spreads  through  the  whole  of 
Flanders.  At  the  very  time  when  the  first  tidings 
of  this  occurrence  arrived,  Antwerp  was  swarming 
with  a  crowd  of  houseless  people,  which  the  feast 
of  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  had  brought 
together  in  that  city.  Even  the  presence  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange  was  hardly  sufficient  to- restrain 
the  licentious  mob,  who  burned  to  imitate  the 
doings  of  their  brethren  in  St.  Omer;  but  an 
order  from  the  court,  which  summoned  him  to 
Brussels,  where  the  regent  was  just  assembling 
her  Council  of  State,  in  order  to  lay  before  them 
the  royal  letters,  obliged  him  to  abandon  Antwerp 
to  the  outrages  of  this  band.  His  departure  was 
the  signal  for  tumult.  Apprehensive  of  the  law¬ 
less  violence,  of  which,  on  the  very  first  day  of  the 
festival,  the  mob  had  given  indications  in  derisory 
allusions,  the  priests,  after  carrying  about  the 
image  of  the  Virgin  for  a  short  time,  brought  it 
for  safety  to  the  choir,  without,  as  formerly,  setting 
it  up  in  the  middle  of  the  church.  This  incited 
some  mischievous  boys  from  among  the  people,  to 
ay  it  a  visit  there,  and  jokingly  inquire,  why  she 
ad  so  soon  absented  herself  from  among  them? 
Others,  mounting  the  pulpit,  mimicked  the 
preacher,  and  challenged  the  Papists  to  a  dispute. 
A  Roman  Catholic  waterman,  indignant  at  this 
jest,  attempted  to  pull  them  down,  and  blows 
were  exchanged  in  the  preacher’s  seat.  Similar 
scenes  occurred  on  the  following  evening.  The 
numbers  increased,  and  many  came  already  pro¬ 
vided  with  suspicious  implements  and  secret 
weapons.  At  last  it  came  into  the  head  of  one  of 
them  to  cry,  “  Long  live  the  Gueux  !”  immediately 
the  whole  bapd  took  up  the  cry,  and  the  image  of 
the  Virgin  was  called  upon  to  do  the  same.  The 
few  Roman  Catholics  who  were  present,  and  who 
had  given  up  the  hope  of  effecting  any  thing 
against  these  desperadoes,  left  the  church,  after 
locking  all  the  doors  except  one.  So  soon  as 
they  found  themselves  alone,  it  was  proposed  to 
sing  one  of  the  psalms  in  the  new  version,  which 
was  prohibited  by  the  government.  While  they 
were  yet  singing,  they  all,  as  at  a  given  signal, 
rushed  furiously  upon  the  image  of  the  Virgin, 
piercing  it  with  swords  and  daggers,  and  striking 
off  its  head  ;  thieves  and  prostitutes  tore  the  great 
wax-lights  from  the  altar,  and  lighted  them  to  the 
work.  The  beautiful  organ  of  the  church,  a 
masterpiece  of  the  art  of  that  period,  was  broken 
to  pieces,  all  the  paintings  were  effaced,  and  the 
statues  smashed  to  atoms.  A  crucifix,  the  size 
of  life,  which  was  set  up  between  the  two  thieves 
opposite  the  high  altar,  an  ancient  and  highly 
valued  piece  of  workmanship,  was  pulled  to  the 
ground  with  cords,  and  cut  to  pieces  with  axes, 
while  the  two  malefactors  at  its  side  were  respect¬ 


fully  spared.  The  holy  wafers  were  strewed  oh 
the  ground  and  trodden  under  foot;  in  the  wine 
used  for  the  Lord’s  Supper,  which  was  accident¬ 
ally  found  there,  the  health  of  the  Gueux  was 
drunk,  while  with  the  holy  oil  they  rubbed  their 
shoes.  The  very  tombs  were  opened,  and  the 
half-decayed  corpses  torn  up  and  trampled  on. 
All  this  was  done  with  as  much  wonderful  regu¬ 
larity,  as  if  each  had  previously  had  his  part 
assigned  to  him;  every  one  worked  into  his 
neighbor’s  hands  ;  no  one,  dangerous  as  the  work 
was,  met  with  injury;  in  the  midst  of  thick  dark¬ 
ness,  which  the  tapers  only  served  to  render  more 
sensible,  with  heavy  masses  falling  on  all  sides, 
and  though  on  the  very  topmost  steps  of  the  lad¬ 
ders,  they  scuffled  with  each  other  for  the  honors 
of  demolition — yet  no  one  suffered  the  least 
injury.  In  spite  of  the  many  tapers  which  lighted 
them  below  in  their  villainous  work,  not  a  single 
individual  was  recognized.  With  incredible  rapid¬ 
ity  was  the  dark  deed  accomplished ;  a  number 
of  men,  at  most  a  hundred,  despoiled  in  a  few 
hours  a  temple  of  seventy  altars — after  St.  Peter’s 
at  Rome,  perhaps,  the  largest  and  most  magnifi¬ 
cent  in  Christendom. 

The  devastation  of  the  cathedral  did  not  con¬ 
tent  them :  with  torches  and  tapers  purloined 
from  it,  they  set  out  at  midnight  to  perform  a 
similar  work  of  havoc  on  the  remaining  churches, 
cloisters,  and  chapels.  The  destructive  hordes 
increased  with  every  fresh  exploit  of  infamy,  and 
thieves  were  allured  by  the  opportunity.  They 
carried  away  whatever  they  found  of  value,  the 
consecrated  vessels,  altar-cloths,  money,  and  vest¬ 
ments  ;  in  the  cellars  of  the  cloisters  they  drank 
to  intoxication ;  to  escape  greater  indignities, 
the  monks  and  nuns  abandoned  every  thing  to 
them.  The  confused  noises  of  these  riotous  acts 
had  startled  the  citizens  from  their  first  sleep ; 
but  night  made  the  danger  appear  more  alarming 
than  it  really  was,  and  instead  of  hastening  to 
defend  their  churches,  the  citizens  fortified  them¬ 
selves  in  their  houses,  and  in  terror  and  anxiety 
awaited  the  dawn  of  morning.  The  rising  sun  at 
length  revealed  the  devastation  which  had  been 
going  on  during  the  night  ;  but  the  havoc  did  not 
terminate  with  the  darkness.  Some  churches  and 
cloisters  still  remained  uninjured  ;  the  same  fate 
soon  overtook  them  also.  The  work  of  destruc¬ 
tion  lasted  three  whole  days.  Alarmed  at  last, 
lest  the  frantic  mob,  when  it  could  no  longer  find 
any  thing  sacred  to  destroy,  should  make  a  similar 
attack  on  lay  property,  and  plunder  their  ware¬ 
houses  ;  and  encouraged  too,  by  discovering  how 
small  was  the  number  of  the  depredators,  the 
wealthier  citizens  ventured  to  show  themselves  in 
arms  at  the  doors  of  their  houses.  All  the  gates 
of  the  town  were  locked  but  one,  through  which 
the  Iconoclasts  broke  forth  to  renew  the  same 
atrocities  in  the  rural  districts.  On  one  occasion 
only,  during  all  this  time,  did  the  municipal 
officers  venture  to  exert  their  authority;  so 
strongly  were  they  held  in  awe  by  the  superior 
power  of  the  Calvinists,  by  whom,  as  it  was  be¬ 
lieved,  this  mob  of  miscreants  was  hired.  The 
injury  inflicted  by  this  work  of  devastation  was 
incalculable.  In  the  church  of  the  Virgin,  it  was 
estimated  at  not  less  than  four  hundred  thousand 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


75 


gOid  florins.  Many  precious  works  of  art  were 
destroyed ;  many  valuable  manuscripts ;  many 
monuments  of  importance  to  history  and  to  diplo¬ 
macy  were  thereby  lost.  The  city  magistrate 
ordered  the  plundered  articles  to  be  restored  on 
pain  of  death  ;  in  enforcing  this  restitution,  he  was 
effectually  assisted  by  the  preachers  of  the  Re¬ 
formers,  who  blushed  for  their  followers.  Much 
was  in  this  manner  recovered,  and  the  ringleaders 
of  the  mob,  less  animated,  perhaps,  by  the  desire 
of  plunder,  than  by  fanaticism  and  revenge,  or 
perhaps  being  ruled  by  some  unseen  head,  re¬ 
solved,  for  the  future,  to  guard  against  these 
excesses,  and  to  make  their  attacks  in  regular 
bands  and  in  better  order. 

The  town  of  Ghent,  meanwhile,  trembled  for  a 
like  destiny.  Immediately  on  the  first  news  of 
the  outbreak  of  the  Iconoclasts  in  Antwerp,  the 
magistrate  of  the  latter  town,  with  the  most 
eminent  citizens,  had  bound  themselves  to  repel 
by  force  the  church  spoilers  ;  when  this  oath  was 
proposed  to  the  commonalty  also,  the  voices  were 
divided,  and  many  declared  openly,  that  they  were 
by  no  means  disposed  to  hinder  so  devout  a  work. 
In  this  state  of  affairs,  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy 
found  it  advisable  to  deposit  in  the  citadel  the 
most  precious  movables  of  their  churches,  and 
private  families  were  permitted,  in  like  manner, 
to  provide  for  the  safety  of  offerings  which  had 
been  made  by  their  ancestors.  Meanwhile,  all 
the  services  were  discontinued,  the  courts  of  jus¬ 
tice  were  closed ;  and  like  a  town  in  momentary 
danger  of  being  stormed  by  the  enemy,  men 
trembled  in  expectation  of  what  was  to  come.  At 
last,  an  insane  band  of  rioters  ventured  to  send 
delegates  to  the  governor  with  this  impudent 
message  :  “  They  were  ordered,”  they  said,  “  by 
their  chiefs,  to  take  the  images  out  of  the 
churches,  as  had  been  done  in  the  other  towns. 
If  they  were  not  opposed,  it  should  be  done 
quietly,  and  with  as  little  injury  as  possible,  but 
otherwise  they  wpuld  storm  the  churches nay, 
they  went  so  far  in  their  audacity  as  to  ask  the 
aid  of  the  officers  of  justice  therein.  At  first,  the 
magistrate  was  astounded  at  this  demand  ;  upon 
reflection,  however,  and  in  the  hope  that  the 
presence  of  the  officers  of  law  would  perhaps  re¬ 
strain  their  excesses,  he  did  not  scruple  to  grant 
their  request. 

In  Tournay,  the  churches  were  despoiled  of  their 
ornaments  within  sight  of  the  garrison,  who  could 
not  be  induced  to  march  against  the  Iconoclasts. 
As  the  latter  had  been  told  that  the  gold  and 
silver  vessels,  and  other  ornaments  of  the  church, 
were  buried  underground,  they  turned  up  the  whole 
floor,  and  exposed,  among  others,  the  body  of  the 
Duke  Adolph  of  Gueldres,  who  fell  in  battle  at 
the  head  of  the  rebellious  burghers  of  Ghent,  and 
had  been  buried  here  in  Tournay.  This  Adolph 
had  waged  war  against  his  father,  and  had  dragged 
the  vanquished  old  man  some  miles  barefoot  to 
prison — an  indignity  which  Charles  the  Bold  after¬ 
ward  retaliated  on  him.  And  now,  again,  after 
more  than  half  a  century,  fate  avenged  a  crime 
against  nature  by  another  against  religion  ;  fana¬ 
ticism  was  to  desecrate  that  which  was  holy,  in 
order  to  expose  once  more  to  execration  the  bones 
of  a  parricide.  Other  Iconoclasts  from  Valen¬ 


ciennes  united  themselves  with  those  of  Tournay, 
to  despoil  all  the  cloisters  of  the  surrounding  dis¬ 
trict,  during  which  a  valuable  library,  the  accumu¬ 
lation  of  centuries,  was  destroyed  by  fire.  The 
evil  soon  penetrated  into  Brabant,  also  Malines, 
Herzogenbusch,  Breda,  and  Bergen-op-Zoom  ex¬ 
perienced  the  same  fate.  The  provinces  Namur 
and  Luxemburg,  with  a  part  of  Artois  and  of 
Hainault,  had  alone  the  good  fortune  to  escape 
the  contagion  of  these  outrages.  In  the  short 
period  of  four  or  five  days,  four  hundred  cloisters 
were  plundered  in  Brabant  and  Flanders  alone. 
The  northern  Netherlands  were  soon  seized  with 
the  same  mania  which  had  raged  so  violently 
through  the  southern.  The  Dutch  towns,  Amster¬ 
dam,  Leyden,  and  Gravenhaag,  had  the  alterna¬ 
tive  of  either  voluntarily  stripping  their  churches 
of  their  ornaments,  or  of  seeing  them  violently 
torn  from  them;  the  determination  of  their 
magistrates  saved  Delft,  Haarlem,  Gouda,  and 
Rotterdam  from  the  devastation.  The  same  acts 
of  violence  were  practiced  also  in  the  islands  of 
Zealand  ;  the  town  of  Utrecht,  and  many  places 
in  Overyssel  and  Groningen  suffered  the  same 
storms.  Friesland  was  protected  by  the  Count 
of  Aremberg,  and  Gueldres  by  the  Count  of 
Megen  from  a  like  fate. 

An  exaggerated  report  of  these  disturbances 
which  came  in  from  the  provinces,  spread  the 
alarm  to  Brussels,  where  the  regent  had  just  made 
preparations  for  an  extraordinary  session  of  the 
Council  of  State.  Swarms  of  Iconoclasts  already 
penetrated  into  Brabant ;  and  the  metropolis, 
where  they  were  certain  of  powerful  support,  was 
threatened  by  them  with  a  renewal  of  the  same 
atrocities  then  under  the  very  eyes  of  majesty. 
The  regent,  in  fear  for  her  personal  safety,  which 
even  in  the  heart  of  the  country,  surrounded  by 
provincial  governors  and  knights  of  the  Fleece, 
she  fancied  insecure,  was  already  meditating  a 
flight  to  Mons,  in  Hainault,  which  town  the  Duke 
of  Arschot  held  for  her  as  a  place  of  refuge,  that 
she  might  not  be  driven  to  any  undignified  con¬ 
cession  by  falling  into  the  power  of  the  Icono¬ 
clasts.  In  vain  did  the  knights  pledge  life  and 
blood  for  her  safety,  and  urgently  beseech  her  not 
to  expose  them  to  disgrace  by  so  dishonorable  a 
flight,  as  though  they  were  wanting  in  courage  or 
zeal  to  protect  their  princess  ;  to  no  purpose  did 
the  town  of  Brussels  itself  supplicate  her  not  to 
abandon  them  in  this  extremity,  and  vainly  did 
the  Council  of  State  make  the  most  impressive 
representations  that  so  pusillanimous  a  step  would 
not  fail  to  encourage  still  more  the  insolence  of 
the  rebels ;  she  remained  immovable  in  this  des¬ 
perate  condition.  As  messenger  after  messenger 
arrived  to  warn  her  that  the  Iconoclasts  were  ad¬ 
vancing  against  the  metropolis,  she  issued  orders 
to  hold  every  thing  in  readiness  for  her  flight, 
which  was  to  take  place  quietly  with  the  first  ap¬ 
proach  of  morning.  At  break  of  day,  the  aged 
Viglius  presented  himself  before  her,  whom,  with 
the  view  of  gratifying  the  nobles,  she  had  been 
long  accustomed  to  neglect.  He  demanded  to 
know  the  meaning  of  the  preparations  he  ob¬ 
served,  upon  which  she  at  last  confessed  that  she 
intended  to  make  her  escape,  and  assured  him 
that  he  would  himself  do  well  to  secure  his  owe 


76 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


safety  by  accompanying  her.  “  It  is  now  two 
years,”  said  the  old  man  to  her,  “that  you  might 
have  anticipated  these  results.  Because  I  have 
spoken  more  freely  than  your  courtiers,  you  have 
closed  your  princely  ear  to  me,  which  has  been 
open  only  to  pernicious  suggestions.”  The  regent 
allowed  that  she  had  been  in  fault,  and  had  been 
blinded  by  an  appearance  of  probity ;  but  that 
she  was  now  driven  by  necessity.  “  Are  you  re¬ 
solved,  answered  Viglius,  “  resolutely  to  insist 
upon  obedience  to  the  royal  commands  ?”  “  I 

am,”  answered  the  duchess.  “  Then  have  recourse 
to  the  great  secret  of  the  art  of  government,  to 
dissimulation,  and  pretend  to  join  the  princes, 
until,  with  their  assistance,  you  have  repelled  this 
storm.  Show  them  a  confidence  which  you  are 
far  from  feeling  in  your  heart.  Make  them  take 
an  'oath  to  you,  that  they  will  make  common  cause 
in  resisting  these  disorders.  Trust  those  as  your 
friends  who  show  themselves  willing  to  do  it ;  but 
be  careful  to  avoid  frightening  away  the  others 
by  contemptuous  treatment.”  Yiglius  kept  the 
regent  engaged  in  conversation  until  the  princes 
arrived,  who  he  was  quite  certain  would  in  nowise 
consent  to  her  flight.  When  they  appeared,  he 
quietly  withdrew,  in  order  to  issue  commands  to 
the  town  council  to  close  the  gates  of  the  city, 
and  prohibit  egress  to  every  one  connected  with 
the  court.  This  last  measure  effected  more  than 
all  the  representations  had  done.  The  regent, 
who  saw  herself  a  prisoner  in  h,er  own  capital, 
now  yielded  to  the  persuasions  of  the  nobles,  who 
pledged  themselves  to  stand  by  her  to  the  last 
drop  of  blood.  She  made  Count  Mansfeld  com¬ 
mandant  of  the  town,  who  hastily  increased  the 
garrison,  and  armed  her  whole  court. 

The  State  Council  was  now  held,  who  finally 
came  to  a  resolution,  that  it  was  expedient  to 
yield  to  the  emergency ;  to  permit  the  preachings 
in  those  places  where  they  had  already  com¬ 
menced  ;  to  make  known  the  abolition  of  the  Pa¬ 
pal  Inquisition ;  to  declare  the  old  edicts  against 
the  heretics  repealed,  and  before  all  things,  to 
grant  the  required  indemnity  to  the  confederate 
nobles,  without  limitation  or  condition.  At  the 
same  time,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  Counts  Egmont 
and  Horn,  with  some  others,  were  appointed  to 
confer  on  this  head  with  the  deputies  of  the 
league.  Solemnly  and  in  the  most  unequivocal 
terms,  the  members  of  the  league  were  declared 
free  from  all  responsibility,  by  reason  of  the  peti¬ 
tion  which  had  been  presented,  and  all  royal  offi¬ 
cers  and  authorities  were  enjoined  to  act  in  con¬ 
formity  with  this  assurance,  and  neither  now,  nor 
for  the  future,  to  inflict  any  injury  upon  any  of 
the  confederates  on  account  of  the  said  petition. 
In  return,  the  confederates  bound  themselves  to 
be  true  and  loyal  servants  of  his  majesty,  to  con¬ 
tribute  to  the  utmost  of  their  power  to  the  re-es¬ 
tablishment  of  order  and  the  punishment  of  the 
Iconoclasts,  to  prevail  on  the  people  to  lay  down 
their  arms,  and  to  afford  active  assistance  to  the' 
king  against  internal  and  foreign  enemies.  Se¬ 
curities,  formally  drawn  up  and  subscribed  by  the 
plenipotentiaries  of  both  sides,  were  exchanged 
between  them  ;  the  letter  of  indemnity,  in  particu¬ 
lar,  was  signed  by  the  duchess  with  her  own  hand, 
%nd  attested  by  her  seal.  It  was  only  after  a  se¬ 


vere  struggle,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  the 
regent,  as  she  tremblingly  confessed  to  the  king, 
was  at  last  induced  to  consent  to  this  painful  step. 
She  threw  the  whole  blame  upon  the  nobles,  who 
had  kept  her  a  prisoner  in  Brussels  and  compelled 
her  to  it  by  force.  Above  all,  she  complained 
bitterly  of  the  Prince  of  Orange. 

This  business  accomplished,  all  the  governors 
hastened  to  their  provinces ;  Egmont  to  Flan¬ 
ders,  Orange  to  Antwerp.  In  the  latter  city,  the 
Protestants  had  seized  the  despoiled  and  plun¬ 
dered  churches,  and,  as  if  by  the  rights  of  war, 
had  taken  possession  of  them.  The  prince  re¬ 
stored  them  to  their  lawful  owners,  gave  orders 
for  their  repair,  and  re-established  in  them  the 
Roman  Catholic  form  of  worship.  Three  of  the 
Iconoclasts,  who  had  been  convicted,  paid  the 
penalty  of  their  sacrilege  on  the  gallows  ;  some 
of  the  rioters  were  banished,  and  many  others 
underwent  punishment.  Afterward  he  assem¬ 
bled  four  deputies  of  each  dialect,  or  nations,  as 
they  were  termed,  and  agreed  with  them,  that  as 
the  approaching  winter  made  preaching  in  the 
open  air  impossible,  three  places  within  the  town 
should  be  granted  them,  where  they  might  either 
erect  new  churches,  or  convert  private  houses  to 
that  purpose.  That  they  should  there  perform 
their  service  every  Sunday  and  holiday,  and  al¬ 
ways  at  the  same  hour,  but  on  no  other  days.  If, 
however,  no  holiday  happened  in  the  week,  Wed¬ 
nesday  should  be  kept  by  them  instead.  No  re¬ 
ligious  party  should  maintain  more  than  two  cler¬ 
gymen,  and  these  must  be  native  Netherlander, 
or  at  least^Jiave  received  naturalization  from  some 
considerable  town  of  the  provinces.  All  should 
take  an  oath  to  submit  in  civil  matters  to  the 
municipal  authorities  and  the  Prince  of  Orange. 
They  should  be  liable,  like  the  other  citizens,  to 
all  imposts.  No  one  should  attend  sermons 
armed  ;  a  sword,  however,  should  be  allowed  to 
each.  No  preacher  should  assail  the  ruling  reli¬ 
gion  from  the  pulpit,  nor  enter  upon  controverted 
points,  beyond  what  the  doctrine  itself  rendered 
unavoidable,  or  what  might  refer  to  morals.  No 
psalm  should  be  sung  by  them  out  of  their  ap¬ 
pointed  district.  At  the  election  of  their  preach¬ 
ers,  churchwardens,  and  deacons,  as  also  at  all 
their  other  consistorial  meetings,  a  person  from 
the  government  should  on  each  occasion  be  pre¬ 
sent,  to  report  their  proceedings  to  the  prince 
and  the  magistrate.  As  to  all  other  points,  they 
should  enjoy  the  same  protection  as  the  ruling 
religion.  This  arrangement  was  to  hold  good 
until  the  king,  with  the  consent  of  the  states, 
should  determine  otherwise  ;  but  then  it  should 
be  free  to  every  one  to  quit  the  country  with  his 
family  and  his  property.  From  Antwerp  the 
prince  hastened  to  Holland,  Zealand,  and  Utrecht, 
in  order  to  make  there  similar  arrangements  for 
the  restoration  of  peace  ;  Antwerp,  however,  was, 
during  his  absence,  intrusted  to  the  superinten¬ 
dence  of  Count  Hogstraten,  who  was  a  mild  man, 
and  although  an  adherent  of  the  League,  had 
never  failed  in  loyalty  to  the  king.  It  u  evident 
that  in  this  agreement  the  prince  had  far  over¬ 
stepped  the  powers  intrusted  to  him,  and  though 
in  the  service  of  the  king,  had  acted  exactly  like 
a  sovereign  lord.  But  he  alleged  in  excuse,  that 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


77 


it  would  be  far  easier  to  the  magistrate  to  watch 
these  numerous  and  powerful  sects,  if  he  himself 
interfered  in  their  worship,  and  if  this  took  place 
under  his  eyes,  than  if  he  were  to  leave  the  secta¬ 
rians  to  themselves  in  the  open  air. 

In  Gueldres,  Count  Megen  showed  more  se¬ 
verity,  and  entirely  suppressed  the  Protestant 
sects  and  banished  all  their  preachers.  In  Brus¬ 
sels,  the  regent  availed  herself  of  the  advantage 
derived  from  her  personal  presence,  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  public  preaching,  even  outside  the  town. 
When,  in  reference  to  this,  Count  Nassau  re¬ 
minded  her,  in  the  name  of  the  confederates,  of 
the  compact  which  had  been  entered  into,  and 
demanded  if  the  town  of  Brussels  had  inferior 
rights  to  the  other  towns  ?  she  answered,  if  there 
were  public  preachings  in  Brussels  before  the 
treaty,  it  was  not  her  work  if  they  were  now  dis¬ 
continued.  At  the  same  time,  however,  she  se¬ 
cretly  gave  the  citizens  to  understand,  that  the 
first  who  should  venture  to  attend  a  public  sermon 
should  certainly  be  hung.  Thus  she  kept  the 
capital  at  least  faithful  to  her. 

It  was  more  difficult  to  quiet  Tournay,  which 
office  was  committed  to  Count  Horn,  in  the  place 
of  Montigny,  to  whose  government  the  town  pro¬ 
perly  belonged.  Horn  commanded  the  Protest¬ 
ants  to  vacate  the  churches  immediately,  and  to 
content  themselves  with  a  house  of  worship  out¬ 
side  the  walls.  To  this  their  preachers  objected, 
that  the  churches  were  erected  for  the  use  of  the 
people,  by  which  term,  they  said,  not  the  heads 
but  the  majority  were  meant.  If  they  were  ex¬ 
pelled  from  the  Roman  Catholic  churches,  it  was 
at  least  fair  that  they  should  be  furnished  with 
money  for  erecting  churches  of  their  own.  To 
this  the  magistrate  replied,  even  if  the  Catholic 
party  was  the  weaker,  it  was  indisputably  the 
better.  The  erection  of  churches  should  not  be 
forbidden  them ;  they  could  not,  however,  after 
the  injury  which  the  town  had  already  suffered 
from  their  brethren,  the  Iconoclasts,  very  well 
expect  that  it  should  be  further  burdened  by 
the  erection  of  their  churches.  After  long  quar¬ 
reling  on  both  sides,  the  Protestants  contrived 
to  retain  possession  of  some  churches,  which,  for 
greater  security,  they  occupied  with  guards.  In 
Valenciennes,  too,  the  Protestants  refused  sub¬ 
mission  to  the  conditions  which  were  offered  to 
them  through  Philip  St.  Aldegonde,  Baron  of 
Noircarmes,  to  whom,  in  the  absence  of  the  Mar¬ 
quis  of  Bergen,  the  government  of  that  place  was 
intrusted.  A  reformed  preacher,  La  Grange,  a 
Frenchman  by  birth,  who  by  his  eloquence  had 
gained  complete  command  over  them,  urged  them 
to  insist  upon  having  churches  of  their  :  wn, 
within  the  town,  and  to  threaten  in  case  of  *  ;fu- 
sal  to  deliver  it  up  to  the  Huguenots.  A  sense  of 
the  superior  numbers  of  the  Calvinists,  aud  of 
their  understanding  with  the  Huguenots,  pre¬ 
vented  the  governor  adopting  forcible  measures 
against  them. 

Count  Egmont  also,  to  manifest  his  zeal  for  the 
king’s  service,  did  violence  to  his  natural  kind- 
heartedness.  Introducing  a  garrison  into  the  town 
of  Ghent,  he  caused  some  of  the  most  refractory 
rebels  to  be  put  to  death.  The  churches  were  re¬ 
opened,  the  Roman  Catholic  worship  renewed, 


and  all  foreigners,  without  exception,  ordered  to 
quit  the  province.  To  the  Calvinists,  but  to  them 
alone,  a  site  was  granted  outside  the  town  for  the 
erection  of  a  church.  In  return,  they  were  com¬ 
pelled  to  pledge  themselves  to  the  most  rigid  obe¬ 
dience  to  the  municipal  authorities,  and  to  active 
co-operation  in  the  proceedings  against  the  Icono¬ 
clasts.  He  pursued  similar  measures  through  all 
Flanders  and  Artois.  One  of  his  noblemen,  John 
Cassembrot,  Baron  of  Beckerzeel,  and  a  Leaguer, 
pursuing  the  Iconoclasts  at  the  head  of  some 
horsemen  of  the  League,  surprised  a  band  of 
them,  just  as  they  were  about  to  break  into  the 
town  of  Hainault,  near  Grammont,  in  Flanders, 
and  took  thirty  of  them  prisoner,  of  whom  twenty- 
two  were  hung  upon  the  spot,  and  the  rest 
whipped  out  of  the  province. 

Services  of  such  importance,  one  would  have 
thought,  scarcely  deserved  to  be  rewarded  with 
the  displeasure  of  the  king :  what  Orange,  Eg¬ 
mont,  and  Horn  performed  on  this  occasion, 
evinced  at  least  as  much  zeal,  and  had  as  benefi¬ 
cial  a  result,  as  any  thing  that  was  accomplished 
by  Noircarmes,  Megen,  and  Aremberg,  to  whom 
the  king  vouchsafed  to  show  his  gratitude  both  by 
words  and  deeds.  But  their  zeal,  their  services, 
came  too  late.  They  had  spoken  too  loudly 
against  his  edicts,  had  been  too  vehement  in  their 
opposition  to  his  measures,  had  insulted  him  too 
grossly  in  the  person  of  his  minister  Granvella,  to 
leave  room  for  forgiveness.  No  time,  no  repent¬ 
ance,  no  atonement,  however  great,  could  efface 
this  one  offense  from  the  memory  of  their  sove¬ 
reign. 

Philip  lay  sick  at  Segovia,  when  the  news  of 
the  outbreak  of  the  Iconoclasts,  and  the  uncatho¬ 
lic  agreement  entered  into  with  the  Reformers, 
reached  him.  At  the  same  time,  the  regent  re¬ 
newed  her  urgent  entreaty  for  his  personal  visit, 
of  which  also  all  the  letters  treated,  which  the 
President  Yiglius  exchanged  with  his  friend  Hop¬ 
per.  Many  also  of  the  Belgian  nobles  addressed 
special  letters  to  the  king,  as,  for  instance,  Eg¬ 
mont,  Mansfeld,  Megen,  Aremberg,  Noircarmes, 
and  Barlaimont,  in  which  they  reported  the  state 
of  their  provinces,  and  at  once  explained  and  jus¬ 
tified  the  arrangements  they  had  made  with  the 
disaffected.  Just  at  this  period  a  letter  arrived 
from  the  German  Emperor,  in  which  he  recom¬ 
mended  Philip  to  act  with  clemency  toward  his 
Belgian  subjects,  and  offered  his  mediation  in  the 
matter.  He  had  also  written  direct  to  the  regent 
herself  in  Brussels,  and  added  letters  to  the  seve¬ 
ral  leaders  of  the  nobility,  which,  however,  were 
never  delivered.  Having  conquered  the  first  anger 
which  this  hateful  occurrence  had  excited,  the 
king  referred  the  whole  matter* to  his  council. 

The  party  of  Granvella,  which  had  the  prepon¬ 
derance  in  the  council,  was  diligent  in  tracing  a 
close  connection  between  the  behaviour  of  the 
Flemish  nobles  and  the  excesses  of  the  church 
desecrators,  which  showed  itself  in  the  similarity 
of  the  demands  of  both  parties,  and  especially  the 
time  which  the  latter  chose  for  their  outbreak. 
In  the  same  month,  they  observed,  in  which  the 
nobles  had  sent  in  their  three  articles  of  pacifica¬ 
tion,  the  Iconoclasts  had  commenced  their  work; 
on  the  evening  of  the  very  day  that  Orange  quit- 


78 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


ted  Antwerp,  the  churches,  too,  were  plundered. 
During  the  whole  tumult,  not  a  finger  was  lifted  to 
take  up  arms  ;  all  the  expedients  employed  were 
invariably  such  as  turned  to  the  advantage  of  the 
sects,  while,  on  the  contrary,  all  others  were  ne¬ 
glected  which  tended  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
pure  faith.  Many  of  the  Iconoclasts,  it  was 
further  said,  had  confessed  that  all  that  they  had 
done  was  with  the  knowledge  and  consent  of  the 
princes;  though  surely  nothing  was  more  natural 
than  for  such  worthless  wretches  to  seek  to  screen 
with  great  names  a  crime  which  they  had  under¬ 
taken  solely  on  their  own  account.  A  writing 
also  was  produced,  in  which  the  high  nobility  were 
made  to  promise  their  services  to  the  “  Gueux,” 
to  procure  the  assembly  of  the  States  General, 
the  genuineness  of  which,  however,  the  former 
strenuously  denied.  Four  different  seditious  par¬ 
ties  were,  they  said,  to  be  noticed  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  which  were  all  more  or  less  connected  with 
one  'another,  and  all  worked  toward  a  common 
end.  One  of  these,  was  those  bands  of  reprobates 
who  desecrated  the  churches  ;  a  second  consisted 
of  the  various  sects  who  had  hired  the  former  to 
perform  their  infamous  acts  ;  the  “  Gueux,”  who 
had  raised  themselves  to  be  the  defenders  of  the 
sects,  were  the  third  ;  and  the  leading  nobles,  who 
were  inclined  to  the  “Gueux”  by  feudal  connec¬ 
tions,  relationship,  and  friendship,  composed  the 
fourth.  All,  consequently,  were  alike  fatally  in¬ 
fected,  and  all  equally  guilty.  The  government 
had  not  merelv  to  guard  against  a  few  isolated 
members ;  it  had  to  contend  with  the  whole  body. 
Since,  then,  it  was  ascertained  that  the  people 
were  the  seduced  party,  and  the  encouragement 
to  rebellion  came  from  higher  quarters,  it  would 
be  wise  and  expedient  to  alter  the  plan  hitherto 
adopted,  which  now  appeared  defective  in  several 
respects.  Inasmuch  as  all  classes  had  been  op¬ 
pressed  without  distinction,  and  as  much  of  seve¬ 
rity  shown  to  the  lower  orders  as  of  contempt  to 
the  nobles,  both  had  been  compelled  to  lend  sup¬ 
port  to  one  another ;  a  party  had  been  given  to 
the’ latter,  and  leaders  to  the  former.  Unequal 
treatment  seemed  an  infallible  expedient  to  sepa¬ 
rate  them  ;  the  mob,  always  timid  and  indolent 
when  not  goaded  by  the  extremity  of  distress, 
would  very  soon  desert  its  adored  protectors,  and 
quickly  learn  to  see  in  their  fate  well-merited  retri¬ 
bution,  if  only  it  was  not  driven  1o  share  it  with 
them.  It  was  therefore  proposed  to  the  king  to 
treat  the  great  multitude  for  the  future  with  more 
leniency,  and  to  direct  all  measures  of  severity 
against  the  leaders  of  the  faction.  In  order,  how¬ 
ever,  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  a  disgraceful  con¬ 
cession,  it  was  considered  advisable  to  accept  the 
mediation  of  the  Emperor,  and  to  impute  to  it 
alone,  and  not  to  the  justness  of  their  demands, 
that  the  king,  out  of  pure  generosity,  had  granted 
to  his  Belgian  subjects  as  much  as  they  asked. 

The  question  of  the  king’s  personal  visit  to  the 
provinces  was  now  again  mooted,  and  all  the  diffi¬ 
culties  which  had  formerly  been  raised  on  this 
head,  appeared  to  vanish  before  the  present 
emergency.  “Now,”  said  Tyssenacque  and  Hop¬ 
per,  “  the  juncture  has  really  arrived  at  which  the 
king,  according  to  his  own  declaration,  formerly 
made  to  G’ount  Egmont,  will  be  ready  to  risk  a 


thousand  lives.  To  restore  quiet  to  Ghent,  Charles 
V.  had  undertaken  a  troublesome  and  dangerous 
journey  through  an  enemy’s  country.  This  was 
done  for  the  sake  of  one  single  town  ;  and  now 
the  peace,  perhaps  even  the  possession,  of  all  the 
United  Provinces  was  at  stake.”  This  -was  the 
opinion  of  the  majority  ;  and  the  journey  of  the 
king  wras  looked  upon  as  a  matter  from  which  he 
could  not  possibly  any  longer  escape. 

The  question  now  was,  whether  he  should  enter 
upon  it  with  a  numerous  body  of  attendants,  or 
with  a  few;  and  here  the  Prince  of  Eboli  and 
Count  Figueroa  were  at  issue  with  the  Duke  of 
Alva,  as  their  private  interests  clashed.  If  the 
king  journeyed  at  the  head  of  an  army,  the  pre¬ 
sence  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  would  be  indispensa¬ 
ble,  who,  on  the  other  hand,  if  matters  were 
peaceably  adjusted,  would  be  less  required,  and 
must  make  room  for  his  rivals.  “  An  army,”  said 
Figueroa,  who  spoke  first,  “  would  alarm  the 
princes,  through  whose  territories  it  must  march, 
and  perhaps  even  be  opposed  by  them  ;  it  would, 
moreover,  unnecessarily  burden  the  provinces  for 
whose  tranquilization  it  was  intended,  and  add  a 
new  grievance  to  the  many  which  had  already 
driven  the  people  to  such  lengths.  It  would 
press  indiscriminately  upon  all  of  the  king’s  sub¬ 
jects,  whereas  a  court  of  justice,  peaceably  ad¬ 
ministering  its  office,  would  observe  a  marked 
distinction  between  the  innocent  and  the  guilty. 
The  unwonted  violence  of  the  former  course  would 
tempt  the  leaders  of  the  faction  to  take  a  more 
alarming  view  of  their  behavior,  in  which  wanton¬ 
ness  and  levity  had  the  chief  share,  and  conse¬ 
quently  induce  them  to  proceed  with  deliberation 
and  union  ;  the  thought  of  having  forced  the  king 
to  such  lengths  would  plunge  them  into  despair, 
in  which  they  would  be  ready  to  undertake  any 
thing.  If  the  king  placed  himself  in  arms  against 
the  rebels,  he  would  forfeit  the  most  important 
advantage  which  he  possessed  over  them,  namely, 
his  authority  as  sovereign  of  the  country,  which 
would  prove  the  more  powerful  in  proportion  as 
he  showed  his  reliance  upon  that  alone.  He 
would  place  himself  thereby,  as  it  were,  on  a  level 
with  the  rebels,  who,  on  their  side,  would  not  be 
at  a  loss  to  raise  an  army,  as  the  universal  hatred 
of  the  Spanish  forces  would  operate  in  their  favor 
with  the  nation.  By  this  procedure,  the  king 
would  exchange  the  certain  advantage  which  his 
position  as  sovereign  of  the  country  conferred 
upon  him,  for  the  uncertain  result  of  military 
operations,  which,  result  as  they  might,  would  of 
necessity  destroy  a  portion  of  his  own  subjects. 
The  rumor  of  his  hostile  approach  would  outrun 
him  time  enough  to  allow  all  who  were  conscious 
of  a  bad  cause  to  place  themselves  in  a  posture 
of  defense,  and  to  combine  and  render  availing 
both  their  foreign  and  domestic  resources.  Here, 
again,  the  general  alarm  would  do  them  import¬ 
ant  service  ;  the  uncertainty  who  would  be  the 
first  object  of  this  warlike  approach,  would  drive 
even  the  less  guilty  to  the  general  mass  of  the 
rebels,  and  force  those  to  become  enemies  to  the 
king,  who  otherwise  would  never  have  been  so. 
If,  however,  he  wras  coming  among  them  without 
such  a  formidable  accompaniment ;  if  his  appear¬ 
ance  was  less  that  of  a  sanguinary  judge  than  of 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


79 


an  angry  parent,"  the  courage  of  all  good  men 
would  rise,  and  the  bad  would  perish  in  their  own 
security.  They  would  persuade  themselves  what 
had  happened  was  unimportant,  that  it  did  not 
appear  to  the  king  of  sufficient  moment  to  call 
for  strong  measures.  They  wished,  if  they  could, 
to  avoid  the  chance  of  ruining,  by  acts  of  open 
violence,  a  cause  which  might  perhaps  yet  be 
saved ;  consequently,  by  this  quiet,  peaceable 
method,  every  thing  would  be  gained,  which  by 
the  other  would  be  irretrievably  lost;  the  loyal 
subject  would  in  no  degree  be  involved  in  the 
same  punishment  with  the  culpable  rebel  ;  on 
the  latter  alone  would  the  whole  weight  of  the 
royal  indignation  descend.  Lastly,  the  enormous 
expenses  would  be  avoided,  which  the  transport 
of  a  Spanish  army  to  those  distant  regions  would 
occasion.” 

“  But,”  began  the  Duke  of  Alva,  “  ought  the 
injury  of  some  few  citizens  to  be  considered, 
when  danger  impends  over  the  whole?  Because 
a  few  of  the  loyally  disposed  may  suffer  wrong, 
are  the  rebels  therefore  not  to  be  chastised  ?  The 
offense  has  been  universal,  why  then  should  not 
the  punishment  be  the  same  ?  What  the  rebels 
have  incurred  by  their  actions,  the  rest  have  in¬ 
curred  equally  by  their  supineness.  Whose  fault 
is  it  but  theirs,  that  the  former  have  so  far  suc¬ 
ceeded  ?  Why  did  they  not  promptly  oppose 
their  first  attempts  ?  It  is  said,  that  circum¬ 
stances  were  not  so  desperate  as  to  justify  this 
violent  remedy ;  but  who  will  insure  us  that  they 
will  not  be  so  by  the  time  the  king  arrives,  espe¬ 
cially  when,  according  to  every  fresh  dispatch  of 
the  regent,  all  is  hastening  with  rapid  strides  to  a 
ruinous  consummation  ?  Is  it  a  hazard  we  ought 
to  run,  to  leave  the  king  to  discover  on  his  en¬ 
trance  into  the  provinces  the  necessity  of  his 
having  brought  with  him  a  military  force  ?  It  is 
a  fact  only  too  well  established,-  that  the  rebels 
have  secured  foreign  succors  which  stand  ready 
at  their  command  on  the  first  signal  ;  will  it  then 
be  time  to  think  of  preparing  for  war,  when  the 
enemy  pass  the  frontiers  ?  Is  it  a  wise  risk  to 
rely  for  aid  upon  the  nearest  Belgian  troops,  when 
their  loyalty  is  so  little  to  be  depended  upon  ? 
And  is  not  the  regent  perpetually  reverting  in 
her  dispatches  to  the  fact,  that  nothing  but  the 
want  of  a  suitable  military  force  has  hitherto  hin¬ 
dered  her  from  enforcing  the  edicts,  and  stopping 
the  progress  of  the  rebels  ?  A  well-disciplined 
and  formidable  army  alone  will  disappoint  all  their 
hopes  of  maintaining  themselves  in  opposition  to 
their  lawful  sovereign,  and  nothing  but  the  certain 
prospect  of  destruction  will  make  them  lower 
their  demands.  Besides,  without  an  adequate 
force,  the  king  cannot  venture  his  person  in  hos¬ 
tile  countries  ;  he  cannot  enter  into  any  treaties 
with  his  rebellious  subjects  which  would  not  be 
derogatory  to  his  honor.” 

The  authority  of  the  speaker  gave  preponde¬ 
rance  to  his  arguments,  and  the  next  question 
was,  when  the  king  should  commence  his  journey, 
and  what  road  he  should  take.  As  the  voyage  by 
sea  was  on  every  account  extremely  hazardous, 
he  had  no  other  alternative  but  either  to  proceed 
thither  through  the  passes  near  Trent  across  Ger¬ 
many,  or  to  penetrate  from  Savoy  over  the  Apen- 


nine  Alps.  The  first  route  would  expose  him  to 
the  danger  of  the  attack  of  the  German  Protes¬ 
tants,  who  were  not  likely  ij  view  with  indiffer¬ 
ence  the  objects  of  his  journey,  and  a  passage 
over  the  Apennines  was  at  this  late  season  of  the 
year  not  to  be  attempted.  Moreover,  it  would 
be  necessary  to  send  for  the  requisite  galleys  from 
Italy,  and  repair  them,  which  would  take  several 
months.  Finally,  as  the  assembly  of  the  Cortes 
of  Castile,  from  which  he  could  not  well  be  ab¬ 
sent,  was  already  appointed  for  December,  the 
journey  could  not  be  undertaken  before  the 
spring.  Meanwhile,  the  regent  pressed  for  expli¬ 
cit  instructions  how  she  was  to  extricate  herself 
from  her  present  embarrassment,  without  com¬ 
promising  the  royal  dignity  too  far;  and  it  was 
necessary  to  do  something  in  the  interval,  till  the 
king  could  undertake  to  appease  the  troubles  by 
his  personal  presence.  Two  separate  letters  were 
therefore  dispatched  to  the  duchess;  one  public, 
which  she  could  lay  before  the  states  and  the 
council  chambers,  and  one  private,  which  was  in¬ 
tended  for  herself  alone.  In  the  first,  the  king 
announced  to  her  his  restoration  to  health  and 
the  fortunate  birth  of  the  Infanta,  Clara  Isabella 
Eugenia,  afterward  wife  of  the  Archduke  Albert 
of  Austria,  and  Princess  of  the  Netherlands.  He 
declared  to  her  his  present  firm  intention  to  visit 
the  Netherlands  in  person,  for  which  he  was  al¬ 
ready  making  the  necessary  preparations.  The 
assembling  of  the  states  he  refused,  as  he  had 
previously  done.  No  mention  was  made  in  this 
letter  of  the  agreement  which  she  had  entered  into 
with  the  Protestants  and  with  the  league,  because 
he  did  not  deem  it  advisable  at  present  absolutely 
to  reject  it,  and  he  was  still  less  disposed  to  ac¬ 
knowledge  its  validity.  On  the  other  hand,  he  or¬ 
dered  her  to  reinforce  the  army,  to  draw  together 
new  regiments  from  Germany,  and  to  meet  the 
refractory  with  force.  For  the  rest,  he  concluded, 
he  relied  upon  the  loyalty  of  the  leading  nobility, 
among  whom  he  knew  many  who  were  sincere  in 
their  attachment  both  to  their  religion  and  their 
king.  In  the  secret  letter,  she  was  again  enjoined 
to  do  all  in  her  power  to  prevent  the  assembling 
of  the  states  ;  but  if  the  general  voice  should  be¬ 
come  irresistible,  and  she  was  compelled  to  yield, 
she  was  at  least  to  manage  so  cautiously,  that  the 
royal  dignity  should  not  suffer,  and  no  one  learn 
the  king’s  consent  to  their  assembly. 

While  these  consultations  were  held  in  Spain, 
the  Protestants  in  the  Netherlands  made  the 
most  extensive  use  of  the  privileges  which  had 
been  compulsorily  granted  to  them.  The  erec¬ 
tion  of  churches,  wherever  it  was  permitted,  was 
completed  with  incredible  rapidity ;  young  and 
old,  gentle  and  simple,  assisted  in  carrying  stones  ; 
women  sacrificed  even  their  ornaments  in  order 
to  accelerate  the  work.  The  two  religious  par¬ 
ties  established  in  several  towns  consistories,  and 
a  church  council  of  their  own,  the  first  move  of 
the  kind  being  made  in  Antwerp,  and  placed 
their  form  of  worship  on  a  well  regulated  footing. 
It  was  also  proposed,  to  raise  a  common  fund  by 
subscription,  to  meet  any  sudden  emergency  of 
the  Protestant  Church  in  general.  In  Antwerp, 
a  memorial  was  presented  by  the  Calvinists  of 
that  town  to  the  Count  of  Hogstraten,  iD  which 


80 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


they  offered  to  pay  three  millions  of  dollars  to 
secure  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion.  Many 
copies  of  this  writing  were  circulated  in  the  Ne¬ 
therlands  ;  and  in  order  to  stimulate  others,  many 
had  ostentatiously  subscribed  their  names  to  large 
sums.  Various  interpretations  of  this  extrava¬ 
gant  offer  were  made  by  the  enemies  of  the  re¬ 
formers,  and  all  had  some  appearance  of  reason. 
For  instance,  it  was  urged  that  under  the  pretext 
of  collecting  the  requisite  sum  for  fullfilling  this 
engagement,  they  hop.ed,  without  suspicion,  to 
raise  funds  for  military  purposes;  for  whether 
they  should  be  called  upon  to  contribute  for  or 
against ,  they  would,  it  was  thought,  be  more 
ready  to  burden  themselves  with  a  view  of  pre¬ 
serving  peace,  than  for  an  oppressive  a^id  devas¬ 
tating  war.  Others  saw  in  this  offer  nothing  more 
than  a  temporary  stratagem  of  the  Protestants, 
by  which  they  hoped  to  bind  the  court  and  keep 
it  irresolute,  until  they  should  have  gained  suffi¬ 
cient  strength  to  confront  it.  Others  again  de¬ 
clared  it  to  be  a  downright  bravado  in  order  to 
alarm  the  regent,  and  to  raise  the  courage  of  their 
own  party  by  the  display  of  such  rich  resources. 
But  whatever  was  the  true  motive  of  this  propo¬ 
sition,  its  originators  gained  little  by  it ;  the  con¬ 
tributions  flowed  in  scantily  and  slowly,  and  the 
court  answered  the  proposal  with  silent  contempt. 
The  excesses,  too,  of  the  Iconoclasts,  far  from 
promoting  the  cause  of  the  League  and  advanc¬ 
ing  the  Protestant  interests,  had  done  irreparable 
injury  to  both.  The  sight  of  their  ruined  churches, 
which,  in  the  language  of  Viglius,  resembled  sta¬ 
bles  more  than  houses  of  God,  enraged  the  Roman 
Catholics,  and  above  all  the  clergy.  All  of  that 
religion,  who  had  hitherto  been  members  of  the 
League,  now  forsook  it,  alleging  that  even  if  it 
had  not  intentionally  excited  and  encouraged  the 
excesses  of  the  Iconoclasts,  it  had  beyond  ques¬ 
tion  remotely  led  to  them.  The  intolerance  of 
the  Calvinists,  who,  wherever  they  were  the  ruling 
party,  cruelly  oppressed  the  Roman  Catholics, 
completely  expelled  the  delusion  in  which  the 
latter  had  long  indulged,  and  they  withdrew  their 
support  from  a  party,  from  which,  if  they  ob¬ 
tained  the  upper  hand,  their  own  religion  had  so 
much  cause  to  fear.  Thus  the  League  lost  many 
of  its  best  members;  the  friends  and  patrons,  too, 
which  it  had  hitherto  found  amongst  the  well- 
disposed  citizens  now  deserted  it,  and  its  charac¬ 
ter  began  perceptibly  to  decline.  The  severity 
with  which  some  of  its  members  had  acted  against 
the  Iconoclasts,  in  order  to  prove  their  good  dis¬ 
position  toward  the  regent,  and  to  remove  the 
suspicion  of  any  connection  with  the  malcontents, 
had  also  injured  them  with  the  people,  who  fa¬ 
vored  the  latter,  and  thus  the  League  was  in  dan¬ 
ger  of  ruining  itself  with  both  parties  at  the  same 
time. 

The  regent  had  no  sooner  become  acquainted 
with  this  change  in  the  public  mind,  than  she  de¬ 
vised  a  plan  by  which  she  hoped  gradually  to  dis¬ 
solve  the  whole  League,  or  at  least  to  enfeeble  it 
through  internal  dissensions.  For  this  end,  she 
availed  herself  of  the  private  letters,  which  the 
king  had  addressed  to  some  of  the  nobles,  and  in¬ 
closed  to  her,  with  full  liberty  to  use  them  at  her 
discretion.  These  letters,  which  overflowed  with 


kind  expressions,  were  presented  to  those  foi 
whom  they  were  intended  with  an  attempt  at 
secresy,  which  designedly  miscarried,  so  that  on 
each  occasion,  some  one  or  other  of  those  who 
had  received  nothing  of  the  sort  got  a  hint  of 
them.  In  order  to  spread  suspicion  the  more 
widely,  numerous  copies  of  the  letters  were  circu¬ 
lated.  This  artifice  attained  its  object.  Many 
members  of  the  League  began  to  doubt  the  ho¬ 
nesty  of  those  to  whom  such  brilliant  promises 
were  made ;  through  fear  of  being  deserted  by 
their  principal  members  and  supporters,  they  ea¬ 
gerly  accepted  the  conditions  which  were  offered 
them  by  the  regent,  and  evinced  great  anxiety 
for  a  speedy  reconciliation  with  the  court.  The 
general  rumor  of  the  impending  visit  of  the  king, 
which  the  regent  took  care  to  have  widely  circu¬ 
lated,  was  also  of  great  service  to  her  in  this  mat¬ 
ter;  many  who  could  not  augur  much  good  to 
themselves  from  the  royal  presence,  did  not  hesi¬ 
tate  to  accept  a  pardon,  which,  perhaps,  for  what 
they  could  tell,  was  offered  them  for  the  last 
time.  Among  those  who  thus  received  private 
letters,  were  Egmont  and  the  Prince  of  Orange. 
Both  had  complained  to  the  king  of  the  evil  re¬ 
ports  with  which  designing  persons  in  Spain  had 
labored  to  brand  their  names,  and  to  throw  suspi¬ 
cion  on  their  motives  and  intentions;  Egmont,  in 
particular,  with  the  honest  simplicity  which  was 
peculiar  to  his  character,  had  asked  the  monarch, 
only  to  point  out  to  him  what  he  most  desired,  to 
determine  the  particular  action  by  which  his  favor 
could  be  best  obtained,  and  zeal  in  his  service 
evinced,  and  it  should,  he  assured  him,  be  done. 
The  king,  in  reply,  caused  the  President  Yon 
Tyssenacque,  to  tell  him  that  he  could  do  nothing 
better  to  refute  his  traducers  than  to  show  perfect 
submission  to  the*  royal  orders,  which  were  so 
clearly  and  precisely  drawn  up,  that  no  further 
exposition  of  them  was  required,  nor  any  particu¬ 
lar  instruction.  It  was  the  sovereign’s  part  to 
deliberate,  to  examine,  and  to  decide ;  uncondi¬ 
tionally  to  obey  was  the  duty  of  the  subject ;  the 
honor  of  the  latter  consisted  in  his  obedience.  It 
did  not  become  a  member  to  hold  itself  wiser  than 
the  head.  He  was  assuredly  to  be  blamed  for  not 
having  done  his  utmost  to  curb  the  unruliness  of 
his  sectarians;  but  it  was  even  yet  in  his  power 
to  make  up  for  past  negligence,  by  at  least  main¬ 
taining  peace  and  order  until  the  actual  arrival 
of  the  king.  In  thus  punishing  Count  Egmont 
with  reproofs  like  a  disobedient  child,  the  king 
treated  him  in  accordance  with  what  he  knew  of 
his  character;  with  his  friend  he  found  it  neces¬ 
sary  to  call  in  the  aid  of  artifice  and  deceit. 
Orange,  too,  in  his  letter,  had  alluded  to  the  sus¬ 
picions  which  the  king  entertained  of  his  loyalty 
and  attachment ;  but  not  like  Egmont,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  removing  them  ;  for  this  he  had  long 
given  up ;  but  in  order  to  pass  from  these  com¬ 
plaints  to  a  request  for  permission  to  resign  his 
offices.  He  had  already  frequently  made  this  re¬ 
quest  to  the  regent,  but  had  always  received  from 
her  a  refusal,  accompanied  with  the  strongest  as¬ 
surance  of  her  regard.  The  king  also,  to  whom 
he  now  at  last  addressed  a  direct  application,  re-, 
turned  him  the  same  answer,  graced  with  similar 
strong  assurances  of  his  satisfaction  and  grati- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


81 


tude.  In  particular,  he  expressed  the  high  satis¬ 
faction  he  entertained  of  the  services  which  he 
had  lately  rendered  the  crown  in  Antwerp,  and 
lamented  deeply,  that  the  private  affairs  of  the 
prince  (which  the  latter  had  made  his  chief  plea 
for  demanding  his  dismissal)  should  have  fallen 
into  such  disorder ;  but  ended  with  the  declara¬ 
tion  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  dispense 
with  his  valuable  services,  at  a  crisis  which  de¬ 
manded  the  increase,  rather  than  diminution,  of 
his  good  and  honest  servants.  He  had  thought, 
he  added,  that  the  prince  entertained  a  better 
opinion  of  him,  than  to  suppose  him  capable  of 
giving  credit  to  the  idle  talk  of  certain  persons, 
who  were  friends  neither  to  the  prince  nor  to 
himself.  But,  at  the  same  time,  to  give  him  a 
proof  of  his  sincerity,  lie  complained  to  him  in 
confidence  of  his  brother,  the  Count  of  Nassau, 
pretended  to  ask  his  advice  in  the  matter,  and 
finally  expressed  a  wish  to  have  the  count  re¬ 
moved  for  a  period  from  the  Netherlands. 

But  Philip  had  here  to  do  with  a  head  which, 
in  cunning,  was  superior  to  his  own.  The  Prince 
of  Orange  had,  for  a  long  time,  held  'watch  over 
him  and  his  Privy  Council  in  Madrid  and  Segovia, 
through  a  host  of  spies,’  who  reported  to  him 
every  thing  of  importance  that  was  transacted 
there.  The  court  of  this  most  secret  of  all 
despots  had  become  accessible  to  his  intriguing 
spirit  and  his  money  ;  in  this  manner,  he  had 
gained  possession  of  several  autograph  letters  of 
the  regent,  which  she  had  secretly  written  to 
Madrid,  and  had  caused  copies  to  be  circulated 
in  triumph  in  Brussels,  and  in  a  measure  under 
her  own  eyes,  insomuch  that  she  saw  with  as¬ 
tonishment  in  every  body’s  hands  what  she 
thought  was  preserved  with  so  much  care,  and  en¬ 
treated  the  king  for  the  future  to  destrov  her  dis- 
patches  immediately  they  were  read.  William’s 
vigilance  did  not  confine  itself  simply  to  the  court 
of  Spain,  he  had  spies  in  France,  and  even  at 
more  distant  courts.  He  is  also  charged  with 
not  being  over  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  by 
which  he  acquired  his  intelligence.  But  the  most 
important  disclosure  was  made  by  an  intercepted 
letter  of  the  Spanish  ambassador  in  France, 
Francis  V on  Alava,  to  the  duchess,  in  which  the 
former  descanted  on  the  fair  opportunity  which 
was  now  afforded  to  the  king  through  the  guilt 
of  the  Netherlandish  people,  of  establishing  an 
arbitrary  power  in  that  country.  He  therefore 
advised  her,  to  deceive  the  nobles  by  the  very 
arts  -which  they  had  hitherto  employed  against 
herself,  and  to  secure  them  through  smooth 
words,  and  an  obliging  behavior.  The  king,  he 
concluded,  who  knew  the  nobles  to  be  the  hidden 
springs  of  all  the  previous  troubles,  would  take  good  ! 
cats  to  lay  hands  upon  them  at  the  first  favorable 
opportunity,  as  well  as  the  two,  whom  he  had 
already  in  Spain  ;  and  did  not  mean  to  let  them 
go  again,  having  sworn  to  make  an  example  in 
them,  which  should  horrify  the  whole  of  Christen¬ 
dom,  even  if  it  should  cost  him  his  hereditary 
dominions.  This  piece  of  evil  news  was  strongly 
corroborated  by  the  letters  which  Bergen  and 
Montigny  wrote  from  Spain,  and  in  which  they 
bitterly  complained  of  the  contemptuous  behavior 
of  the  Grandees,  and  the  altered  deportment  of  i 
Vol.  II  — 6 


the  monarch  toward  them,  and  the  Prince  of 
Orange  was  now  fully  sensible  what  he  had  to 
expect  from  the  fair  promises  of  the  king. 

The  letter  of  the  minister  Alava,  together  with 
some  others  from  Spain,  which  gave  a  circumstan¬ 
tial  account  of  the  approaching  warlike  visit  of 
the  king,  and  of  his  evil  intentions  against  the 
nobles,  was  laid  by  the  prince  before  his  brother 
Count  Louis  of  Nassau,  Counts  Egmont,  Horn, 
and  Hogstraten,  at  a  meeting  at  Dendermonde  in 
Flanders,  whither  these  five  knights  had  repaired 
to  confer  on  the  measures  necessary  for  their  se¬ 
curity.  Count  Louis,  who  listened  only  to  his 
feelings  of  indignation,  foolhardily  maintained, 
that  they  ought  without  loss  of  time,  to  take  up 
arms  and  seize  some  strongholds.  That  they 
ought  at  all  risks  to  prevent  the  king’s  armed  en¬ 
trance  into  the  provinces.  That  they  should  en¬ 
deavor  to  prevail  on  the  Swiss,  the  Protestant 
princes  of  Germany,  and  the  Huguenots  to  arm 
and  obstruct  his  passage  through  their  territories ; 
and  if,  notwithstanding,  he  should  force  his  way 
through  these  impediments,  that  the  Flemings 
should  meet  him  with  an  army  on  the  frontiers. 
He  would  take  upon  himself  to  negotiate  a  defen¬ 
sive  alliance  in  France,  in  Switzerland,  and  in 
Germany,  and  to  raise  in  the  latter  empire  four 
thousand  horse,  together  with  a  proportionate 
body  of  infantry ;  pretexts  would  not  be  wanting 
for  collecting  the  requisite  supplies  of  money,  and 
the  merchants  of  the  reformed  sect  would,  he  felt 
assured,  not  fail  them.  But  William,  more  cau¬ 
tious  and  more  wise,  declared  himself  against  this 
proposal,  which,  in  the  execution,  would  be  ex¬ 
posed  to  numberless  difficulties,  and  had  as  yet 
nothing  to  justify  it.  The  Inquisition,  he  repre¬ 
sented,  was  in  fact  abolished,  the  edicts  were 
nearly  sunk  into  oblivion,  and  a  fair  degree  of 
religious  liberty  accorded.  Hitherto,  therefore, 
there  existed  no  valid  or  adequate  excuse  for 
adopting  this  hostile  method ;  he  did  not  doubt, 
however,  that  one  would  be  presented  to  them 
before  long,  and  in  good  time  for  preparation. 
His  own  opinion,  consequently,  was  that  they 
should  await  this  opportunity  with  patience,  and 
in  the  mean  while  still  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon 
every  thing,  and  contrive  to  give  the  people  a 
hint  of  the  threatened  danger,  that  they  might  be 
ready  to  act  if  circumstances  should  call  for  their 
co-operation.  If  all  present  had  assented  to  the 
opinion  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  there  is  no 
doubt  but  so  powerful  a  league,  formidable  both 
by  the  influence  and  the  high  character  of  its 
members,  would  have  opposed  obstacles  to  the 
designs  of  the  king  which  would  have  compelled 
him  to  abandon  them  entirely.  But  the  determi¬ 
nation  of  the  assembled  knights  was  much  shaken 
by  the  declaration  with  which  Count  Egmont  sur¬ 
prised  them.  “  Bather,”  said  he,  “may  all  that  is 
evil  befall  me,  than  that  I  should  tempt  fortune  so 
rashly.  The  idle  talk  of  the  Spanish  Alava  does 
not  move  me ;  how  should  such  a  person  be  able 
to  read  the  mind  of  a  sovereign  so  reserved  as 
Philip,  and  to  decipher  his  secrets  ?*  The  intelli¬ 
gence  which  Montigny  gives  us,  goes  to  prove  no¬ 
thing  more  than  that  the  king  has  a  very  doubt¬ 
ful  opinion  of  our  zeal  for  his  service,  and  believes 
he  has  cause  to  distrust  our  loyalty ;  and  for  this, 


82 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


I,  for  my  part,  must  confess  that  we  have  given 
him  only  too  much  cause.  And  it  is  my  serious 
purpose,  by  redoubling  my  zeal,  to  regain  his  good 
opinion,  and  by  my  future  behavior  to  remove,  if 
possible,  the  distrust  which  my  actions  have 
hitherto  excited.  How  could  I  tear  myself  from 
the  arms  of  my  numerous  and  dependant  family, 
to  wander  as  an  exile  at  foreign  courts,  a  burden 
to  every  one  who  received  me,  the  slave  of  every 
one  who  condescended  to  assist  me — a  servant  of 
foreigners  in  order  to  escape  a  slight  degree  of 
constraint  at  home  ?  Never  can  the  monarch  act 
unkindly  toward  a  servant  who  was  once  be¬ 
loved  and  dear  to  him,  and  who  has  established  a 
well  grounded  claim  to  his  gratitude.  Never 
shall  I  be  persuaded,  that  he,  who  haS\  expressed 
such  favorable,  such  gracious  sentiments  toward 
his  Belgian  subjects,  and  with  his  own  mouth  gave 
me  such  emphatic,  such  solemn  assurances,  can 
be  now  devising,  as  it  is  pretended,  such  tyranni¬ 
cal  schemes  against  them.  If  we  do  but  restore 
to  the  country  its  former  repose,  chastise  the 
rebels,  and  re-establish  the  Roman  Catholic  form 
of  worship  wherever  it  has  been  violently  sup¬ 
pressed,  then,  believe  me,  we  shall  hear  no  more 
of  Spanish  troops.  This  is  the  course  to  which  I 
now  invite  you  all  by  my  counsel  and  my  example, 
and  to  which  also  most  of  our  brethren  already 
incline.  I,  for  my  part,  fear  nothing  from  the 
anger  of  the  king.  My  conscience  acquits  me.  I 
trust  my  fate  and  fortunes  to  his  justice  and 
clemency.”  In  vain  did  Nassau,  Horn,  and 
Orange  labor  to  shake  his  resolution,  and  to  open 
his  eyes  to  the  near  and  inevitable  danger.  Eg- 
mont  was  really  attached  to  the  king  ;  the  royal 
favors,  and  the  condescension  with  which  they 
were  conferred  were  still  fresh  in  his  remem¬ 
brance.  The  attentions  with  which  the  monarch 
had  distinguished  him  above  all  his  friends,  had 
not  failed  of  their  effect.  It  was  more  from  false 
shame  than  from  party  spirit  that  he  had  defended 
the  cause  of  his  countrymen  against  him ;  more 
from  temperament  and  natural  kindness  of  heart, 
than  from  tried  principles,  that  he  had  opposed 
the  severe  measures  of  the  government.  The  love 
of  the  nation,  which  worshiped  him  as  its  idol, 
carried  him  away.  Too  vain  to  renounce  a  title 
which  sounded  so  agreeable,  he  had  been  com¬ 
pelled  to  do  something  to  deserve  it ;  but  a  single 
look  at  his  family — a  harsher  designation  applied 
to  his  conduct — a  dangerous  inference  drawn  from 
it — the  mere  sound  of  crime  terrified  him  from 
his  self-delusion,  and  scared  him  back  in  haste  and 
alarm  to  his  duty. 

Orange’s  whole  plan  was  frustrated  by  Eg- 
mont’s  withdrawal.  The  latter  possessed  the 
hearts  of  the  people  and  the  confidence  of  the 
army,  without  which  it  was  utterly  impossible  to 
undertake  any  thing  effective.  The  rest  had 
reckoned  with  so  much  certainty  upon  him,  that 
his  unexpected  defection  rendered  the  whole 
meeting  nugatory.  They  therefore  separated 
without  coming  to  a  determination.  All  who  had 
met  in  Dendermonde  were  expected  in  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State  in  Brussels;  but  Egmont  alone  re¬ 
paired  thither.  The  regent  wished  to  sift  him  on 
the  subject  of  this  conference,  but  she  could  ex¬ 
tract  nothing  further  from  him,  than  the  produc¬ 


tion  of  the  letter  of  A  lava,  of  which  he  had  pur¬ 
posely  taken  a  copy,  and  which  with  the  bitterest 
reproofs  he  laid  before  her.  At  first  she  changed 
color  at  sight  of  it,  but  quickly  recovering  her¬ 
self,  she  boldly  declared  that  it  was*  a  forgery. 
“  How  can  this  letter,”  she  said,  “  really  come 
from  Alava,  when  I  miss  none;  and  would  he,  who 
pretends  to  have  intercepted  it,  have  spared  the 
other  letters?  Nay,  how  can  it  be  true,  when  not 
a  single  packet  has  miscarried,  nor  a  single  dis¬ 
patch  failed  to  come  to  hand?  How,  too,  can  it 
be  thought  likely  that  the  king  would  have  made 
Alava  master  of  a  secret  which  he  has  not  com¬ 
municated  even  to  me?” 


CIVIL  WAR. 

1566.  Meanwhile  the  regent  hastened  to  take 
advantage  of  the  schism  amongst  the  nobles  to 
complete  the  ruin  of  the  League,  which  was  al¬ 
ready  tottering  under  the  weight  of  internal  dis¬ 
sensions.  Without  loss  of  time,  she  drew  from 
Germany  the  troops  which  Duke  Eric  of  Bruns¬ 
wick  was  holding  in  readiness,  augmented  the 
cavalry,  and  raised  five  regiments  of  Walloons, 
the  command  of  which  she  gave  to  Counts  Mans- 
feld,  Megen,  Aremberg,  and  others.  To  the 
prince,  likewise,  she  felt  it  necessary  to  confide 
troops,  both  because  she  did  not  wish,  by  with¬ 
holding  them,  pointedly  to  insult  him,  and  also 
because  the  provinces  of  which  he  was  governor 
were  in  urgent  need  of  them;  but  she  took  the 
precaution  of  joining  with  him  a  Colonel  Walden- 
finger,  who  should  watch  all  his  steps,  and  thwart 
his  measures  if  they  appeared  dangerous.  To 
Count  Egmont,  the  clergy  in  Flanders  paid  a  con¬ 
tribution  of  forty  thousand  gold  florins  for  the 
maintenance  of  fifteen  hundred  men,  whom  he  dis¬ 
tributed  among  the  places  where  danger  was  most 
apprehended.  Every  governor  was  ordered  to 
increase  his  mititary  force,  and  to  provide  him¬ 
self  with  ammunition.  These  energetic  prepa¬ 
rations  which  were  making  in  all  places,  left  no 
doubt  as  to  the  measures  which  the  regent  would 
adopt  in  future.  Conscious  of  her  superior  force, 
and  certain  of  this  important  support,  she  now 
ventured  to  change  her  tone,  and  to  employ  quite 
another  language  with  the  rebels.  She  began  to 
put  the  most  arbitary  interpretation  on  the  con¬ 
cessions  which,  through  fear  and  necessity,  she 
had  made  to  the  Protestants,  and  to  restrict  all 
the  liberties  which  she  had  tacitly  granted  them 
to  the  mere  permission  of  their  preaching.  All 
other  religious  exercises  and  rites,  which  yet  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  involved  in  the  former  privilege, 
were,  by  new  edicts,  expressly  forbidden,  and  all 
offenders  in  such  matters  were  to  be  proceeded 
against  as  traitors.  The  Protestants  were  per¬ 
mitted  to  think  differently  from  the  ruling  church 
upon  the  sacrament,  but  to  receive  it  differently 
was  a  crime ;  baptism,  marriage,  burial,  after 
their  fashion,  were  prohibited  under  pain  of  death. 
It  was  a  cruel  mockery  to  allow  them  their 
religion,  and  forbid  the  exercise  of  it ;  but  this 
mean  artifice  of  the  regent  to  escape  from  the  ob¬ 
ligation  of  her  pledged  word,  was  worthy  of  the 
pusillanimity  with  which  she  had  submitted  to  its 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


83 


being  extorted  from  her.  She  took  advantage  of 
the  most  trifling  innovations,  and  the  smallest  ex¬ 
cesses,  to  interrupt  the  preachings ;  and  some  of 
the  preachers,  under  the  charge  of  having  per¬ 
formed  their  office  in  places  not  appointed  to 
them,  were  brought  to  trial,  condemned  and  exe¬ 
cuted.  On  more  than  one  occasion,  the  regent 
publicly  declared  that  the  confederates  had  taken 
unfair  advantage  of  her  fears,  and  that  she  did  not 
feel  herself  bound  by  an  engagement  which  had 
been  extorted  from  her  by  threats. 

Of  all  the  Belgian  towns  which  had  partici¬ 
pated  in  the  insurrection  of  the  Iconolasts,  none 
had  caused  the  regent  so  much  alarm  as  the  town 
of  Valenciennes  in  Hainault.  In  no  other  was  the 
party  of  the  Calvinists  so  powerful,  and  the  spirit 
of  rebellion  for  which  the  province  of  Hainault 
had  always  made  itself  conspicuous,  seemed  to 
dwell  here  as  in  its  native  place.  The  propinquity 
of  France,  to  which,  as  well  by  language  as  by 
manners,  this  town  appeared  to  belong,  rather 
than  to  the  Netherlands,  had  from  the  first  led 
to  its  being  governed  with  great  mildness  and  for¬ 
bearance,  which,  however,  only  taught  it  to  feel  its 
own  importance.  At  the  last  outbreak  of  the 
church  desecrators  it  had  been  on  the  point  of 
surrendering  to  the  Huguenots,  with  whom  it 
maintained  the  closest  understanding.  The  slight¬ 
est  excitement  might  renew  this  danger.  On 
this  account  Valenciennes  was  the  first  town  to 
which  the  regent  proposed,  as  soon  as  it  should 
be  in  her  power,  to  send  a  strong  garrison. 
Philip  of  Noircarmes,  Baron  of  St.  Aldegonde, 
Governor  of  Hainault  in  the  place  of  the  absent 
Marquis  of  Bergen,  had  received  this  charge,  and 
now  appeared  at  the  head  of  an  army  before  its 
walls.  Deputies  came  to  meet  him  on  the  part 
of  the  magistrates  from  the  town,  to  petition 
against  the  garrison,  because  the  Protestant  citi¬ 
zens,  who  were  the  superior  number,  had  declared 
against  it.  Noircarmes  acquainted  them  with  the 
will  of  the  regent,  and  gave  them  the  choice  be¬ 
tween  the  garrison  or  a  siege.  He  assured  them 
that  not  more  than  four  squadrons  of  horse  and 
six  companies  of  foot  should  be  imposed  upon  the 
town  ;  and  for  this  he  would  give  them  his  son  as 
a  hostage.  These  terms  were  laid  before  the  ma¬ 
gistrate,  who,  for  his  part,  was  much  inclined  to 
accept  them.  But  Peregrine  Le  Grange,  the 
preacher,  and  the  idol  of  the  populace,  to  whom 
it  was  of  vital  importance  to  prevent  a  sub¬ 
mission  of  which  he  would  inevitably  become  the 
victim,  appeared  at  the  head  of  his  followers,  and 
by  his  powerful  eloquence  excited  the  people  to 
reject  the  conditions.  When  their  answer  was 
brought  to  Noircarmes,  contrary  to  all  law  of  na¬ 
tions,  he  caused  the  messengers  to  be  placed  in 
irons,  and  carried  them  away  with  him  as  prison¬ 
ers  ;  he  was,  however,  by  express  command  of 
the  regent  compelled  to  set  them  free  again.  The 
regent,  instructed  by  secret  orders  from  Madrid 
to  exercise  as  much  forbearance  as  possible, 
caused  the  town  to  be  repeatedly  summoned  to 
receive  the  garrison;  when,  however,  it  obstinately 
persisted  in  its  refusal,  it  was  declared  by  ptiblic 
edict  to  be  in  rebellion,  and  Noircarmes  was  au¬ 
thorized  to  commence  the  siege  in  form.  The 
other  provinces  were  forbidden  to  assist  this  re¬ 


bellious  town  with  advice,  money,  or  arms.  All 
the  property  contained  in  it  was  confiscated.  In 
order  to  let  it  see  the  war,  before  it  began  in  earn¬ 
est,  and  to  give  it  time  for  rational  reflection,  Noir¬ 
carmes  drew  together  troops  from  all  Hainault 
and  Cambray  (1566),  took  possession  of  St. 
Amant,  and  placed  garrisons  in  all  adjacent 
places. 

The  line  of  conduct  adopted  toward  Valen¬ 
ciennes,  allowed  the  other  towns  which  were  simi¬ 
larly,  situated,  to  infer  the  fate  which  was  intended 
for  them  also,  and  at  once  put  the  whole  Leagia 
in  motion.  An  army  of  the  Gueux  between  three 
and  four  thousand  strong,  which  was  hastily  col¬ 
lected  from  the  rabble  of  fugitives,  and  the  re¬ 
maining  bands  of  Iconoclasts,  appeared  in  the 
territories  of  Tournayand  Lille,  in  order  to  secure 
these  two  towns,  and  to  annoy  the  enemy  at  Va¬ 
lenciennes.  The  commandant  of  Lille  was  fortu¬ 
nate  enough  to  maintain  that  place  by  routing  a 
detachment  of  this  army,  which,  in  concert  with 
the  Protestant  inhabitants,  had  made  an  attempt 
to  get  possession  of  it.  At  the  same  time,  the 
army  of  the  Gueux,  which  was  uselessly  wasting 
its  time  at  Lannoy,  was  surprised  by  Noircarmes 
and  almost  entirely  annihilated.  The  few,  who 
with  desperate  courage  forced  their  way  through 
the  enemy,  threw  themselves  into  the  town  of 
Tournay,  which  was  immediately  summoned  by 
the  victor  £o  open  its  gates  and  admit  a  garrison. 
Its  prompt  obedience  obtained  for  it  a  milder 
fate.  Noircarmes  contented  himself  with  abolish¬ 
ing  the  Protestant  consistory,  banishing  the 
preachers,  punishing  the  leaders  of  the  rebels, 
and  again  re-establishing  the  Roman  Catholic 
worship,  which  he  found  almost  entirely  sup¬ 
pressed.  After  giving  it  a  steadfast  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  as  governor,  and  leaving  it  a  sufficient  garri¬ 
son,  he  again  returned  with  his  victorious  army  to 
Valenciennes  to  press  the  siege. 

This  town,  confident  in  its  strength,  actively 
prepared  for  defense,  firmly  resolved  to  allow 
things  to  come  to  extremes  before  it  surrendered. 
The  inhabitants  had  not  neglected  to  furnish 
themselves  with  ammunition  and  provisions  for  a 
long  siege ;  all  who  could  carry  arms,  (the  very 
artisans  not  excepted,)  became  soldiers;  the 
houses  before  the  town,  and  especially  the  cloisters, 
were  pulled  down,  that  the  besiegers  might  not 
avail  themselves  of  them  to  cover  their  attack. 
The  few  adherents  of  the  crown,  awed  by  the 
multitude,  were  silent;  no  Roman  Catholic  ven¬ 
tured  to  stir  himself.  Anarchy  and  rebellion  had 
taken  the  place  of  good  order,  and  the  fanaticism 
of  a  foolhardy  priest  gave  laws,  instead  ot  the 
legal  dispensers  of  justice.  The  male  population 
was  numerous,  their  courage  confirmed  by  despair, 
their  confidence  unbounded  that  the  siege  would 
be  raised,  while  their  hatred  against  the  Roman 
Catholic  religiou  was  excited  to  the  highest  pitch. 
Many  had  no  mercy  to  expect,  all  abhorred  the 
general  thralldom  of  an  imperious  garrison.  Noir¬ 
carmes,  whose  army  had  become  formidable 
through  the  reinforcements  which  streamed  to  it 
from  all  quarters,  and  was  abundantly  furnished 
with  all  the  requisites  for  a  long  blockade,  once 
more  attempted  to  prevail  on  the  town  by  gentle 
means,  but  in  vain.  At  last  he  caused  the 


84 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


trenches  to  be  opened,  and  prepared  to  invest  the 
place. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  position  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  had  grown  as  much  worse  as  that  of  the 
regent  had  improved.  The  league  of  the  nobles 
had  gradually  melted  away  to  a  third  of  its  original 
number.  Some  of  its  most  important  defenders, 
Count  Egmont,  for  instance,  had  gone  over  to  the 
king;  the  pecuniary  contributions  which  had  been 
so  confidently  reckoned  upon  came  in  but  slowly 
and  scantily  ;  the  zeal  of  the  party  began  per¬ 
ceptibly  to  cool,  and  the  close  of  the  fine  season 
made  it  necessary  to  discontinue  the  public 
preachings,  which,  up  to  this  time,  had  been  con¬ 
tinued.  These  and  other  reasons  combined, 
induced  the  declining  party  to  moderate  its  de¬ 
mands,  and  to  try  every  legal  expedient  before  it 
proceeded  to  extremities.  In  a  general  synod  of  the- 
Protestants,  which  was  held  for  this  object  in 
Antwerp,  and  which  was  also  attended  by  some 
of  the  confederates,  it  was  resolved  to  send  depu¬ 
ties  to  the  regent,  to  remonstrate  with  her  upon 
this  breach  of  faith,  and  to  remind  her  of  her 
compact.  Brederode  undertook  this  office,  but 
was  obliged  to  submit  to  a  harsh  and  disgraceful 
rebuff,  and  was  shut  out  of  Brussels.  He  had  now 
recourse  to  a  written  memorial,  in  which,  in  the 
name  of  the  whole  league,  he  complained  that  the 
duchess  had,  by  violating  her  word,  falsified  in 
sight  of  all  the  Protestants  the  security  given  by 
the  league,  in  reliance  on  which  all  of  them  had 
laid  down  their  arms  ;  that  by  her  insincerity  she 
had  undone  all  the  good  which  the  confederates 
had  labored  to  effect ;  that  she  had  sought  to 
degrade  the  league  in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  had 
excited  discord  among  its  members,  and  had  even 
caused  many  of  them  to  be  persecuted  as  criminals. 
He  called  upon  her  to  recall  her  late  ordinances, 
which  deprived  the  Protestants  of  the  free  exer¬ 
cise  of  their  religion,  but  above  all  to  raise  the 
siege  of  Valenciennes,  to  disband  the  troops  newly 
enlisted,  and  ended  by  assuring  her  that  on  these 
conditions,  and  these  alone,  the  league  would  be 
responsible  for  the  general  tranquillity. 

To  this  the  regent  replied  in  a  tone  very  diffe¬ 
rent  from  her  previous  moderation.  “  Who  these 
confederates  are,  who  address  me  in  this  memorial, 
is,  indeed,  a  mystery  to  me.  The  confederates 
with  whom  I  had  formerly  to  do,  for  aught  I 
know  to  the  contrary,  have  dispersed.  All  at 
least  cannot  participate  in  this  statement  of 
grievances,  for  I  myself  know  of  many,  who,  satis¬ 
fied  in  all  their  demands,  have  returned  to  their 
duty.  But  still,  whoever  he  may  be,  who  without 
authority  and  right,  and  without  name,  addresses 
me,  he  has  at  least  given  a  very  false  interpreta¬ 
tion  to  my  word,  if  he  asserts  that  I  guaranteed 
to  the  Protestants  complete  religious  liberty.  No 
one  can  be  ignorant  how  reluctantly  I  was  in¬ 
duced  to  permit  the  preachings  in  the  places 
where  they  had  sprung  up  unauthorized,  and  this 
surely  cannot  be  counted  for  a  concession  of  free¬ 
dom  in  religion.  Is  it  likely  that  I  should  have 
entertained  the  idea  of  protecting  these  illegal 
consistories,  of  tolerating  this  state  within  a  state  ? 
Could  I  forget  myself  so  far  as  to  grant  the  sanc¬ 
tion  of  law  to  an  objectionable  sect ;  to  overturn 
ail  ordei  in  the  church  and  in  the  state,  and 


abominably  to  blaspheme  my  holy  religion  ?  Look 
to  him  who  has  given  you  such  permission,  but 
you  must  not  argue  with  me.  You  accuse  me  of 
having  violated  the  agreement,  which  gave  you 
impunity  and  security.  The  past  I  am  willing  to 
look  over,  but  not  what  may  be  done  in  future. 
No  advantage  was  to  be  taken  of  you  on  account 
of  the  petition  of  last  April,  and  to  best  of  my 
knowledge,  nothing  of  the  kind  has  as  yet  been 
done  ;  but  whoever  again  offends  in  the  same  way, 
against  the  majesty  of  the  king,  must  be  ready  to 
bear  the  consequences  of  his  crime.  In  fine,  how 
can  you  presume  to  remind  me  of  an  agreement 
which  you  have  been  the  first  to  break  ?  At 
whose  instigation  were  the  churches  plundered, 
the  images  of  the  saints  thrown  down,  and  the 
towns  hurried  into  rebellion  ?  Who  formed  alli¬ 
ances  with  foreign  powers,  set  on  foot  illegal  en¬ 
listments,  and  collected  unlawful  taxes  from  the 
subjects  of  the  king?  These  are  the  reasons 
which  have  impelled  me  to  draw  together  my 
troops,  and  to  increase  the  severity  of  the  edicts. 
Whoever  now  asks  me  to  lay  down  my  arms,  can¬ 
not  mean  well  to  his  country  or  his  king,  and  if  ye 
value  your  own  lives,  look  to  it  that  your  own 
actions  acquit  you,  instead  of  judging  mine.” 

All  the  hopes  which  the  confederates  might 
have  entertained  of  an  amicable  adjustment  sank 
with  this  high-toned  declaration.  Without  being 
confident  of  possessing  powerful  support,  the  re¬ 
gent  wrould  not,  they  argued,  employ  such  lan¬ 
guage.  An  army  was  in  the  field,  the  enemy  was 
before  Valenciennes,  the  members  who  were  the 
heart  of  the  league  had  abandoned  it,  and  the  re¬ 
gent  required  unconditional  submission.  'Their 
cause  was  now  so  bad,  that  open  resistance  could 
not  make  it  worse.  If  they  gave  themselves  up 
defenseless  into  the  hands  of  their  exasperated 
sovereign,  their  fate  was  certain  ;  an  appeal  to 
arms  could  at  least  make  it  a  matter  of  doubt ; 
they,  therefore,  chose  the  latter,  and  began  se¬ 
riously  to  take  steps  for  their  defense.  In  order 
to  insure  the  assistance  of  the  German  Protest¬ 
ants,  Louis  of  Nassau  attempted  to  persuade  the 
towns  of  Amsterdam,  Antwerp,  Tournay,  and 
Valenciennes,  to  adopt  the  confession  of  Augs¬ 
burg,  and  in  this  manner  to  seal  their  alliance 
with  a  religious  union.  But  the  proposition  was 
not  successful,  because  the  hatred  of  the  Calvin¬ 
ists  to  the  Lutherans  exceeded,  if  possible,  that 
which  they  bore  to  Popery.  Nassau  also  began 
in  earnest  to  negotiate  for  supplies  from  Prance, 
the  Palatinate,  and  Saxony.  The  Count  of  Ber¬ 
gen  fortified  his  castles  ;  Brederode  threw  himself 
with  a  small  force  into  his  strong  town  of  Viane 
on  the  Leek,  over  which  he  claimed  the  rights  of 
sovereignty,  and  which  he  hastily  placed  in  a  state 
of  defense,  and  there  awaited  a  reinforcement  from 
the  league,  and  the  issue  of  Nassau’s  negotiations. 
The  flag  of  war  was  now  unfurled,  everywhere  the 
drum  was  heard  to  beat ;  in  all  parts  troops  were 
seen  on  the  march,  contributions  collected,  and 
soldiers  enlisted.  The  agents  of  each  party  often 
met  in  the  same  place,  and  hardly  had  the  collect¬ 
ors  and  recruiting  officers  of  the  regent  quitted  a 
town,  when  it  had  to  endure  a  similar  visit  from 
the  agents  of  the  league. 

From  Valenciennes  the  regent  directed  her  at 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


85 


tention  to  Herzogenbusch,  where  the  Iconoclasts 
had  lately  committed  fresh  excesses,  and  the  party 
of  the  Protestants  had  gained  a  great  accession 
of  strength.  In  order  to  prevail  on  the  citizens 
peaceably  to  receive  a  garrison,  she  sent  thither, 
as  ambassador,  the  chancellor  Scheiflf  from  Bra¬ 
bant,  with  Counselor  Merode  of  Petersheim,  whom 
she  appointed  governor  of  the  town  ;  they  were 
instructed  to  secure  the  place  by  judicious  means, 
and  to  exact  from  the  citizens  a  new  oath  of  alle¬ 
giance.  At  the  same  time,  the  Count  of  Megen, 
who  was  in  the  neighborhood  with  a  body  of 
troops,  was  ordered  to  support  the  two  envoys 
in  effecting  their  commission,  and  to  afford  the 
means  of  throwing  in  a  garrison  immediately. 
But  Brederode,  who  obtained  information  of  these 
movements  in  Viane,  had  already  sent  thither  one 
of  his  creatures,  a  certain  Anton  von  Bomberg,  a 
hot  Calvinist,  but  also  a  brave  soldier,  in  order  to 
raise  the  courage  of  his  party,  and  to  frustrate  the 
designs  of  the  regent.  This  Bomberg  succeeded 
in  getting  possession  of  the  letters  which  the 
chancellor  brought  with  him  from  the  duchess, 
and  contrived  to  substitute  in  their  place  counter¬ 
feit  ones,  which,  by  their  harsh  and  imperious 
language,  were  calculated  to  exasperate  the 
minds  of  the  citizens.  At  the  same  time,  he  at¬ 
tempted  to  throw  suspicion  on  both  the  ambassa¬ 
dors  of  the  duchess,  as  having  evil  designs  upon 
the  town.  In  this  he  succeeded  so  well  with  the 
mob,  that  in  their  mad  fury  they  even  laid  hands 
on  the  ambassadors,  and  placed  them  in  confine¬ 
ment.  He  himself  at  the  head  of  800  men,  who 
had  adopted  him  as  their  leader,  advanced  against 
the  Count  of  Megen,  who  was  moving  in  order  of 
battle,  and  gave  him  so  warm  a  reception  with 
some  heavy  artillery,  that  he  was  compelled  to 
retire  without  accomplishing  his  object.  The 
regent  now  sent  an  officer  of  justice  to  demand 
the  release  of  her  ambassadors,  and  in  case  of  re¬ 
fusal  to  threaten  the  place  with  siege ;  but  Bom¬ 
berg  with  his  party  surrounded  the  town  hall, 
and  forced  the  magistrate  to  deliver  to  him  the 
key  of  the  town.  The  messenger  of  the  regent 
was  ridiculed  and  dismissed,  and  an  answer  sent 
through  him,  that  the  treatment  of  the  prisoners 
would  depend  upon  Brederode’s  orders.  The 
herald,  who  was  remaining  outside  before  the 
town,  now  appeared  to  declare  war  against  her, 
which  however  the  chancellor  prevented. 

After  this  futile  attempt  on  Herzogenbusch,  the 
the  Count  of  Megen  threw  himself  into  Utrecht, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  execution  of  a  design, 
which  Count  Brederode  had  formed  against  the 
town.  As  it  had  suffered  much  from  the  army 
of  the  confederates,  which  was  encamped  in  its 
immediate  neighborhood,  near  Viane,  it  received 
Megen  with  open  arms  as  its  protector,  and  con¬ 
formed  to  all  the  alterations  which  he  made  in  its 
religious  worship.  Upon  this,  he  immediately 
caused  a  redoubt  to  be  thrown  up  on  the  bank  of 
the  Leek,  which  would  command  Viane.  Brede¬ 
rode.  not  disposed  to  await  his  attack,  quitted  that 
rendezvous  with  the  best  part  of  his  army  and 
hastened  to  Amsterdam. 

However  unprofitably  the  Prince  of  Orange 
appeared  to  be  losing  his  time  in  Antwerp  during 
these  operations,  lie  was,  nevertheless,  busily  em¬ 


ployed.  At  his  instigation  the  league  had  com¬ 
menced  recruiting,  and  Brederode  had  fortified  his 
castles,  for  which  purpose  he  himself  presented 
him  with  three  cannons,  which  he  had  had  cast  at 
Utrecht.  His  eye  watched  all  the  movements  of 
the  court,  and  he  kept  the  league  warned  of  the 
towns  which  were  next  menaced  with  attack.  But 
his  chief  object  appeared  to  be  to  get  possession 
of  the  principal  places  in  the  districts  under  his 
own  government,  to  which  end  he,  with  all  his 
power,  secretly  assisted  Brederode’s  plans  against 
Utrecht  and  Amsterdam.  The  most  important 
place  was  the  Island  of  Walcheren,  where  the 
king  was  expected  to  land  ;  and  he  now  planned 
a  scheme  for  the  surprise  of  this  place,  the  con¬ 
duct  of  which  was  intrusted  to  one  of  the  confed¬ 
erate  nobles,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  John  of  Marnix,  Baron  of  Thoulouse, 
and  brother  of  Philip  of  Aldegonde. 

15G7.  Thoulouse  maintained  a  secret  under¬ 
standing  with  the  late  mayor  of  Middleburg,  Pe¬ 
ter  Haak,  by  which  he  expected  to  gain  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  throwing  a  garrison  into  Middleburg 
and  Flushing.  The  recruiting,  however,  for  this 
undertaking,  which  was  set  on  foot  in  Antwerp, 
could  not  be  carried  on  so  quietly  as  not  to  attract 
the  notice  of  the  magistrate.  In  order,  therefore, 
to  lull  the  suspicions  of  the  latter,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  promote  the  success  of  the  scheme,  the 
prince  caused  the  herald,  by  public  proclamation,  to 
order  all  foreign  soldiers  and  strangers  who  were  in 
the  service  of  the  state  or  employed  in  other  busi¬ 
ness,  forthwith  to  quit  the  town.  He  might,  say  his 
adversaries,  by  closing  the  gates,  have  easily  made 
himself  master  of  all  these  suspected  recruits  ; 
but  he  expelled  them  from  the  town,  in  order  to 
drive  them  the  more  quickly  to  the  place  of  their 
destination.  They  immediately  embarked  on  the 
Scheldt,  and  sailed  down  to  Rammekens ;  as, 
however,  a  market- vessel  of  Antwerp,  which  ran 
into  Flushing  a  little  before  them,  had  given  warn¬ 
ing  of  their  design,  they  were  forbidden  to  enter 
the  port.  They  found  the  same  difficulty  at  Arne- 
muiden,  near  Middleburg,  although  the  Protest¬ 
ants  in  that  place  exerted  themselves  to  raise  an 
insurrection  in  their  favor.  Thoulouse,  therefore, 
without  having  accomplished  any  thing,  put  about 
his  ships,  and  sailed  back  down  the  Scheldt  as  far 
as  Osterweel,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Antwerp, 
where  he  disembarked  his  people  and  encamped 
on  the  shore,  with  the  hope  of  getting  men  from 
Antwerp  ;  and  also  in  order  to  revive  by  his  pre¬ 
sence  the  courage  of  his  party,  which  had  been 
cast  down  by  the  proceedings  of  the  magistrate. 
By  the  aid  of  the  Calvinistic  clergy,  who  re¬ 
cruited  for  him,  his  little  army  increased  daily, 
so  that  at  last  he  began  to  be  formidable  to 
the  Antwerpians,  whose  whole  territory  he  laid 
waste.  The  magistrate  was  for  attacking  him 
here  with  the  militia,  which,  however,  the  Prince 
of  Orange  successfully  opposed,  by  the  pretext 
that  it  would  not  be  prudent  to  strip  the  town  of 
soldiers. 

Meanwhile,  the  regent  had  hastily  brought  to¬ 
gether  a  small  army,  under  the  command  of  Philip 
of  Launoy,  which  moved  from  Brussels  to  Antwerp 
by  forced  marches.  At  the  same  time,  Count 
Megen  managed  to  keep  the  army  of  the  Gueux 


86 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


phut  up  and  employed  at  Yiane,  so  that  it  could 
neither  hear  of  these  movements,  nor  hasten  to 
the  assistance  of  its  confederates.  Launoy,  on 
his  arrival,  attacked  by  surprise  the  dispersed 
crowds,  who,  little  expecting  an  enemy,  had  gone 
out  to  plunder,  and  destroyed  them  in  one  terrible 
carnage.  Thoulouse  threw  himself  with  the  small 
remnant  of  his  troops,  into  a  country  house,  which 
had  served  him  as  his  head-quarters,  and  for  a  long 
time  defended  himself  with  the  courage  of  despair, 
until  Launoy,  finding  it  impossible  to  dislodge 
him,  set  fire  to  the  house.  The  few  who  escaped 
the  flames,  fell  on  the  swords  of  the  enemy,  or 
were  drowned  in  the  Scheldt.  Thoulouse  himself 
preferred  to  perish  in  the  flames,  rather  than  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  r)’his  victory, 
which  swept  off  more  than  a  thousand  of  the 
enemy,  was  purchased  by  the  conqueror  cheaply 
enough,  for  he  did  not  lose  more  than  two  men. 
Three  hundred  of  the  leaguers  who  surrendered, 
were  cut  down  without  mercy  on  the  spot,  as  a 
sally  from  Antwerp  was  momentarily  dreaded. 

Before  the  battle  actually  commenced,  no  anti¬ 
cipation  of  such  an  event  had  been  entertained  in 
Antwerp.  The  Prince  of  Orange,  who  got  early 
information  of  it,  had  taken  the  precaution,  the 
day  before,  of  causing  the  bridge  which  unites  the 
town  with  Ostenveel,  to  be  destroyed,  in  order,  as 
he  gave  out,  to  prevent  the  Calvinists  within  the 
town  going  out  to  join  the  army  of  Thoulouse.  A 
more  probable  motive  seems  to  have  been  a  fear 
lest  the  Catholics  should  attack  the  army  of  the 
Gueux  general  in  the  rear,  or  lest  Launoy  should 
prove  victorious,  and  try  to  force  his  way  into  the 
town.  On  the  same  pretext,  the  gates  of  the  city 
were  also  shut  by  his  orders,  and  the  inhabitants, 
who  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  all  these 
movements,  fluctuated  between  curiosity  and 
alarm,  until  the  sound  of  artillery  from  Osterweel 
announced  to  them  what  there  was  going  on.  In 
clamorous  crowds  they  all  ran  to  the  walls  and 
ramparts,  from  which,  as  the  wind  drove  the 
smoke  from  the  contending  armies,  they  com¬ 
manded  a  full  view  of  the  whole  battle.  Both 
armies  were  so  near  to  the  town  that  they  could 
discern  their  banners,  and  clearly  distinguish  the 
voices  of  the  victors  and  the  vanquished.  More 
terrible  even  than  the  battle  itself  was  the  specta¬ 
cle  which  this  town  now  presented.  Each  of  the 
conflicting  armies  had  its  friends  and  its  enemies 
on  the  wall.  All  that  went  on  in  the  plain,  roused 
on  the  ramparts  exultation  or  dismay;  on  the 
issue  of  the  conflict  the  fate  of  each  spectator 
seemed  to  depend.  Every  movement  on  the  field 
could  be  read  in  the  faces  of  the  townsmen  ;  de¬ 
feat  and  triumph,  the  terror  of  the  conquered,  and 
the  fury  of  the  conqueror.  Here  a  painful  but 
idle  wish  to  support  those  who  are  giving  way,  to 
rally  those  to  fly ;  there  an  equally  futile  desire  to 
overtake  them,  to  slay  them,  to  extirpate  them. 
Now  the  Gueux  fly,  and  ten  thousand  men  rejoice  ; 
Thoulouse’s  last  place  and  refuge  is  in  flames,  and 
the  hopes  of  twenty  thousand  citizens  are  con¬ 
sumed  with  him. 

But  the  first  bewilderment  of  alarm  soon  gave 
place  to  a  frantic  desire  of  revenge.  Shrieking 
aloud,  wringing  her  hands,  and  with  disheveled 
hair,  the  widow  of  the  slain  general  rushed  amidst 


the  crowds  to  implore  their  pity  and  help.  Ex¬ 
cited  by  their  favorite  preacher,  Hermann,  the 
Calvinists  fly  to  arms,  determined  to  avenge  their 
brethren,  or  to  perish  with  them  ;  without  reflec¬ 
tion,  without  plan  or  leader,  guided  by  nothing 
but  their  anguish,  their  delirium,  they  rush  to  the 
Red  Gate  of  the  city,  which  leads  to  the  field  of 
battle  ;  but  there  is  no  egress,  the  gate  is  shut, 
and  the  foremost  of  the  crowd  recoil  on  those 
that  follow.  Thousands  and  thousands  collect 
together,  a  dreadful  rush  is  made  to  the  Meer 
bridge.  We  are  betrayed!  we  are  prisoners!  is 
the  general  cry.  Destruction  to  the  Papists, 
death  to  him  who  has  betrayed  us  ! — a  sullen  mur¬ 
mur,  portentous  of  a  revolt,  runs  through  the 
multitude.  They  begin  to  suspect,  that  all  that 
has  taken  place  has  been  set  on  foot  by  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholics,  to  destroy  the  Calvinists.  They 
had  slain  their  defenders,  and  they  would  now  fall 
upon  the  defenseless.  With  fatal  speed  this  sus¬ 
picion  spreads  through  the  whole  of  Antwerp. 
Now  they  can,  they  think,  understand  the  past, 
and  they  fear  something  still  worse  in  the  back 
ground  ;  a  frightful  distrust  gains  possession  of 
every  mind.  Each  party  dreads  the  other;  every 
one  sees  an  enemy  in  his  neighbor ;  the  mystery 
deepens  the  alarm  and  horror  ;  a  fearful  condition 
for  a  populous  town,  in  which  every  accidental 
concourse  instantly  becomes  tumult,  every  rumor 
started  amongst  them  becomes  a  fact,  every  small 
spark  a  blazing  flame,  and  by  the  force  of  numbers 
and  collision  all  passions  are  furiously  inflamed. 
All  who  bore  the  name  of  Calvinists  were  roused 
by  this  report.  Fifteen  thousand  of  them  take 
possession  of  the  Meer  bridge,  and  plant  heavy 
artillery  upon 'it,  which  they  had  taken  by  force 
from  the  arsenal ;  the  same  thing  also  happens  at 
another  bridge;  their  number  makes  them  for¬ 
midable,  the  town  is  in  their  hands  ;  to  escape  an 
imaginary  danger,  they  bring  all  Antwerp  to  the 
brink  of  ruin. 

Immediately  on  the  commencement  of  the  tu¬ 
mult,  the  Prince  of  Orange  hastened  to  the  Meer 
Bridge,  where,  boldly  forcing  his  way  through  the 
raging  crowd,  he  commanded  peace,  and  entreated 
to  be  heard.  At  the  other  bridge,  Count  Hog- 
straten,  accompanied  by  the  Burgomaster  Strah- 
len,  made  the  same  attempt ;  but  not  possessing 
a  sufficient  share  either  of  eloquence  or  of  popu¬ 
larity  to  command  attention,  he  referred  the  tu¬ 
multuous  crowd  to  the  prince,  around  whom  all 
Antwerp  now  furiously  thronged.  The  gate,  he 
endeavored  to  explain  to  them,  was  shut  simply 
to  keep  off  the  victor,  whoever  he  might  be,  from 
the  city,  which  would  otherwise  become  the  prey 
of  an  infuriated  soldiery.  In  vain  !  the  frantic 
people  would  not  listen,  and  one  more  daring  than 
the  rest  presented  his  musket  at  him,  calling  him 
a  traitor.  With  tumultuous  shouts,  they  demand¬ 
ed  the  key  of  the  Red  Gate,  which  he  was  ulti¬ 
mately  forced  to  deliver  into  the  hands  of  the 
preacher  Hermann.  But,  he  added  with  happy 
presence  of  mind,  they  must  take  heed  what  they 
were  doing  ;  in  the  suburbs,  six  hundred  of  the 
enemy’s  horse  were  waiting  to  receive  them.  This 
invention,  suggested  by  the  emergency,  was  not 
so  far  removed  from  the  truth  as  its  author  per¬ 
haps  imagined ;  for  no  sooner  had  the  victorious 


2 — G.  p.  98 


2— E.  p.  86, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


87 


general  perceived  the  commotion  in  Antwerp, 
than  he  ordered  his  whole  cavalry  to  mount,  in 
the  hope  of  being  able,  under  favor  of  the  disturb¬ 
ance,  to  break  into  the  town.  I,  at  least,  conti¬ 
nued  th'  Prince  of  Orange,  shall  secure  my  own 
safety  ir  time,  and  he  who  follows  my  example 
will  save  himself  much  future  regret.  These 
words,  opportunely  spoken  and  immediately  acted 
upon,  had  their  effect.  Those  who  stood  nearest, 
followed  him,  and  were  again  followed  by  the  next, 
bo  that  at  last  the  few  who  had  already  hastened 
out  of  the  city,  when  they  saw  no  one  coming 
after  them,  lost  the  desire  of  coping  alone  with 
the  six  hundred  horse.  All  accordingly  returned 
to  the  Meer  Bridge,  where  they  posted  watches 
and  videttes,  and  the  night  was  passed  tumultu¬ 
ously  under  arms. 

The  town  of  Antwerp  was  now  threatened  with 
fearful  bloodshed  and  pillage.  In  this  pressing 
emergency,  Orange  assembled  an  extraordinary 
senate,  to  which  were  summoned  all  the  best  dis¬ 
posed  citizens  of  the  four  nations.  If  they  wish¬ 
ed,  said  he,  to  repress  the  violence  of  the  Cal¬ 
vinists,  they  must  oppose  them  with  an  army 
strong  enough  and  prepared  to  meet  them.  It 
was  therefore  resolved  to  arm  with  speed  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  inhabitants  of  the  town,  whether 
natives,  Italians,  or  Spaniards,  and,  if  possible,  to 
induce  the  Lutherans  also  to  join  them.  The 
haughtiness  of  the  Calvinists,  who,  proud  of  their 
wealth  and  confident  in  their  numbers,  treated 
every  other  religious  party  with  contempt,  had 
long  made  the  Lutherans  their  enemies,  and  the 
mutual  exasperation  of  these  two  Protestant 
churches  was  even  more  implacable  than  their 
common  hatred  of  the  dominant  church.  This 
jealousy  the  magistrate  had  turned  to  advantage, 
by  making  use  of  one  party  to  curb  the  other,  and 
had  thus  contrived  to  keep  the  Calvinists  in  check, 
who,  from  their  numbers  and  insolence,  were  most 
to  be  feared.  With  this  view,  he  had  tacitly 
taken  into  his  protection  the  Lutherans,  as  the 
weaker  and  more  peaceable  party,  having  more¬ 
over  invited  for  them  from  Germany,  spiritual 
teachers,  who,  by  controversial  sermons,  might 
keep  up  the  mutual  hatred  of  the  two  bodies.  He 
encouraged  the  Lutherans  in  the  vain  idea  that  the 
king  thought  more  of  their  religious  creed  than  of 
that  of  the  Calvinists,  and  exhorted  them  to  be 
careful  how  they  damaged  their  good  cause,  by 
any  understanding  with  the  latter.  It  was  not, 
therefore,  difficult  to  bring  about,  for  the  moment, 
a  union  with  the  Roman  Catholics  and  the  Lu¬ 
therans,  as  its  object  was  to  keep  down  their  de¬ 
tested  rivals.  At  dawn  of  day,  an  army  was  op¬ 
posed  to  the  Calvinists,  which  was  far  superior  in 
force  to  their  own.  At  the  head  of  this  army, 
the  eloquence  of  Orange  had. far  greater  effect, 
and  found  far  more  attention  than  on  the  preceding 
evening,  unbacked  by  such  strong  persuasion.  The 
Calvinists,  though  in  possession  of  arms  and  ar¬ 
tillery,  yet  alarmed  at  the  superior  numbers  array¬ 
ed  against  them,  were  the  first  to  send  envoys, 
and  to  treat  for  an  amicable  adjustment  of  differ¬ 
ences,  which  by  the  tact  and  good  temper  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  he  concluded  to  the  satisfac¬ 
tion  of  all  parties.  On  the  proclamation  of  this 
treaty,  the  Spaniards  and  Italians  immediately 


laid  down  their  arms.  They  were  followed  by  the 
Calvinists,  and  these  again  by  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics  ;  last  of  all,  the  Lutherans  disarmed. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  Antwerp  had  conti¬ 
nued  in  this  alarming  state.  During  the  tumult, 
the  Roman  Catholics  had  succeeded  in  placing 
barrels  of  gunpowder  under  the  Meer  Bridge, 
and  threatened  to  blow  into  the  air  the  whole  army 
of  the  Calvinists  who  had  done  the  same  in  other 
places  to  destroy  their  adversaries.  The  destruc¬ 
tion  of  the  town  hung  on  the  issue  of  a  moment, 
and  nothing  but  the  prince’s  presence  of  mind 
saved  it. 

Noircarmes  with  his  army  of  Walloons  still  lay 
before  Valenciennes,  which,  in  firm  reliance  on 
being  relieved  by  the  Gueux,  obstinately  refused 
to  listen  to  all  the  representations  of  the  regent, 
and  rejected  every  idea  of  surrender.  An  order 
of  the  court  had  expressly  forbidden  the  royalist 
general  to  press  the  siege,  until  he  should  receive 
reinforcements  from  Germany.  Whether  from 
forbearance  or  fear,  the  king  regarded  with  ab¬ 
horrence  the  violent  measure  of  storming  the 
place,  as  necessarily  involving  the  innocent  in  the 
fate  of  the  guilty,  and  exposing  the  loyal  subject 
to  the  same  ill  treatment  as  the  rebel.  As,  how¬ 
ever,  the  confidence  of  the  besieged  augmented 
daily,  and  emboldened  by  the  inactivity  of  the  be¬ 
siegers,  they  annoyed  him  by  frequent  sallies,  and 
after  burning  the  cloisters  before  the  town,  re¬ 
tired  with  the  plunder — as  the  time  uselessly  lost 
before  this  town  was  put  to  good  use  by  the  re¬ 
bels  and  their  allies,  Noircarmes  besought  the 
duchess  to  obtain  immediate  permission  from  the 
king  to  take  it  by  storm.  The  answer  arrived 
more  quickly  than  Philip  was  ever  before  wont  to 
reply.  As  yet  they  must  be  content,  simply  to 
make  the  necessary  preparations,  and  then  to  wait 
awhile  to  allow  terror  to  have  its  effect;  but  if, 
upon  this,  they  did  not  appear  ready  to  capitu¬ 
late,  the  storming  might  take  place,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  with  the  greatest  possible  regard  for 
the  lives  of  the  inhabitants.  Before  the  regent 
allowed  Noircarmes  to  proceed  to  this  extremity, 
she  empowered  Count  Egmont,  with  the  Duke  of 
Arschot,  to  treat  once  more  with  the  rebels  ami¬ 
cably.  Both  conferred  with  the  deputies  of  the 
town,  and  omitted  no  argument  calculated  to  dis¬ 
pel  their  delusion.  They  acquainted  them  with 
the  defeat  of  Thoulouse,  their  sole  support,  and 
with  the  fact  that  the  Count  of  Megen  had  cut 
off  the  army  of  the  Gueux  from  the  town,  and 
assured  them  that  if  they  had  held  out  so  long, 
they  owed  it  entirely  to  the  king’s  forbearance. 
They  offered  them  full  pardon  for  the  past ;  every 
one  was  to  be  free  to  prove  his  innocence  before 
whatever  tribunal  he  should  choose ;  such  as  did 
not  wish  to  avail  themselves  of  this  privilege 
were  to  be  allowed  fourteen  days  to  quit  the  town 
with  all  their  effects.  Nothing  was  required  of 
the  townspeople  but  the  admission  of  the  garri¬ 
son.  To  give  time  to  deliberate  on  these  terms, 
an  armistice  of  .  three  days  was  granted.  When 
the  deputies  returned,  they  found  their  fellow-ci¬ 
tizens  less  disposed  than  ever  to  an  accommoda¬ 
tion,  reports  of  new  levies  by  the  Gueux  having, 
in  the  mean  time,  gained  currency.  Thoulouse, 
it  was  pretended,  had  conquered,  and  was  advan- 


38 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


cing  with  a  powerful  army  to  relieve  the  place. 
Their  confidence  went  so  far,  that  they  even  ven¬ 
tured  to  break  the  armistice,  and  to  fire  upon  the 
besiegers.  At  last,  the  burgomaster  with  diffi¬ 
culty  succeeded  in  bringing  matter  so  far  toward 
a  peaceful  settlement,  that,  twelve  of  the  town 
counselors  were  sent  into  the  camp  with  the  fol¬ 
lowing  conditions.  The  edict,  by  which  Valen¬ 
ciennes  had  been  charged  writh  treason,  and 
declared  an  enemy  to  the  country,  was  required  to 
be  recalled,  the  confiscation  of  their  goods  revoked, 
and  the  prisoners  on  both  sides  restored  to  liberty, 
the  garrison  was  not  to  enter  the  town  before 
every  one,  who  thought  good  to  do  so,  had  placed 
himself  and  his  property  in  security  ;  and  a  pledge 
to  be  given  that  the  inhabitants  should  not  be 
molested  in  any  manner,  and  that  their  expenses 
should  be  paid  by  the  king. 

Noircarmes  was  so  indignant  with  these  condi¬ 
tions,  that  he  was  almost  on  the  point  of  ill  treat¬ 
ing  the  deputies.  If  they  had  not  come,  he  told 
them,  to  give  up  the  place,  they  might  return 
forthwith,  lest  he  should  send  them  home  with 
their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs.  Upon  this, 
the  deputies  threw  the  blame  on  the  obstinacy  of 
the  Calvinists,  and  entreated  him  with  tears  in 
their  eyes  to  keep  them  in  the  camp,  as  they  did 
not,  they  said,  wish  to  have  any  thing  more  to  do 
with  their  rebellious  townsmen,  or  to  be  joined  in 
their  fate.  They  even  knelt  to  beseech  the  inter¬ 
cession  of  Egmont,  but  Noircarmes  remained 
deaf  to  all  their  entreaties,  and  the  sight  of  the 
chains  which  he  ordered  to  be  brought  out,  drove 
them  reluctantly  enough  back  to  Valenciennes. 
Necessity,  not  severity,  imposed  this  harsh  pro¬ 
cedure  upon  the  general.  The  detention  of  am¬ 
bassadors  had,  on  a  former  occasion,  drawn  upon 
him  the  reprimand  of  the  duchess ;  the  people  in 
the  town  would  not  have  failed  to  have  ascribed 
the  non-appearance  of  their  ptesent  deputies  to 
'the  same  cause  as  in  the  former  case  had  detained 
them.  Besides,  he  was  loathe  to  deprive  the  town 
of  any  out  of  the  small  residue  of  well  disposed 
citizens,  or  to  leave  it  a  prey  to  a  blind,  foolhardy 
mob.  Egmont  was  so  mortified  at  the  bad  result 
of  this  embassy,  that  he,  the  night  following,  rode 
round  to  reconnoitre  its  fortifications,  and  re¬ 
turned  well  satisfied  to  have  convinced  himself 
that  it  was  no  longer  tenable. 

Valenciennes  stretches  down  a  gentle  acclivity 
into  the  level  plain,  being  built  on  a  site  as  strong 
as  it  is  delightful.  On  one  side  inclosed  by  the 
Scheldt  and  another  smaller  river,  and  on  the  other 
protected  by  deep  ditches,  thick  walls,  and  towers, 
it  appears  capable  of  defying  every  attack.  But 
Noircarmes  had  discovered  a  few  points  where 
neglect  had  allowed  the  fosse  to  be  filled  almost 
up  to  the  level  of  the  natural  surface,  and  of  these 
he  determined  to  avail  himself  in  storming.  He 
drew  together  all  the  scattered  corps,  by  which  he 
had  invested  the  town,  and  during  a  tempestuous 
night  carried  the  suburb  of  Berg,  without  the  loss 
of  a  single  man.  He  then  assigned  separate  points 
of  attack  to  the  Count  of  Bossu,  the  young  Charles 
of  Mansfeld,  and  the  younger  Barlaimont,  and 
under  a  terrible  fire,  which  drove  the  enemy  from 
his  walls,  his  troops  were  moved  up  with  all  pos¬ 
sible  speed.  Close  before  the  town,  and  opposite 


the  gate,  under  the  eyes  of  the  besiegers,  and  with 
vety  little  loss,  a  battery  was  thrown  up  to  an 
equal  height  with  the  fortifications.  From  this 
point,  the  town  was  bombarded  with  an  unceasing 
fire  for  four  hours.  The  Nicolaus ’tower,  on  which 
the  besieged  had  planted  some  artillery,  was 
among  the  first  that  fell,  and  many  perished  under 
its  ruins.  The  guns  were  directed  against  all 
the  most  conspicuous  buildings,  and  a  terrible 
slaughter  was  made  amongst  the  inhabitants.  In 
a  few  hours  their  principal  works  were  destroyed, 
and  in  the  gate  itself  so  extensive  a  breach  was 
made,  that  the  besieged,  despairing  of  any  longer 
defending  themselves,  sent  in  haste  two  trumpet¬ 
ers  to  entreat  a  parley.  This  was  granted,  but 
the  storm  was  continued  without  intermission. 
The  ambassador  entreated  Noircarmes  to  grant 
them  the  same  terms,  which  only  two  days  before 
they  had  rejected,  But  circumstances  had  now 
changed,  and  the  victor  would  hear  no  more  of 
conditions.  The  unceasing  fire  left  the  inhabit¬ 
ants  no  time  to  repair  the  ramparts,  which  filled 
the  fosse  with  their  debris,  and  opened  many  a 
breach  for  the  enemy  to  enter  by.  Certain  of 
utter  destruction,  they  surrendered  next  morning 
at  discretion,  after  a  bombardment  of  six-and- 
thirty  hours  without  intermission,  and  three  thou¬ 
sand  bombs  had  been  thrown  into  the  city.  Noir¬ 
carmes  marched  into  the  town  with  his  victorious 
army  under  the  strictest  discipline,  and  was  re¬ 
ceived  by  a  crowd  of  women  and  children,  who 
went  to  meet  him,  carrying  green  boughs,  and 
beseeching  his  pity.  All  the  citizens  were  imme¬ 
diately  disarmed,  the  commandant  and  his  son 
beheaded  ;  thirty-six  of  the  most  guilty  of  the 
rebels,  among  whom  were  La  Grange  and  another 
Calvinistic  preacher,  Guido  de  Bresse,  atoned  for 
their  obstinacy  at  the  gallows ;  all  the  municipal 
functionaries  were  deprived  of  their  offices,  and 
the  town  of  all  its  privileges.  The  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  worship  was  immediately  restored  in  full  dig¬ 
nity,  and  the  Protestant  abolished.  The  Bishop 
of  Arras  was  obliged  to  quit  his  residence  in  the 
town,  and  a  strong  garrison  placed  in  it  to  insure 
its  future  obedience. 

The  fa.te  of  Valenciennes,  toward  which  all 
eyes  had  been  turned,  was  a  warning  to  the  other 
towns  which  had  similarly  offended.  Noircarmes 
followed  up  his  victory,  and  marched  immediately 
against  Maestricht,  which  surrendered  without  a 
blow,  and  received  a  garrison*  From  thence  he 
marched  to  Tornhut,  to  awe,  by  his  presence,  the 
people  of  Herzogenbusch  and  Antwerp.  The 
Gueux  in  this  place,  who,  under  the  com¬ 
mand  of  Bomberg,  had  carried  all  things  before 
them,  were  now  so  terrified  at  his  approach  that 
they  quitted  the  town  in  haste.  Noircarmes  was 
received  without  opposition.  The  ambassadors 
of  the  duchess  were  immediately  set  at  liberty. 
A  strong  garrison  was  thrown  into  Tornhut  ; 
Cambray  also  opened  its  gates,  and  joyfully  re¬ 
called  its  archbishop,  whom  the  Calvinists  had 
driven  from  his  see,  and  who  deserved  this  tri¬ 
umph,  as  he  did  not  stain  his  entrance  with  blood. 
Ghent,  Ypres,  and  Oudenarde  submitted  and  re¬ 
ceived  garrisons.  Gueldres  was  now  almost  en¬ 
tirely  cleared  of  the  rebels,  and  reduced  to  obedi¬ 
ence  by  the  Count  of  Megen.  In  Frieslaud  and 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


89 


Groningen,  the  Count  of  Aremberg  had  eventually 
the  same  success  ;  but  it  was  not  obtained  here  so 
rapidly  or  so  easily,  since  the  count  wanted  con¬ 
sistency  and  firmness,  and  these  warlike  republi¬ 
cans  maintained  more  pertinaciously  their  privi¬ 
leges,  and  were  greatly  supported  by  the  strength 
of  their  position.  With  the  exception  of  Holland, 
all  the  provinces  had  yielded  before  the  victorious 
arms  of  the  duchess.  The  courage  of  the  disaf¬ 
fected  sunk  entirely,  and  nothing  was  left  to  them 
but  flight  or  submission. 


RESIGNATION  OF  WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE. 

Ever  since  the  establishment  of  the  Geusen 
League,  but  more  perceptibly  since  the  outbreak 
of  the  Iconoclasts,  the  spirit  of  rebellion  and  dis¬ 
affection  had  spread  so  rapidly  among  all  classes, 
parties  had  become  so  blended  and  confused,  that 
'the  regent  had  difficulty  in  distinguishing  her  own 
adherents,  and  at  last  hardly  knew  on  whom  to 
rely.  The  lines  of  demarkation  between  the  loyal 
and  the  disaffected  had  grown  gradually  fainter, 
until  at  last  they  almost  entirely  vanished.  The 
frequent  alterations,  too,  which  she  had  been 
obliged  to  make  in  the  laws,  and  which  were  at 
most  the  expedients  and  suggestions  of  the  mo¬ 
ment,  had  taken  from  them  their  precision  and 
binding  force,  and  had  given  full  scope  to  the 
arbitrary  will  of  every  individual  whose  office  it 
was  to  interpret  them.  And  at  last,  amidst  the 
number  and  variety  of  the  interpretations,  the 
spirit  was  lost,  and  the  intention  of  the  lawgiver 
baffled.  The  close  connection  which  in  many 
cases  subsisted  between  Protestants  and  Roman 
Catholics,  between  Gueux  and  Royalists,  and 
which  not  unfrequently  gave  them  a  common  in¬ 
terest,  led  the  latter  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
loophole  which  the  vagueness  of  the  laws  left 
open,  and  in  favor  of  their  Protestant  friends  and 
associates,  evaded,  by  subtle  distinctions,  all  se¬ 
verity  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties.  In  their 
minds,  it  was  enough  not  to  be  a  declared  rebel, 
not  one  of  the  Gueux,  or  at  least  not  a  heretic,  to 
be  authorized  to  mould  their  duties  to  their  incli¬ 
nations,  and  to  set  the  most  arbitrary  limits  to 
their  obedience  to  the  king.  Feeling  themselves 
irresponsible,  the  governors  of  the  provinces,  the 
civil  functionaries,  both  high  and  low,  the  munici¬ 
pal  officers,  and  the  military  commanders  had  all 
become  extremely  remiss  in  their  duty,  and  pre¬ 
suming  upon  this  impunity,  showed  a  pernicious 
indulgence  to  the  rebels  and  their  adherents, 
which  rendered  abortive  all  the  regent’s  measures 
of  coercion.  This  general  indifference  and  cor¬ 
ruption  of  so  many  servants  of  the  state,  had 
further  this  injurious  result,  that  it  led  the  turbu¬ 
lent  to  reckon  on  far  stronger  support  than  in 
reality  they  had  cause  for,  and  to  count  on  their 
own  side  all  who  were  but  lukewarm  adherents  of 
the  court.  This  way  of  thinking,  erroneous  as  it 
was,  gave  them  greater  courage  and  confidence, 
it  had  the  same  effect  as  if  it  had  been  well 
founded  ;  and  the  uncertain  vassals  of  the  king 
became  in  consequence  almost  as  injurious  to  him 
as  his  declared  enemies,  without  at  the  same  time 
being  liable  to  the  same  measures  of  severity. 


This  was  especially  the  case  with  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  Counts  Egmont,  Bergen,  Hogstraten, 
Horn,  and  several  others  of  the  higher  nobility. 
The  regent  felt  the  necessity  of  bringing  these 
doubtful  subjects  to  an  explanation,  in  order 
either  to  deprive  the  rebels  of  a  fancied  support, 
or  to  unmask  the  enemies  of  the  king.  And  the 
latter  reason  was  of  the  more  urgent  moment, 
when,  being  obliged  to  send  an  army  into  the 
field,  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  to  intrust 
the  command  of  the  troops  to  none  but  those  of 
whose  fidelity  she  was  fully  assured.  She  caused, 
therefore,  an  oath  to  be  drawn  up,  which  bound 
all  who  took  it  to  advance  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  to  pursue  and  punish  the  Iconoclasts,  and 
to  help  by  every  means  in  their  power  in  extirpat¬ 
ing  all  kinds  of  heresy.  It  also  pledged  them  to 
treat  the  king’s  enemies  as  their  own,  and  to 
serve,  without  distinction,  against  all  whom  the 
regent,  in  the  king’s  name,  should  point  out.  By 
this  oath,  she  did  not  hope  so  much  to  test  their 
sincerity,  and  still  less  to  secure  them,  as  rather 
to  gain  a  pretext  for  removing  the  suspected  par¬ 
ties  if  they  declined  to  take  it,  and  for  wrestling 
from  their  hands  a  power  which  they  abused,  or  a 
legitimate  ground  for  punishing  them,  if  they  took 
it  and  broke  it.  This  oath  was  exacted  by  the 
court  from  all  Knights  of  the  Fleece,  all  civil 
functionaries  and  magistrates,  all  officers  of  the 
army — from  every  one,  in  short,  who  held  any  ap¬ 
pointment  in  the  state.  Count  Mansfeld  was  the 
first  who  publicly  took  it  in  the  Council  of  State, 
at  Brussels ;  his  example  was  followed  by  the 
Duke  of  Arschot,  Counts  Egmont,  Megen,  and 
Barlaimont.  Hogstraten  and  Horn  endeavored 
to  evade  the  necessity.  The  former  was  offended 
at  a  proof  of  distrust  which  shortly  before  the 
regent  had  given  him.  Under  the  pretext  that 
M alines  could  not  safely  be  left  any  longer  with¬ 
out  its  governor,  but  that  the  presence  of  the 
count  was  no  less  necessary  in  Antwerp,  she  had 
taken  from  him  that  province,  and  given  it  to 
another,  whose  fidelity  she  could  better  reckon 
upon.  Hogstraten  expressed  his  thanks  that  she 
had  been  pleased  to  release  him  from  one  of  his 
burdens,  adding  that  she  would  complete  the  ob¬ 
ligation,  if  she  would  relieve  him  of  the  other  also. 
True  to  his  determination,  Count  Horn  was  living 
on  one  of  his  estates  in  the  strong  town  of  Weerdt, 
having  retired  altogether  from  public  affairs. 
Having  quitted  the  service  of  the  state,  he  owed, 
he  thought,  nothing  more  either  to  the  republic 
or  to  the  king,  and  declined  the  oath,  which  in 
his  case  appears  at  last  to  have  been  waived. 

The  Count  of  Brederode  was  left  the  choice  of 
either  taking  the  prescribed  oath,  or  resigning  the 
command  of  his  squadron  of  cavalry.  After  many 
fruitless  attempts  to  evade  the  alternative,  on  the 
plea  that  he  did  not  hold  office  in  the  state,  he  at 
last  resolved  upon  the  latter  course,  and  thereby 
escaped  all  risk  of  perjuring  himself. 

Vain  were  all  the  attempts  to  prevail  on  the 
Prince  of  Orange  to  take  the  oath,  who,  from  the 
suspicion  which  had  long  attached  to  him,  re¬ 
quired  more  than  any  other  this  purification  ;  and 
from  whom  the  great  power,  which  it  had  been  ne¬ 
cessary  to  place  in  his  hands,  fully  justified  the 
regent  in  exacting  it.  It  was  not,  however,  ad- 


90 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


visable  to  proceed  against  him  with  the  laconic 
brevity  adopted  toward  Brederode  and  the  like  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  the  voluntary  resignation  of  all 
his  offices,  which  he  tendered,  did  not  meet  the 
object  of  the  regent,  who  foresaw  clearly  enough 
how  really  dangerous  he  would  become,  as  soon  as 
he  should  feel  himself  independent,  and  be  no 
longer  checked  by  any  external  considerations  of  , 
character  or  duty,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  secret 
designs.  But  ever  since  the  consultation  in  Den- 
dermonde,  the  Prince  of  Orange  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  quit  the  service  of  the  King  of  Spain 
on  the  first  favorable  opportunity,  and  till  better 
days  to  leave  the  country  itself.  A  very  disheart¬ 
ening  experience  had  taught  him  how  uncertain 
are  hopes  built  on  the  multitude,  and  how  quickly 
their  zeal  is  cooled  by  the  necessity  of  fulfilling 
its  lofty  promises.  An  army  was  already  in  the 
field,  and  a  far  stronger  one  was,  he  knew, 
on  its  road,  under  the  command  of  the  Duke  of 
Alva.  The  time  for  remonstrances  was  past,  it 
was  only  at  the  head  of  an  army  that  an  advan¬ 
tageous  treaty  could  now  be  concluded  with  the 
regent,  and  by  preventing  the  entrance  of  the 
Spanish  general.  But  now  where  was  he  to  raise 
this  army,  in  want  as  he  was  of  money,  the  sinews 
of  warfare,  since  the  Protestants  had  retracted 
their  boastful  promises,  and  deserted  him  in  this 
pressing  emergency?*  Eeligious  jealousy  and 
hatred,  moreover,  separated  the  two  Protestant 
churches,  and  stood  in  the  way  of  every  salutary 
combination  against  the  common  enemy  of  their 
faith.  The  rejection  of  the  confession  of  Augs¬ 
burg  by  the  Calvinists  had  exasperated  all  the 
Protestant  princes  of  Germany,  so  that  no  sup¬ 
port  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the  empire.  With 
Count  Egmont,  the  excellent  army  of  Walloons 
was  also  lost  to  the  cause — for  they  followed  with 
blind  devotion  the  fortunes  of  their  general,  who 
had  taught  them  at  St.  Quentin  and  Gravelines 
to  be  invincible.  And  again,  the  outrages  which 
the  Iconoclasts  had  perpetrated  on  the  churches 
and  convents,  had  estranged  from  the  league  the 
numerous,  wealthy,  and  powerful  class  of  the 
established  clergy,  who,  before  this  unlucky  epi¬ 
sode,  were  already  more  than  half  gained  over  to 
it ;  while,  by  her  intrigues,  the  regent  daily  con¬ 
trived  to  deprive  the  league  itself  of  some  one  or 
other  of  its  most  influential  members. 

All  these  considerations  combined,  induced  the 
prince  to  postpone  to  a  more  favorable  season  a 
project  for  which  the  present  juncture  was  little 
suited,  and  to  leave  a  country  where  his  longer 
stay  could  not  effect  any  advantage  for  it,  but 
must  bring  certain  destruction  on  himself.  After 

*  How  valiant  the  wish,  and  how  sorry  the  deed  was, 
is  proved  by  the  following  instance  amongst  others. 
Some  friends  of  the  national  liberty,  Roman  Catholics  as 
well  as  Protestant,  had  solemnly  engaged  in  Amsterdam 
to  subscribe  to  a  common  fund  the  hundredth  penny  of 
their  estates,  until  a  sum  of  11,000  florins  should  be  col¬ 
lected,  which  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  common  cause 
and  interests.  An  alms  box,  protected  by  three  locks, 
was  prepared  for  the  reception  of  these  contributions. 
After  the  expiration  of  the  prescribed  period  it  was 
opened;  anl  a  sum  was  found  amounting  to  700  flo¬ 
rins,  which  was  given  to  the  hostess  of  the  Count  of 
Brederode,  in  part  payment  of  his  unliquidated  score. 
Hniv.  Hist,  of  the  N.,  vol.  iii. 


intelligence  gleaned  from  so  many  quarters,  after 
so  many  proofs  of  distrust,  so  many  warnings 
from  Madrid,  he  could  be  no  longer  doubtful  of 
the  sentiments  of  Philip  toward  him.  If  even 
he  had  any  doubt,  his  uncertainty  would  soon 
have  been  dispelled  by  the  formidable  armament 
which  was  preparing  in  Spain,  and  which  was  to 
have  for  its  leader,  not  the  king,  as  was  falsely 
given  out,  but,  as  he  was  better  informed,  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  his  personal  enemy,  and  the  very 
man  he  had  most  cause  to  fear.  The  prince  had 
seen  too  deeply  into  Philip’s  heart  to  believe  in 
the  sincerity  of  his  reconciliation,  after  having 
once  awakened  his  fears.  He  judged  his  own 
conduct  too  justly  to  reckon,  like  his  friend  Eg¬ 
mont,  on  reaping  a  gratitude  from  the  king  to 
which  he  had  not  sown.  He  could,  therefore, 
expect  nothing  but  hostility  from  him,  and  pru¬ 
dence  counseled  him  to  screen  himself  by  a  timely 
flight  from  its  actual  outbreak.  He  had  hitherto 
obstinately  refused  to  take  the  new  oath  ;  and  all 
the  written  exhortations  of  the  regent  had  been 
fruitless.  At  last  she  sent  to  him  at  Antwerp 
her  private  secretary  Berti,  who  was  to  put  the 
matter  emphatically  to  his  conscience,  and  forci¬ 
bly  remind  him  of  all  the  evil  consequences  which 
so  sudden  a  retirement  from  the  royal  service 
would  draw  upon  the  country,  as  well  as  the  irre¬ 
parable  injury  it  would  do  to  his  own  fair  fame. 
Already,  she  informed  him  by  her  ambassador, 
his  declining  the  required  oath  had  cast  a  shade 
upon  his  honor,  and  imparted  to  the  general 
voice,  which  accused  him  of  an  understanding 
with  the  rebels,  an  appearance  of  truth  which  this 
unconditional  resignation  would  convert  to  abso¬ 
lute  certainty.  It  was  for  the  sovereign  to  dis- 

•/  o 

charge  his  servants,  but  it  did  not  become  the 
servant  to  abandon  his  sovereign.  The  envoy  of 
the  regent  found  the  prince  in  his  palace  at  An¬ 
twerp,  already  as  it  appeared,  withdrawn  from  the 
public  service,  and  entirely  devoted  to  his  private 
concerns.  The  prince  told  him,  in  the  presence 
of  Hogstraten,  that  he  had  refused  to  take  the 
required  oath,  because  he  could  not  find  that 
such  a  proposition  had  ever  before  been  made  to 
a  governor  of  a  province  ;  because  he  had  already 
bound  himself,  once  for  all,  to  the  king,  and  there¬ 
fore,  by  taking  this  new  oath,  he  would  tacitly 
acknowledge  that  he  had  broken  the  first.  He  had 
also  refused,  because  the  old  oath  enjoined  him 
to  protect  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  country, 
but  he  could  not  tell  whether  this  new  one  might 
not  impose  upon  him  duties  which  would  contra¬ 
vene  the  first ;  because,  too,  the  clause  which 
bound  him  to  serve,  if  required,  against  all  with¬ 
out  distinction,  did  not  except  even  the  Empeior. 
his  feudal  lord,  against  whom,  however,  he,  as  his 
vassal,  could  not  conscientiously  make  wrar.  He 
had  refused  to  take  this  oath,  because  it  might 
impose  upon  him  the  necessity  of  surrendering  his 
friends, relations,  his  children,  nay  even  his  wife, 
who  was  a  Lutheran,  to  butchery.  According  to 
it,  moreover,  he  must  lend  himself  to  every  thing 
which  it  should  occur  to  the  king’s  fancy  or 
passion  to  demand  ;  but  the  king  might  thus  ex¬ 
act  from  him  things  which  he  shuddered  even  to 
think  of;  and  even  the  severities  which  were  now, 
and  had  been  all  along  exercised  upon  the  Pro* 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


91 


testants,  were  the  most  revolting  to  his  heart. 
This  oath,  in  short,  was  repugnant  to  his  feelings 
as  a  man,  and  be  could  not  take  it.  In  conclu¬ 
sion,  the  name  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  dropped  from 
his  lips,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness,  and  he  became 
immediately  silent. 

All  these  objections  were  answered,  point  by 
point,  by  Berti.  Certainly  such  an  oath  had 
never  been  required  from  a  governor  before  him, 
because  the  provinces  had  never  been  similarly 
circumstanced.  It  was  not  exacted  because  the 
governors  had  broken  the  first,  but  in  order  to 
remind  them  vividly  of  their  former  vows,  and  to 
freshen  their  activity  in  the  present  emergency. 
This  oath  would  not  impose  upon  him  any  thing 
which  offended  against  the  rights  and  privileges 
of  the  country,  for  the  king  had  sworn  to  observe 
these,  as  well  as  the  Prince  of  Orange.  The 
oath  did  not,  it  was  true,  contain  any  reference  to 
a  war  with  the  Emperor,  or  any  other  sovereign 
to  whom  the  prince  might  be  related  ;  and  if  lie 
really  had  scruples  on  this  point,  a  distinct  clause 
could  easily  be  inserted,  expressly  providing 
against  such  a  contingency.  Care  would  be 
taken  to  spare  him  any  duties  which  were  repug¬ 
nant  to  his  feelings  as  a  man,  and  no  power  on 
earth  would  compel  him  to  act  against  his  wife 
or  against  his  children.  Berti  was  then  passing 
to  the  last  point,  which  related  to  the  Duke  of 
Alva,  but  the  prince,  who  did  not  wish  to  have 
this  part  of  his  discourse  canvassed,  interrupted 
him.  “  The  king  was  coming  to  the  Nether¬ 
lands,”  he  said,  “  and  he  knew  the  king.  The 
king  would  not  endure  that  one  of  his  servants 
should  have  wedded  a  Lutheran,  and  he  had, 
therefore,  resolved  to  go  with  his  whole  family 
into  voluntary  banishment,  before  he  was  obliged 
to  submit  to  the  same  by  compulsion.  But,”  he 
concluded,  “  wherever  he  might  be,  he  would  al¬ 
ways  conduct  himself  as  a  subject  of  the  king.” 
Thus  far-fetched  were  the  motives  which  the 
prince  adduced,  to  avoid  touching  upon  the 
single  one  which  really  decided  him. 

Berti  had  still  a  hope  of  obtaining,  through 
Egmont’s  eloquence,  what  by  his  own  he  dis- 
paired  of  effecting.  He  therefore  proposed  a 
meeting  with  the  latter  (1567),  which  the  prince 
assented  to  the  more  willingly,  as  he  himself  felt 
a  desire  to  embrace  his  friend  once  more  before 
his  departure,  and  if  possible,  to  snatch  the  de¬ 
luded  man  from  certain  destruction.  This  re¬ 
markable  meeting,  at  which  the  private  secretary 
Berti,  and  the  young  Count  Mansfeld,  were  also 
present,  was  the  last  that  the  two  friends  ever 
held,  and  took  place  in  Yillebroeck,  a  village  on 
the  Rupel,  between  Brussels  and  Antwerp.  The 
Calvinists,  whose  last  hope  rested  on  the  issue  of 
this  conference,  found  means  to  acquaint  them¬ 
selves  of  its  import  by  a  spy,  who  concealed  him¬ 
self  in  the  chimney  of  the  apartment  where  it  was 
held.  All  three  attempted  to  shake  the  determi¬ 
nation  of  the  prince,  but  their  united  eloquence 
was  unable  to  move  him  from  his  purpose.  “It 
will  cost  you  your  estates,  Orange,  if  you  persist  in 
this  intention,”  said  the  Prince  of  Gaure,  as  he 
took  him  aside  to  a  window.  “And  you  your 
life,  Egmont,  if  you  change  not  yours,”  replied 
the  former.  “  To  me  it  will  at  least  be  a  conso¬ 


lation  in  my  misfortunes,  that  I  desired,  in  deed 
as  well  as  in  word,  to  help  my  country  and  my 
friends  in  the  hour  of  need  ;  but  you,  my  friend, 
you  are  dragging  friends  and  country  with  you  to 
destruction.”  And  saying  these  words,  he  once 
again  exhorted  him,  still  more  urgently  than  ever, 
to  return  to  the  cause  of  his  country,  which  his 
arm  alone  was  yet  able  to  preserve  ;  if  not,  at 
least,  for  his  own  sake,  to  avoid  the  tempest 
which  was  gathering  against  him  from  Spain. 

But  all  the  arguments,  however  lucid,  with 
which  a  far-discerning  prudence  supplied  him, 
and  however  urgently  enforced,  with  all  the  ar¬ 
dor  and  animation  which  the  tender  anxiety  of 
friendship  could  alone  inspire,  did  not  avail  to 
destroy  the  fatal  confidence  which  still  fettered 
Egmont’s  better  reason.  The  warning  of  Orange 
seemed  to  come  from  a  sad  and  dispirited  heart  ; 
but  for  Egmont  the  world  still  smiled.  To  aban¬ 
don  the  pomp  and  affluence  in  which  he  had  grown 
up  to  youth  and  manhood  ;  to  part  with  all  the  thou¬ 
sand  conveniences  of  life  which  alone  made  it  valu¬ 
able  to  him,  and  all  this  to  escape  an  evil  which  his 
buoyant  spirit  regarded  as  remote,  if  not  imaginary; 
no,  that  was  not  a  sacrifice  which  could  be  asked 
from  Egmont.  But  had  he  even  been  less  given  to 
indulgence  than  he  was,  with  what  heart  could 
he  have  consigned  a  princess  accustomed  by  un¬ 
interrupted  prosperity  to  ease  and  comfort,  a  wife 
who  loved  him  as  dearly  as  she  was  beloved,  the 
children  on  whom  his  soul  hung  in  hope  and 
fondness,  to  privations  at  the  prospect  of  which 
his  own  courage  sank,  and  which  a  sublime  phi¬ 
losophy  alone  can  enable  sensuality  to  undergo. 
“You  will  never  persuade  me,  Orange,”  said 
Egmont,  “  to  see  things  in  the  gloomy  light  in 
which  they  appear  to  thy  mournful  prudence. 
When  I  have  succeeded  in  abolishing  the  public 
preachings,  and  chastising  the  Iconoclasts,  in 
crushing  the  rebels,  and  restoring  peace  and  or¬ 
der  in  the  provinces,  what  can  the  king  lay  to  my 
charge  ?  The  king  is  good  and  just ;  T  have 
claims  upon  his  gratitude,  and  I  must  not  forget 
what  I  owe  to  myself.”  “  Well,  then,”  cried 
Orange  indignantly,  and  with  bitter  anguish, 
“  trust,  if  you  will,  to  his  royal  gratitude  !  but  a 
mournful  presentiment  tells  me — And  may  Heaven 
grant  that  I  am  deceived  ! — that  you.  Egmont, 
will  be  the  bridge  by  which  the  Spaniards  will 
pass  into  our  country  to  destroy  it.”  After  these 
words,  he  drew  him  to  his  bosom,  ardently  clasp¬ 
ing  him  in  his  arms.  Long,  as  though  the  sight 
was  to  serve  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  did  he 
keep  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him  ;  the  tears  fell ;  they 
saw  each  other  no  more. 

The  very  next  day,  the  Prince  of  Orange  wrote 
his  letter  of  resignation  to  the  regent,  in  which  he 
assured  her  of  his  perpetual  esteem,  and  once 
again  entreated  her  to  put  the  best  interpretation 
on  his  present  step.  He  then  set  off,  with  hi3 
three  brothers,  and  his  whole  family,  for  his  own 
town  of  Breda,  where  he  remained  only  as  long  as 
was  requisite  to  arrange  some  private  affairs.  His 
eldest  son,  Prince  Philip  William,  was  left  behind 
at  the  University  of  Louvain,  where  he  thought 
him  sufficiently  secure  under  the  protection  of  the 
privileges  of  Brabant,  and  the  immunities  of  the 
academy;  an  imprudence  which,  if  it  was  really 


92 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


not  designed,  can  hardly  be  reconciled  with  the 
just  estimate  which,  in  so  many  other  cases,  he 
had  taken  of  the  character  of  his  adversary.  In 
Breda,  the  heads  of  the  Calvinists  once  more  con¬ 
sulted  him  whether  there  was  still  hope  for  them, 
or  whether  all  was  irretrievably  lost.  “  He  had 
before  advised  them,”  replied  the  prince,  “  and 
must  now  do  so  again,  to  accede  to  the  Confes¬ 
sion  of  Augsburg;  then  they  might  rely  upon  aid 
from  Germany.  If  they  would  still  not  consent 
to  this,  they  must  raise  six  hundred  thousand 
florins,  or  more,  if  they  could.”  “The  first,”  they 
answered,  “  was  at  variance  with  their  conviction 
and  their  conscience ;  but  means  might  perhaps 
be  found  to  raise  the  money,  if  he  would  only  let 
them  know  for  what  purpose  he  x^ould  use  it.” 
“No !”  cried  he,  with  the  utmost  displeasure,  “if 
I  must  tell  you  that,  it  is  all  over  with  the  use  of 
it.”  With  these  words  he  immediately  broke  off 
the  conference,  and  dismissed  the  deputies. 

The  Prince  of  Orange  was  reproached  with 
having  squandered  his  fortune,  and  with  favoring 
the  innovations  on  account  of  his  debts;  but  he 
asserted  that  he  still  enjoyed  sixty  thousand  florins 
yearly  rental.  Before  his  departure,  he  borrowed 
twenty  thousand  florins  from  the  states  of  Hol¬ 
land,  on  the  mortgage  of  some  manors.  Men 
could  hardly  persuade  themselves  that  he  would 
have  succumbed  to  necessity  so  entirely,  and  with¬ 
out  an  effort  at  resistance,  given  up  all  his  hopes 
and  schemes.  But  what  he  secretly  meditated  no 
one  knew,  no  one  had  read  in  his  heart.  Being 
asked  how  he  intended  to  conduct  himself  toward 
the  King  of  Spain,  “  Quietly,”  was  his  answer, 
“unless  he  touched  my  honor  or  my  estates.”  He 
left  the  Netherlands  soon  afterward,  and  betook 
himself  in  retirement  to  the  town  of  Dillen- 
burg  in  Nassau,  at  which  place  he  was  born.  He 
was  accompanied  to  Germany  by  many  hun¬ 
dreds,  either  as  his  servants  or  as  volunteers,  and 
wTas  soon  followed  by  Counts  Hogstraten,  Kuil- 
emberg,  and  Bergen,  who  preferred  to  share  a  vo¬ 
luntary  exile  with  him,  rather  than  recklessly  in¬ 
volve  themselves  in  an  uncertain  destiny.  In 
his  departure  the  nation  saw  the  flight  of  its 
guardian  angel ;  many  had  adored,  all  had  ho¬ 
nored  him.  With  him  the  last  stay  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  gave  way;  they,  however,  had  greater 
hopes  from  this  man  in  exile,  than  from  all  the 
others  together  who  remained  behind.  Even  the 
Roman  Catholics  could  not  witness  his  departure 
without  regret.  Them  also  he  had  shielded  from 
tyranny;  he  had  not  unfrequently  protected  them 
against  the  oppression  of  their  own  church,  and 
he  had  rescued  many  of  them  from  the  sanguinary 
jealousy  of  their  religious  opponents.  A  few 
fanatics  among  the  Calvinists,  who. were  offended 
with  his  proposal  of  an  alliance  with  their  breth¬ 
ren,  who  avowed  the  Confession  of  Augsburg,  so¬ 
lemnized  with  secret  thanksgivings  the  day  on 
which  the  enemy  left  them.  1567. 


DECAY  AND  DISPERSION  OF  THE  GEUSEN  LEAGUE. 

Immediately  after  taking  leave  of  his  friend, 
the  Prince  of  Gaure  hastened  back  to  Brussels, 


to  receive  from  the  regent  the  reward  of  his  firm¬ 
ness,  and  there  in  the  excitement  of  the  court, 
and  in  the  sunshine  of  his  good  fortune,  to  dispel 
the  light  cloud  which  the  earnest  warnings  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange  had  cast  over  his  natural 
gayety.  The  flight  of  the  latter  now  left  him  in 
possession  of  the  stage.  He  had  now  no  longer  any 
rival  in  the  republic  to  dim  his  glory.  With  re¬ 
doubled  zeal  he  wooed  the  transient  favor  of  the 
court,  above  which  he  ought  to  have  felt  himself 
far  exalted.  All  Brussels  must  participate  in  his 
joy.  He  gave  splendid  banquets  and  public  en¬ 
tertainments,  at  which,  the  better  to  eradicate  all 
suspicion  from  his  mind,  the  regent  herself  fre¬ 
quently  attended.  Not  content  with  having  taken 
the  required  oath,  he  outstripped  the  most  devout 
in  devotion ;  outran  the  most  zealous  in  zeal  to 
extirpate  the  Protestant  faith,  and  to  reduce  by 
force  of  arms  the  refractory  towms  of  Flanders. 
He  declared  to  his  old  friend,  Count  Hogstraten, 
as  also  to  the  rest  of  the  Gueux,  that  he  wrould 
withdraw  from  them  his  friendship  for  ever,  if 
they  hesitated  any  longer  to  return  into  the  bosom 
of  the  church,  and  reconcile  themselves  with 
their  king.  All  the  confidential  letters  which 
had  been  exchanged  between  him  and  them  were 
returned,  and  by  this  last  step,  the  breach  between 
them  was  made  public  and  irreparable.  Egmont’s 
secession,  and  the  flight  of  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
destroyed  the  last  hope  of  the  Protestants  and 
dissolved  the  whole  league  of  the  Gueux.  Its 
members  vied  with  each  other  in  readiness — nay, 
they  could  not  soon  enough  abjure  the  covenant 
and  take  the  new  oath  proposed  to  them  by  the 
government.  In  vain  did  the  Protestant  mer¬ 
chants  exclaim  at  this  breach  of  faith  on  the  part 
of  the  nobles ;  their  weak  voice  was  no  longer 
listened  to,  and  all  the  sums  were  lost  with  wdiicli 
they  had  supplied  the  league. 

The  most  important  places  were  quickly  re¬ 
duced  and  garrisoned ;  the  rebels  had  fled,  or 
perished  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner  ;  in  the 
provinces  no  protector  was  left.  All  yielded  to 
the  fortune  of  the  regent,  and  her  victorious  army 
was  advancing  against  ‘Antwerp.  After  a  long 
and  obstinate  contest,  this  town  had  been  cleared 
of  the  worst  rebels  ;  Hermann  and  his  adherents 
took  to  flight ;  the  internal  storms  had  spent  their 
rage.  The  minds  of  the  people  became  gradually 
composed,  and,  no  longer  excited  at  will  by  every 
furious  fanatic,  began  to  listen  to  better  counsels. 
The  wealthier  citizens  earnestly  longed  for  peace, 
to  revive  commerce  and  trade,  which  had  suffered 
severely  from  the  long  reign  of  anarchy.  The 
dread  of  Alva’s  approach  worked  winders  ;  in 
order  to  prevent  the  miseries,  which  a  Spanish 
army  would  inflict  upon  the  country,  the  people 
hastened  to  throw  themselves  on  the  gentler 
mercies  of  the  regent.  Of  their  own  accord  they 
dispatched  plenipotentiaries  to  Brussels,  to  nego¬ 
tiate  for  a  treaty  and  to  hear  her  terms.  Agree¬ 
ably  as  the  regent  was  surprised  by  this  voluntary 
step,  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  be  hurried  away 
by  her  joy.  She  declared  that  she  neither  could 
nor  would  listen  to  any  overtures  or  representa¬ 
tions  until  the  town  had  received  a  garrison.  Even 
this  was  no  longer  opposed,  and  Count  Mansf'eld 
marched  in,  the  day  after,  with  sixteen  squadrons 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


93 


in  battle  array.  A  solemn  treaty  was  now  made 
between  the  town  and  duchess,  by  which  the 
former  bound  itself  to  prohibit  the  Calvinistic 
form  of  worship,  to  banish  all  preachers  of  that 
persuasion,  to  restore  the  Roman  Catholic  reli¬ 
gion  to  its  former  dignity,  to  decorate  the  de¬ 
spoiled  churches  with  their  former  ornaments,  to 
administer  the  old  edicts  as  before,  to  take  the 
same  oath  which  the  other  towns  had  sworn  to, 
and  lastly  to  deliver  into  the  hands  of  justice  all 
who  had  been  guilty  of  treason,  in  bearing  arms, 
or  taking  part  in  the  desecration  of  the  churches. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  regent  pledged  herself  to 
forget  all  that  had  passed,  and  even  to  intercede 
for  the  offenders  with  the  king.  All  those,  who  be¬ 
ing  dubious  of  obtaining  pardon  preferred  banish¬ 
ment,  were  to  be  allowed  a  month  to  change  their 
property  into  money,  and  place  themselves  in 
safety.  From  this  grace,  none  were  to  be  ex¬ 
cluded  but  such  as  had  been  guilty  of  a  capital 
offense,  and  who  were  excepted  by  the  previous 
article.  Immediately  upon  the  conclusion  of  this 
treaty,  all  Calvinist  and  Lutheran  preachers  in 
Antwerp,  and  the  adjoining  territory,  were  warned 
by  the  herald  to  quit  the  country  in  twenty-four 
hours.  All  the  streets  and  gates  were  now 
thronged  with  fugitives,  who  for  the  honor  of 
their  Lod  abandoned  what  was  dearest  to  them, 
and  sought  a  more  peaceful  home  for  their  per¬ 
secuted  faith.  Here  husbands  were  taking  an 
eternal  farewell  of  their  wives,  fathers  of  their 
children ;  there  whole  families  were  preparing  to 
depart.  All  Antwerp  resembled  a  house  of 
mourning  ;  wherever  the  eye  turned,  some  affect¬ 
ing  spectacle  of  painful  separation  presented 
itself.  A  seal  was  set  on  the  doors  of  the  Pro¬ 
testant  churches  ;  the  whole  worship  seemed  to  be 
extinct.  The  tenth  of  April  (1567)  was  the  day 
appointed  for  the  departure  of  the  preachers. 
In  the  town  hall,  where  they  appeared  for  the 
last  time  to  take  leave  of  the  magistrate,  they 
could  not  command  their  grief ;  but  broke  forth 
into  bitter  reproaches.  They  had  been  sacrificed, 
they  exclaimed  they  had  been  shamefully  be¬ 
trayed.  But  a  time  would  come  when  Antwerp 
would  pay  dearly  enough  for  this  baseness.  Still 
more  bitter  were  the  complaints  of  the  Lutheran 
clergy,  whom  the  magistrate  himself  had  invited 
into  the  country,  to  preach  against  the  Calvinists. 
Under  the  delusive  representation  that  the  king 
was  not  unfavorable  to  their  religion,  they  had 
been  seduced  into  a  combination  against  the  Cal¬ 
vinists,  but  as  soon  as  the  latter  had  been,  by 
their  co-operation,  brought  under  subjection,  and 
their  own  services  were  no  longer  required,  they 
were  left  to  bewail  their  folly,  which  had  involved 
themselves  and  their  enemies  in  common  ruin. 

A  few  days  afterward,  the  regent  entered  Ant¬ 
werp  in  triumph,  accompanied  by  a  thousand 
"Walloon  horse,  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
all  the  governors  and  counselors,  a  number  of 
municipal  officers,  and  her  whole  court.  Her  first 
visit  was  to  the  cathedral,  which  still  bore  lam¬ 
entable  traces  of  the  violence  of  the  Incono- 
clasts,  and  drew  from  her  many  and  bitter  tears. 
Immediately  afterward  four  of  the  rebels,  who 
had  been  overtaken  in  their  flight,  were  brought 
in  and  executed  in  the  public  market-place.  All 


the  children  who  had  been  baptized  after  the 
Protestant  rites  were  re-baptized  by  Roman 
Catholic  priests  ;  all  the  schools  of  heretics  were 
closed,  and  their  churches  leveled  to  the  ground. 
Nearly  all  the  towns  in  the  Netherlands  followed 
the  example  of  Antwerp,  and  banished  the  Prot¬ 
estant  preachers.  By  the  end  of  April,  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  churches  were  repaired  and  embel¬ 
lished  more  splendidly  than  ever,  while  all  the 
Protestant  places  of  worship  were  pulled  down, 
and  every  vestige  of  the  proscribed  belief  obliter¬ 
ated  in  the  seventeen  provinces.  The  populace, 
whose  sympathies  are  generally  with  the  success¬ 
ful  party,  was  now  as  active  in  accelerating  the 
ruin  of  the  unfortunate,  as  a  short  time  before  it 
had  been  furiously  zealous  in  its  cause  :  in  Ghent, 
a  large  and  beautiful  church  which  the  Calvinists 
had  erected  was  attacked,  and  in  less  than  an  hour 
had  wholly  disappeared.  From  the  beams  of  the 
roofless  churches,  gibbets  were  erected  for  those 
who  had  profaned  the  sanctuaries  of  the  Roman 
Catholics.  The  places  of  execution  were  filled 
with  corpses,  the  prisons  with  condemned  victims, 
the  high  roads  with  fugitives.  Innumerable  were 
the  victims  of  this  year  of  murder ;  in  the  small¬ 
est  towns,  fifty,  at  least ;  in  several  of  the  larger, 
as  many  as  three  hundred,  were  put  to  death, 
while  no  account  was  kept  of  the  numbers  in  the 
open  country,  who  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  pro¬ 
vost-marshal,  and  were  immediately  strung  up  as 
miscreants,  without  trial  and  without  mercy. 

The  regent  was  still  in  Antwerp,  when  ambas¬ 
sadors  presented  themselves  from  the  Electors  of 
Brandenburg,  Saxony,  Hesse,  Wurtemberg,  and 
Baden  to  intercede  for  their  fugitive  brethren  in 
the  faith.  The  expelled  preachers  of  the  Augs¬ 
burg  Confession  had  claimed  the  rights  assured  to 
them  by  the  religious  peace  of  the  Germans,  in 
which  Brabant,  as  part  of  the  empire,  participat¬ 
ed,  and  had  thrown  themselves  on  the  protection 
of '  those  princes.  The  arrival  of  the  foreign 
ministers  alarmed  the  regent,  and  she  vainly  en¬ 
deavored  to  prevent  their  entrance  into  Antwerp  ; 
under  the  guise,  however,  of  showing  them  marks 
of  honor,  she  continued  to  keep  them  closely 
watched,  lest  they  should  encourage  the  malcon¬ 
tents  in  any  attempt  against  the  peace  of  the 
town.  From  the  high  tone  which  they  most  un¬ 
seasonably  adopted  toward  the  regent,  it  might 
almost  be  inferred  that  they  were  little  in  earnest 
in  their  demand.  “  It  was  but  reasonable,”  they 
said,  “that  the  Confession  of  Augsburg,  as  the 
only  one  which  met  the  spirit  of  the  gospel, 
should  be  the  ruling  faith  in  the  Netherlands  ; 
but  to  persecute  it  by  such  cruel  edicts  as  were  in 
force  was  positively  unnatural,  and  could  not  be 
allowed.  They  therefore  required  of  the  regent, 
in  the  name  of  religion,  not  to  treat  the  people 
intrusted  to  her  rule,  with  such  severity.  She 
replied  through  the  Count  of  Staremberg,  her 
minister  for  German  affairs,  that  such  an  exordi¬ 
um  deserved  no  answer  at  all.  From  the  sympa¬ 
thy  which  the  German  princes  had  shown  for  the 
Belgian  fugitives,  it  was  clear  that  they  gave  less 
credit  to  the  letters  of  the  king,  in  explanation  of 
his  measures,  than  to  the  reports  of  a  fewworthless 
wretches  who,  in  the  desecrated  churches,  had  left 
behind  them  a  worthier  memorial  of  their  acta 


94 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


and  characters.  Tt  would  far  more  become  them 
to  leave  to  the  King  of  Spain  the  care  of  his  own 
subjects,  and  abandon  the  attempt  to  foster  a 
spirit  of  rebellion  in  foreign  countries,  from  which 
they  would  reap  neither  .honor  nor  profit.  The 
ambassadors  left  Antwerp  in  a  few  days,  without 
having  effected  any  thing.  The  Saxon  minister, 
indeed,  in  a  private  interview  with  the  regent, 
even  assured  her  that  his  master  had  most  re¬ 
luctantly  taken  this  step. 

The  German  ambassadors  had  not  quitted  Ant¬ 
werp,  when  intelligence  from  Holland  completed 
the  triumph  of  the  regent.  From  fear  of  Count 
Megen,  Count  Brederode  had  deserted  his  town 
of  Viane,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  Protestant  in¬ 
habitants  had  succeeded  in  throwing  fiimself  into 
Amsterdam,  where  his  arrival  caused  great  alarm 
to  the  city  magistrate,  who  had  previously  found 
difficulty  in  preventing  a  revolt,  while  it  revived 
the  courage  of  the  Protestants.  Here  Brederode’s 
adherents  increased  daily,  and  many  noblemen 
flocked  to  him  from  Utrecht,  Friesland,  and  Gro¬ 
ningen,  whence  the  victorious  arms  of  Megen  and 
Aremberg  had  driven  them.  Under  various  dis¬ 
guises,  they  found  means  to  steal  into  the  city, 
where  they  gathered  round  Brederode,  and  served 
him  as  a  strong  body-guard.  The  regent,  appre¬ 
hensive  of  a  new  outbreak,  sent  one  of  her  private 
secretaries,  Jacob  de  la  Torre,  to  the  Council  of 
Amsterdam,  and  ordered  them  to  get  rid  of  Count 
Brederode  on  any  terms,  and  at  any  risk.  Neither 
the  magistrate  nor  De  la  Torre  himself,  who  visited 
Brederode  in  person  to  acquaint  him  with  the  will 
of  the  duchess,  could  prevail  upon  him  to  depart. 
The  secretary  was  even  surprised  in  his  own 
chamber  by  a  party  of  Brederode’s  followers,  and 
deprived  of  all  his  papers,  and  would,  perhaps, 
have  lost  his  life  also,  if  he  had  not  contrived  to 
make  his  escape.  Brederode  remained  in  Amster¬ 
dam  a  full  month  after  this  occurrence,  a  power¬ 
less  idol  of  the  Protestants,  and  an  oppressive 
burden  to  the  Boman  Catholics;  while  his  fine 
army,  which  he  had  left  in  Yiane,  reinforced  by 
many  fugitives  from  the  southern  provinces,  gave 
Count  Megen  enough  to  do  without  attempting  to 
harass  the  Protestants  in  their  flight.  At  last 
Brederode  resolved  to  follow  the  example  of 
Orange,  and  yielding  to  necessity,  abandon  a  des¬ 
perate  cause.  He  informed  the  town  council  that 
he  was  willing  to  leave  Amsterdam,  if  they  would 
enable  him  to  do  so  by  furnishing  him  with  the 
pecuniary  means,  Glad  to  get  quit  of  him,  they 
hastened  to  borrow  the  money  on  the  security  of 
the  town  council.  Brederode  quitted  Amsterdam 
the  ‘same  night,  and  was  conveyed  in  a  gun-boat 
as  far  as  Vlie,  from  whence  he  fortunately  escaped 
to  Embden.  Fate  treated  him  more  mildly  than 
the  majority  of  those  he  had  implicated  in  his 
foolhardy  enterprise :  he  died  the  year  after,  1568, 
at  one  of  his  castles  in  Germany,  from  the  effects 
of  drinking,  by  which  he  sought  ultimately  to 
drown  his  grief  and  disappointments.  His  widow, 
Countess  of  Moers,  in  her  own  right,  was  remarried 
to  the  Prince  Palatine,  Frederick  III.  The  Pro¬ 
testant  cause  lost  but  little  by  his  demise ;  the 
work  which  he  had  commenced,  as  it  had  not  been 
kept  alive  by  him,  so  it  did  not  die  with  him. 

The  little  army,  which  in  his  disgraceful  flight 


he  had  deserted,  was  bold  and  valiant,  and  had  a 
few  resolute  leaders.  It  disbanded,  indeed,  as  soon 
as  he,  to  whom  it  looked  for  pay,  had  fled  ;  but 
hunger  and  courage  kept  its  parts  together  some 
time  longer.  One  body,  under  the  command  of 
Dietrich  of  Battenburgh,  marched  to  Amsterdam, 
in  the  hope  of  carrying  that  town  ;  but  Count 
Megen  hastened  with  thirteen  companies  of  ex¬ 
cellent  troops  to  its  relief,  and  compelled  the 
rebels  to  give  up  the  attempt.  Contenting  them¬ 
selves  with  plundering  the  neighboring  cloisters, 
among  which  the  abbey  of  Egmont  in  particular 
was  hardly  dealt  with,  they  turned  off  toward 
Waaterland,  where  they  hoped  the  numerous 
swamps  would  protect  them  from  pursuit.  But 
thither  Count  Megen  followed  them,  aud  com¬ 
pelled  them,  in  all  haste,  to  seek  safety  in  the 
Zuyderzee.  The  brothers  Van  Battenburg,  and 
two  Friesan  nobles,  Beima  and  Galama,  with  a 
hundred  and  twenty  men  and  the  booty  they  had 
taken  from  the  monasteries,  embarked  near  the 
town  of  Hoorne,  intending  to  cross  to  Friesland, 
but,  through  the  treachery  of  the  steersman,  who 
ran  the  vessel  on  a  sandbank  near  Harlingen, 
they  fell  into  the  hands  of  one  of  Aremberg’s 
captains,  who  took  them  all  prisoners.  'The  Count 
of  Aremberg  immediately  pronounced  sentence 
upon  all  the  captives  of  plebiati  rank,  but  sent  his 
noble  prisoners  to  the  regent,  who  caused  seven 
of  them  to  be  beheaded.  Seven  others  of  the 
most  noble,  including  the  brothers  Van  Batten¬ 
burg  and  some  Frieslanders,  all  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  were  reserved  for  the  Duke  of  Alva,  to 
enable  him  to  signalize  the  commencement  of  his 
administration  by  a  deed  which  was  in  every  way 
worthy  of  him.  The  troops,  in  four  other  vessels 
which  set  sail  from  Medemblick,  and  were  pur¬ 
sued  by  Count  Megen  in  small  boats,  were  more 
successful.  A  contrary  wind  had  forced  them  out 
of  their  course,  and  driven  them  ashore  orf  the 
coast  of  Gueldres,  where  they  all  got  safe  to  land  ; 
crossing  the  Rhine  near  Heusen,  they  fortunately 
escaped  into  Cleves,  where  they  tore  their  flags  in 
pieces,  and  dispersed.  In  North  Holland  Count 
Megen  overtook  some  squadrons  who  had  lingered 
too  long  in  plundering  the  cloisters,  and  com¬ 
pletely  overpowered  them.  He  afterward  formed 
a  junction  with  Noircarmes,  and  garrisoned  Am¬ 
sterdam.  The  Duke  Erich  of  Brunswick  also 
surprised  three  companies,  the  last  remains  of  the 
army  of  the  Gueux,  near  Viane,  where  they  were 
endeavoring  to  take  a  battery,  routed  them  and 
captured  their  leader,  Rennesse,  who  was  shortly 
afterward  beheaded  at  the  castle  of  Freudenburg, 
in  Utrecht.  Subsequently,  when  Duke  Erich  en- 
tered  Viane,  he  found  nothing  but  deserted  streets, 
the  inhabitants  having  left  it  with  the  garrison  on 
the  first  alarm.  He  immediately  razed  the  fortifi¬ 
cations,  and  reduced  this  arsenal  of  the  Gueux  to 
an  open  town  without  defenses.  All  the  origina¬ 
tors  of  the  league  were  now  dispersed  ;  Brederode 
and  Louis  of  Nassau  had  fled  to  Germany,  and 
Counts  Hogstraten,  Bergen,  and  Kuilemberg  had 
followed  their  example,  Mansfeld  had  seceded,  the 
brothers  Van  Battenburg  awaited  in  prison  an 
ignominious  fate,  while  Thoulouse  alone  had  found 
an  honorable  death  on  the  field  of  battle.  Those 
of  the  confederates  who  had  escaped  the  sword  of 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


95 


the  enemy,  and  the  ax  of  the  executioner,  had 
saved  nothing  but  their  lives,  and  thus  the  title 
which  they  had  assumed  for  show,  became  at  last 
a  terrible  reality. 

Such  was  the  inglorious  end  of  the  noble 
league,  which  in  its  beginning  awakened  such  fair 
hopes,  and  promised  to  become  a  powerful  pro¬ 
tection  against  oppression.  Unanimity  was  its 
strength;  distrust  and  internal  dissension  its 
ruin.  It  brought  to  light  and  developed  many 
rare  and  beautiful  virtues ;  but  it  wanted  the 
most  indispensable  of  all,  prudence  and  modera¬ 
tion,  without  which  any  undertaking  must  mis¬ 
carry,  and  all  the  fruits  of  the  most  laborious  in¬ 
dustry  perish.  If  its  objects  had  been  as  pure  as 
it  pretended,  or  even  had  they  remained  as  pure 
as  they  really  were  at  its  first  establishment,  it 
might  have  defied  the  unfortunate  combination  of 
circumstances  which  prematurely  overwhelmed  it; 
and  even  if  unsuccessful,  it  would  still  have  deserved 
an  honorable  mention  in  history.  But  it  is  too 
evident  that  the  confederate  nobles,  whether  di¬ 
rectly  or  indirectly,  took  a  greater  share  in  the 
frantic  excesses  of  the  Iconoclasts  than  com¬ 
ported  with  the  dignity  and  blamelessness  of 
their  confederation  ;  and  many  among  them 
openly  exchanged  their  own  good  cause  for  the 
mad  enterprise  of  these  worthless  vagabonds. 
The  restriction  of  the  Inquisition,  and  a  mitiga¬ 
tion  of  the  cruel  inhumanity  of  the  edicts,  must 
be  laid  to  the  credit  of  the  league ;  but  this  tran¬ 
sient  relief  was  dearly  purchased,  at  the  cost  of 
so  many  of  the  best  and  bravest  citizens,  who 
either  lost  their  lives  in  the  field,  or  in  exile  car¬ 
ried  their  wealth  and  industry  to  another  quarter 
of  the  world  ;  and  of  the  presence  of  Alva  and 
the  Spanish  arms.  Many,  too,  of  its  peaceable 
citizens,  who,  without  its  dangerous  temptations, 
would  never  have  been  seduced  from  the  ranks  of 
peace  and  order,  were  beguiled  by  the  hope  of 
success  into  the  most  culpable  enterprises,  and  by 
their  failure  plunged  into  ruin  and  misery.  But 
it  cannot  be  denied,  that  the  league  atoned  in 
some  measure  for  these  wrongs  by  positive  bene¬ 
fits.  It  brought  together  and  emboldened  many 
whom  a  selfish  pusillanimity  kept  asunder  and  in¬ 
active  ;  it  diffused  a  salutary  public  spirit  amongst 
the  Belgian  people,  which  the  oppression  of  the 
government  had  almost  entirely  extinguished, 
and  gave  unanimity  and  a  common  voice  to  the 
scattered  members  of  the  nation,  the  absence  of 
which  alone  makes  despots  bold.  The  attempt, 
Indeed,  failed,  and  the  knots,  too  carelessly  tied, 
were  quickly  unloosed ;  but  it  was  through  such 
failures  that  the  nation  was  eventually  to  attain 
to  a  firm  and  lasting  union,  which  should  bid  de¬ 
fiance  to  change. 

The  total  destruction  of  the  Geusen  army 
quickly  brought  the  Dutch  towns  also  back  to 
their  obedience,  and  in  the  provinces  there  re¬ 
mained  not  a  single  place  which  had  not  submit¬ 
ted  to  the  regent ;  but  the  increasing  emigration, 
both  of  the  natives  and  the  foreign  residents, 
threatened  the  country  with  depopulation.  In 
Amsterdam  the  crowd  of  fugitives  was  so  great, 
that  vessels  were  wanting  to  convey  them  across 
the  North  Sea  and  the  Zuyderzee,  and  that  flour¬ 
ishing  emporium  beheld  with  dismay  the  approach¬ 


ing  downfall  of  its  prosperity.  Alarmed  at  this 
general  flight,  the  regent  hastened  to  write  letters 
to  all  the  towns,  to  encourage  the  citizens  to  re¬ 
main,  and  by  fair  promises  to  revive  a  hope  of 
better  and  milder  measures.  In  the  king’s  name, 
she  promised  to  all  who  would  freely  swear  to  obey 
the  state  and  the  church  complete  indemnity,  and 
by  public  proclamation  invited  the  fugitives  to 
trust  to  the  royal  clemency,  and  return  to  their 
homes.  She  engaged  also  to  relieve  the  nation 
from  the  dreaded  presence  of  a  Spanish  army, 
even  if  it  were  already  on  the  frontiers;  nay,  she 
went  so  far  as  to  drop  hints  that,  if  necessary, 
means  might  be  found  to  prevent  it  by  force  from 
entering  the  provinces,  as  she  was  fully  determin¬ 
ed  not  to  relinquish  to  another  the  glory  of  a 
peace  which  it  had  cost  her  so  much  labor  to  ef¬ 
fect.  Few,  however,  returned  in  reliance  upon 
her  word,  and  these  few  had  cause  to  repent  it  in 
the  sequel ;  many  thousands  had  already  quitted 
the  country,  and  several  thousands  more  quickly 
followed  them.  Germany  and  England  were  filled 
with  Flemish  emigrants,  who,  wherever  they  set¬ 
tled,  retained  their  usages  and  manners,  and  even 
their  costume,  unwilling  to  come  to  the  painful 
conclusion  that  they  should  never  again  see  their 
native  land,  and  to  give  up  all  hopes  of  return. 
Few  carried  with  them  any  remains  of  their 
former  affluence  ;  the  greater  portion  had  to  beg 
their  way,  and  bestowed  on  their  adopted  country 
nothing  but  industrious  skill  and  honest  citizens. 

And  now  the  regent  hastened  to  report  to  the 
king,  tidings  such  as  during  her  whole  administra¬ 
tion  she  had  never  before  been  able  to  gratify  him 
with.  She  announced  to  him  that  she  had  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  restoring  quiet  throughout  the  provinces, 
and  that  she  thought  herself  strong  enough  to 
maintain  it.  The  sects  were  extirpated,  and  the 
Roman  Catholic  worship  re-established  in  all  its 
former  splendor;  the  rebels  had  either  already 
met  with,  or  were  awaiting  in  prison,  the  punish¬ 
ment  they  deserved ;  the  towns  were  secured  by 
adequate  garrisons.  There  was,  therefore,  no  ne¬ 
cessity  for  sending  Spanish  troops  into  the  Ne¬ 
therlands,  and  nothing  to  justify  their  entrance. 
Their  arrival  would  tend  to  destroy  the  existing 
repose,  which  it  had  cost  so  much  to  establish, 
would  check  the  much-desired  revival  of  com¬ 
merce  and  trade,  and  while  it  would  involve  the 
country  in  new  expenses,  would,  at  the  same  time, 
deprive  them  of  the  only  means  of  supporting 
them.  The  mere  rumor  of  the  approach  of  a 
Spanish  army  had  stripped  the  country  of  many 
thousands  of  its  most  valuable  citizens  ;  its  actual 
appearance  would  reduce  it  to  a  desert.  As 
there  was  no  longer  any  enemy  to  subdue,  or  re¬ 
bellion  to  suppress,  the  people  would  see  no  mo¬ 
tive  for  the  march  of  this  army  but  punishment 
and  revenge ;  and,  under  this  supposition,  its  ar¬ 
rival  would  neither  be  welcomed  nor  honored. 
No  longer  excused  by  necessity,  this  violent  ex¬ 
pedient  would  assume  the  odious  aspect  of  op¬ 
pression,  would  exasperate  the  national  mind 
afresh,  drive  the  Protestants  to  desperation,  and 
arm  their  brethren  in  other  countries  in  their  de¬ 
fense.  The  regent,  she  said,  had,  in  the  king’s 
name,  promised  the  nation  it  should  be  relieved 
from  this  foreign  army,  and  to  this  stipulation 


96 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OFTHE  NETHERLANDS. 


she  was  principally  indebted  for  the  present 
peace;  she  could  not,  therefore,  guarantee  its 
long  continuance  if  her  pledge  was  not  faithfully 
fulfilled.  The  Netherlands  would  receive  him  as 
their  sovereign  the  king,  with  every  mark  of  at¬ 
tachment  and  veneration  :  but  he  must  come  as  a 
father  to  bless,  not  as  a  despot  to  chastise  them. 
Let  him  come  to  enjoy  the  peace  which  she  had 
bestowed  ou  the  country,  but  not  to  destroy  it 
afresh. 


alva’s  armament  and  expedition  to  the 

NETHERLANDS. 

But  it  was  otherwise  determined  ip  the  council 
at  Madrid.  The  Minister  Granvella,  who,  even 
•while  absent  himself,  ruled  the  Spanish  cabinet 
by  his  adherents  ;  the  Cardinal  Grand  Inquisitor 
Spinosa,  and  the  Duke  of  Alva,  swayed  respect¬ 
ively  by  hatred,  a  spirit  of  persecution,  or  private 
interest,  had  outvoted  the  milder  councils  Of  the 
Prince  Buy  Gomes  of  Eboli,  the  Count  of  Feria, 
and  the  king’s  confessor  Fresneda.  The  insurrec¬ 
tion,  it  was  urged  by  the  former,  was  indeed 
quelled  for  the  present,  but  only  because  the  re¬ 
bels  were  awed  by  the  rumor  of  the  king’s  armed 
approach  ;  it  was  to  fear  of  punishment  alone, 
and  not  to  sorrow  for  their  crime,  that  the  present 
calm  was  to  be  ascribed,  and  it  would  soon  again 
be  broken  if  that  feeling  were  allowed  to  subside. 
In  fact,  the  offenses  of  the  people  fairly  afforded 
the  king  the  opportunity  he  had  so  long  desired, 
of  carrying  out  his  despotic  views  with  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  justice.  The  peaceable  settlement  for 
which  the  regent  took  credit  to  herself,  was  very 
far  from  according  with  his  wishes,  which  sought 
rather  for  a  legitimate  pretext  to  deprive  the  pro¬ 
vinces  of  their  privileges,  which  were  so  obnox¬ 
ious  to  his  despotic  temper. 

With  an  impenetrable  dissimulation,  Philip  had 
hitherto  fostered  the  general  delusion  that  he  was 
about  to  visit  the  provinces  in  person,  while,  all 
along,  nothing  could  have  been  more  remote 
from  his  rSal  intentions.  Traveling  at  any  time 
ill  suited  the  methodical  regularity  of  his  life, 
which  moved  with  the  precision  of  clockwork; 
and  his  narrow  and  sluggish  intellect  was  op¬ 
pressed  by  the  variety  and  multitude  of  objects 
with  which  new  scenes  crowded  it.  The  difficul¬ 
ties  and  dangers  which  would  attend  a  journey  to 
the  Netherlands  must,  therefore,  have  been  pecu¬ 
liarly  alarming  to  his  natural  timidity  and  love  of 
ease.  Why  should  he,  who,  in  all  that  he  did, 
was  accustomed  to  consider  himself  alone,  and  to 
make  men  accommodate  themselves  to  his  prin¬ 
ciples,  not  his  principles  to  men,  undertake  so 
perilous  an  expedition,  when  he  could  see  neither 
the  advantage  or  necessity  of  it.  Moreover,  as  it 
had  ever  been  to  him  an  utter  impossibility  to  se¬ 
parate,  even  for  a  moment,  his  person  from  his 
royal  dignity,  which  no  prince  ever  guarded  so 
tenaciously  and  pedantically  as  himself,  so  the 
magnificence  and  ceremony,  which  in  his  mind 
were  inseparably  connected  with  such  a  journey, 
and  the  expenses  which,  on  this  account.it  would 
necessarily  occasion,  were  of  themselves  sufficient 
motives  to  account  for  his  indisposition  to  it, 


without  its  being  at  all  requisite  to  call  in  the  aid 
of  the  influence  of  his  favorite,  Ruy  Gomes,  who 
is  said  to  have  desired  to  separate  his  rival,  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  from  the  king.  Little,  however, 
as  he  seriously  intended  this  journey,  he  still 
deemed  it  advisable  to  keep  up  the  expectation 
of  it,  as  well  with  a  view  of  sustaining  the  cour¬ 
age  of  the  loyal,  as  of  preventing  a  dangerous 
combination  of  the  disaffected,  and  stopping  the 
further  progress  of  the  rebels. 

In  order  to  carry  on  the  deception  as  long  as 
possible.  Philip  made  extensive  preparations  for 
his  departure,  and  neglected  nothing  which  could 
be  required  for  such  an  event.  He  ordered  ships 
to  be  fitted  out,  appointed  the  officers  and  others 
to  attend  him.  To  allay  the  suspicion  such  war¬ 
like  preparations  might  excite  in  all  foreign  courts, 
they  were  informed  through  his  ambassadors  of 
his  real  design.  He  applied  to  the  King  of  France 
for  a  passage  for  himself  and  attendants  through 
that  kingdom,  and  consulted  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
as  to  the  preferable  route.  He  caused  a  list  to 
be  drawn  up  of  all  the  towns  and  fortified  places 
that  lay  in  his  march,  and  directed  all  the  inter¬ 
mediate  distances  to  be  accurately  laid  down. 
Orders  were  issued  for  taking  a  map  and  survey 
of  the  whole  extent  of  country  between  Savoy  and 
Burgundy,  the  duke  being  requested  to  furnish 
the  requisite  surveyors  and  scientific  officers.  To 
such  lengths  was  the  deceptioh  carried,  that  the 
regent  was  commanded  to  hold  eight  vessels,  at 
least,  in  readiness,  off  Zealand,  and  to  dispatch 
them  to  meet  the  king  the  instant  she  heard  of  his 
having  sailed  from  Spain  ;  and  these  ships  she 
actually  got  ready,  and  caused  prayers  to  be 
offered  up  in  all  the  churches  for  the  king’s  safety 
during  the  voyage,  though,  in  secret,  many  per¬ 
sons  did  not  scruple  to  remark  that,  in  his  cham¬ 
ber  at  Madid,  his  majesty  would  not  have  much 
cause  to  dread  the  stwms  at  sea.  Philip  played 
his  part  with  such  masterly  skill  that  the  Bel¬ 
gian  ambassadors  in  Madrid,  Lords  Bergen  and 
Montigny,  who  at  first  had  disbelieved  in  the 
sincerity  of  his  pretended  journey,  began  at  last 
to  be  alarmed,  and  infected  their  friends  in  Brus¬ 
sels  with  similar  apprehensions.  An  attack  of 
tertian  ague,  which  about  this  time  the  king  suf¬ 
fered,  or  perhaps  feigned,  in  Segovia,  afforded  a 
plausible  pretense  for  postponing  his  journey, 
while,  meantime,  the  preparations  for  it  were 
carried  on  with  the  utmost  activity.  At  last, 
when  the  urgent  and  repeated  solicitations  of  his 
sister  compelled  him  to  make  a  definite  explana¬ 
tion  of  his  plans,  he  gave  orders  that  the  Duke  of 
Alva  should  set  out  forthwith  with  an  army,  both 
to  clear  the  way  before  him  of  rebels,  and  to 
enhance  the  splendor  of  his  own  royal  arrival. 
He  did  not  yet  venture  to  throw  off  the  mask,  and 
announce  the  duke  as  his  substitute.  He  had  but 
too  much  reason  to  fear,  that  the  submission 
which  his  Flemish  nobles  would  cheerfully  yield 
to  their  sovereign,  would  be  refused  to  one  of  his 
servants,  whose  cruel  character  was  well  knowD, 
and  who,  moreover,  was  detested  as  a  foreigner, 
and  the  enemy  of  their  constitution.  And,  in 
fact,  the  universal  belief  that  the  king  was  soon 
to  follow,  which  long  survived  Alva’s  entrance 
into  the  country,  restrained  the  outbreak  of  dis- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


97 


turbances  which  otherwise  would  assuredly  have 
been  caused  by  the  cruelties  which  marked  the 
very  opening  of  the  duke’s  government. 

The  clergy  of  Spain,  and  especially  the  Inqui¬ 
sition,  contributed  richly  toward  the  expenses  of 
this  expedition,  as  to  a  holy  war.  Throughout 
Spain,  the  enlisting  was  carried  on  with  the  ut¬ 
most  zeal.  The  viceroys  and  governors  of  Sardi¬ 
nia,  Sicily,  Naples,  ymd  Milan,  received  orders  to 
select  the  best  of  their  Italian  and  Spanish 
troops  in  the  garrisons,  and  dispatch  them  to  the 
general  rendezvous  in  the  Genoese  territory, 
where  the  Duke  of  Alva  would  exchange  them 
for  the  Spanish  recruits  which  he  should  bring 
with  him.  At  the  same  time,  the  regent  was 
commanded  to  hold  in  readiness  a  few  more  regi¬ 
ments  of  German  infantry  in  Luxembourg,  under 
the  command  of  the  Counts  Eberstein,  Schaum¬ 
burg,  and  Lodrona,  and  also  some  squadrons  of 
light  cavalry  in  the  duchy  of  Burgundy,  to  rein¬ 
force  the  Spanish  general  immediately  on  his  en¬ 
trance  into  the  provinces.  The  Count  of  Barlai- 
mont  was  commissioned  to  furnish  the  necessary 
provision  for  the  armament,  and  a  sum  of  200.000 
gold  florins  was  remitted  to  the  regent,  to  enable 
her  to  meet  these  expenses,  and  to  maintain  her 
own  troops. 

The  French  court,  however,  under  pretence  of 
the  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  Hugue¬ 
nots,  had  refused  to  allow  the  Spanish  army  to 
pass  through  France.  Philip  applied  to  the 
Dukes  of  Savoy  and  Lorraine,  who  were  too  de¬ 
pendent  upon  him  to  refuse  his  request.  The 
former  merely  stipulated  that  he  should  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  maintain  2,000  infantry  and  a  squadron 
of  horse  at  the  king’s  expense,  in  order  to  pro¬ 
tect  his  country  from  the  injuries  to  which  it 
might  otherwise  be  exposed  from  the  passage  of 
the  Spanish  army.  At  the  same  time,  he  under¬ 
took  to  provide  the  necessary  supplies  for  its 
maintenance  during  the  transit. 

The  rumor  of  this  arrangement  aroused  the 
Huguenots,  the  Genevese,  the  Swiss,  and  the  Gri- 
sons.  The  Prince  of  Conde  and  the  Admiral 
Coligny  entreated  Charles  IX.  not  to  neglect  so 
favorable  a  moment  of  inflicting  a  deadly  blow  on 
the  hereditary  foe  of  France.  With  the  aid  of 
the  Swiss,  the  Genevese,  and  his  own  Protestant 
subjects,  it  would,  they  alleged,  be  an  easy  matter 
to  destroy  the  flower  of  the  Spanish  troops  in  the 
narrow  passes  of  the  Alpine  mountains  ;  and  they 
promised  to  support  him  in  this  undertaking  with 
an  army  of  50,000  Huguenots.  This  advice,  how¬ 
ever,  whose  dangerous  object  was  not  easily  to  be 
mistaken,  was  plausibly  declined  by  Charles  IX., 
who  assured  them  that  he  was  both  able  and  anx¬ 
ious  to  provide  for  the  security  of  his  kingdom. 
He  hastily  dispatched  troops  to  cover  the  French 
frontiers ;  and  the  republics  of  Geneva,  Bern, 
Zurich,  and  the  Grisons,  followed  his  example,  all 
ready  to  offer  a  determined  opposition  to  the 
dreaded  enemy  of  their  religion  and  their  liberty. 

On  the  5th  of  May,  1567,  the  Duke  of  Alva  set 
sail  from  Carthagena  with  thirty  galleys,  which 
had  been  furnished  by  Andrew  Doria  and  the 
Duke  Cosmo  of  Florence,  and  within  eight  days 
landed  at  Genoa,  where  the  four  regiments  were 

waiting  to  join  him.  But  a  tertiau  ague,  with 
Vol.  II.— 7 


which  he  was  seized  shortly  after  his  arrival,  com¬ 
pelled  him  to  remain  for  some  days  inactive  in 
Lombardy — a  delay  of  which  the  neighboring  pow¬ 
ers  availed  themselves  to  prepare  for  defense.  As 
soon  as  the  duke  recovered,  he  held  at  Asti,  in 
Montferrat,  a  review  of  all  his  troops,  who  were 
more  formidable  by  their  valor  than  by  their 
numbers,  since  cavalry  and  infantry  together  did 
not  amount  to  much  above  10,000  men.  In  his 
long  and  perilous  march,  he  did  not  wish  to  en¬ 
cumber  himself  with  useless  supernumeraries, 
which  would  only  impede  his  progress  and  increase 
the  difficulty  of  supporting  his  army.  These 
10,000  veterans  were  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a 
greater  army,  which,  according  as  circumstances 
and  occasion  might  require,  he  could  easily  as¬ 
semble  in  the  Netherlands  themselves. 

This  army,  however,  was  as  select  as  it  was 
small.  It  consisted  of  the  remains  of  those  victo¬ 
rious  legions,  at  whose  head  Charles  Y.  had  made 
Europe  tremble;  sanguinary,  indomitable  bands, 
in  whose  battalions  the  firmness  of  the  old  Mace¬ 
donian  phalanx  lived  again  ;  rapid  in  their  evolu¬ 
tions  from  long  practice,  hardy  and  enduring, 
proud  of  their  leader’s  success,  and  confident  from 
past  victories,  formidable  by  their  licentiousness, 
but  still  more  so  by  their  discipline;  let  loose 
with  all  the  passions  of  a  warmer  climate  upon  a 
rich  and  peaceful  country,  and  inexorable  toward 
an  enemy  whom  the  church  had  cursed.  Their 
fanatical  and  sanguinary  spirit,  their  thirst  for 
glory  and  innate  courage  was  aided  by  a  rude 
sensuality,  the  instrument  by  which  the  Spanish 
general  firmly  and  surely  ruled  his  otherwise  in¬ 
tractable  troops.  With  a  prudent  indulgence,  he 
allowed  riot  and  voluptuousness  to  reign  through¬ 
out  the  camp.  Under  his  tacit  connivance, 
Italian  courtezans  followed  the  standards ;  even 
in  the  march  across  the  Apennines,  where  the 
high  price  of  the  necessaries  of  life  compelled  him 
to  reduce  his  force  to  the  smallest  possible  num¬ 
ber,  he  preferred  to  have  a  few  regiments  less, 
rather  than  to  leave  behind  these  instruments  of 
voluptuousness.* 

But  industriously  as  Alva  strove  to  relax  the 
morals  of  his  soldiers,  he  enforced  the  more 
rigidly  a  strict  military  discipline,  which  was  in¬ 
terrupted  only  by  a  victory,  or  rendered  less 
severe  by  a  battle.  For  all  this  he  had,  he  said, 
the  authority  of  the  Athenian  General  Iphicrates, 
who  awarded  the  prize  of  valor  to  the  pleasure- 
loving  and  rapacious  soldier.  The  more  irksome 
the  restraint  by  which  the  passions  of  the  soldiers 
were  kept  in  check,  the  greater  must  have  been 
the  vehemence  with  which  they  broke  forth  at 
the  sole  outlet  which  was  left  open  to  them. 

The  duke  divided  his  infantry,  which  was  about 
9,000  strong,  and  chiefly  Spaniards,  into  four  bri- 

*  The  bacchanalian  procession  of  this  army,  contrasted 
strangely  enough  with  the  gloomy  seriousness  and  pre¬ 
tended  sanctity  of  its  aim.  The  number  of  these  women 
was  so  great  that,  to  restrain  the  disorders  and  quarreling 
among  themselves,  they  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  estab¬ 
lishing  a  discipline  of  their  own.  They  ranged  them¬ 
selves  under  particular  flags,  marched  in  ranks  and  sec¬ 
tions,  and  in  admirable  military  order,  after  each  battal¬ 
ion,  and  classed  themselves  with  strict  etiquette  accord¬ 
ing  to  their  rank  and  pay. 


98 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


gades,  and  gave  the  command  of  them  to  four 
Spanish  officers.  Alphonso  of  Ulloa  led  the 
Neapolitan  brigade  of  nine  companies,  amounting 
to  3,230  men  ;  Sancho  of  Lodogno  commanded 
the  Milan  brigade,  3,200  men,  in  ten  companies  ; 
the  Sicilian  brigade  with  the  same  number  of 
companies,  and  consisting  of  1,600  men,  was  under 
Julian  Romero,  an  experienced  warrior,  who 
had  already  fought  on  Belgian  ground  ;*  while 
Gonsalo  of  Braccamonte  headed  that  of  Sardinia, 
which  was  raised  by  three  companies  of  recruits, 
to  the  full  complement  of  the  former.  To  every 
company,  moreover,  were  added  fifteen  Spanish 
musketeefs.  The  horse,  in  all  1,200  strong,  con¬ 
sisted  of  three  Italian,  two  Albanian,  and  seven 
Spanish  squadrons,  light  and  heavy  pavalry,  and 
the  chief  command  was  held  by  Ferdinand  and 
Frederick  of  Toledo,  the  two  sons  of  Alva. 
Chiappin  Vitelli,  Marquis  of  Cetona,  was  field- 
marshal  ;  a  celebrated  general  whose  services  had 
been  made  over  to  the  King  of  Spain  by  Cosmo 
of  Florence,  and  Gabriel  Serbellon  was  general 
of  artillery.  The  Duke  of  Savoy  lent  Alva  an 
experienced  engineer,  Francis  Facotto,  of  Urbino, 
who  was  to  be  employed  in  the  erection  of  new 
fortifications.  His  standard  was  likewise  followed 
by  a  number  of  volunteers,  and  the  flower  of  the 
Spanish  nobility,  of  whom  the  greater  part  had 
fought  under  Charles  Y.  in  Germany,  Italy,  and 
before  Tunis.  Among  these  were  Christopher 
Mondragone,  one  of  the  ten  Spanish  heroes  who, 
near  Muhlberg  swam  across  the  Elbe  with  their 
swords  between  their  teeth,  and  under  a  shower 
of  bullets  from  the  enemy,  brought  over  from  the 
opposite  shore  the  boats  which  the  emperor  re¬ 
quired  for  the  construction  of  a  bridge.  Sancho 
of  Avila,  who  had  been  trained  to  war  under  Alva 
himself,  Camillo  of  Monte,  Francis  Ferdugo, 
Karl  Davila,  Nicolaus  Basta,  and  Count  Marti- 
nego,  all  fired  with  a  noble  ardor,  either  to  com¬ 
mence  their  military  career  under  so  eminent  a 
leader,  or  by  another  glorious  campaign  under  his 
command,  to  crown  the  fame  they  had  already 
won.  After  the  review,  the  army  marched  in 
three  divisions  across  Mount  Cenis,  by  the  very 
route  which,  sixteen  centuries  before,  Hannibal  is 
said  to  have  taken.  The  duke  himself  led  the  van  ; 
Ferdinand  of  Toledo,  with  whom  was  associated 
Lodogno  as  colonel,  the  centre;  and  the  Marquis 
of  Cetona  the  rear.  The  Commissary  General, 
Francis  of  Ibarra,  was  sent  before  with  General 
Serbellon  to  open  the  road  for  the  main  body,  and 
get  ready  the  supplies  at  the  several  quarters  for 
the  night.  The  places  which  the  van  left  in  the 
morning  were  entered  in  the  evening  by  the 
centre,  which  in  its  turn  made  room  on  the  follow¬ 
ing  day  for  the  rear.  Thus  the  army  crossed  the 
Alps  of  Savoy  by  regular  stages,  and  with  the 
fourteenth  day  completed  that  dangerous  passage. 
A  French  army  of  observation  accompanied  it 
side  by  side  along  the  frontiers  of  Dauphine  and 
the  course  of  the  Rhone,  and  the  allied  army  of 
the  Genevese  followed  it  on  the  right,  and  was 
passed  by  it  at  a  distance  of  seven  miles.  Both 
these  armies  of  observation  carefully  abstained 

*  The  same  officer,  who  commanded  one  of  the  Spanish 
regiments,  about  which  so  much  complaint  had  formerly 
been  made  in  the  States-Goneral. 


from  any  act  of  hostility,  and  were  merely  in¬ 
tended  to  cover  their  own  frontiers.  As  the 
Spanish  legions  ascended  and  descended  the  steep 
mountain  crags,  or  while  they  crossed  the  rapid 
Iser,  or  file  by  file  wound  through  the  narrow 
passes  of  the  rocks,  a  handful  of  men  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  have  put  an  entire  stop  to  their 
march,  and  to  drive  them  back  into  the  mountains, 
where  they  would  have  been  irretrievably  lost, 
since  at  each  place  of  encampment  supplies  were 
provided  for  no  more  than  a  single  day,  and  for  a 
third  part  only  of  the  whole  force.  But  a  super¬ 
natural  awe  and  dread  of  the  Spanish  name  ap¬ 
peared  to  have  blinded  the  eyes  of  the  enemy,  so 
that  they  did  not  perceive  their  advantage,  or  at 
least  did  not  venture  to  profit  by  it.  In  order  to 
give  them  as  little  opportunity  as  possible  of  re¬ 
membering  it,  the  Spanish  general  hastened 
through  this  dangerous  pass.  Convinced,  too, 
that  if  his  troops  gave  the  slightest  umbrage  he 
was  lost,  the  strictest  discipline  w'as  maintained 
during  the  march,  not  a  single  peasant’s  hut,  not 
a  single  field  was  injured  ;*  and  never,  perhaps,  in 
the  memory  of  man,  was  so  numerous  an  army  led 
so  far  in  such  excellent  order.  Destined  as  this 
army  was  for  vengeance  and  murder,  a  malignant 
and  baleful  star  seemed  to  conduct  it  safe  through 
all  dangers ;  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  decide 
whether  the  prudence  of  its  general,  or  the  blind¬ 
ness  of  its  enemies  is  most  to  be  wondered  at. 

In  Franclie  Comte,  four  squadrons  of  Burgun¬ 
dian  cavalry  newly  raised  joined  the  main  army, 
which,  at  Luxembourg,  was  also  reinforced  by 
three  regiments  of  German  infantry,  under  the 
command  of  Counts  Eberstein,  Schaumburg,  and 
Lodrona.  From  Thionville,  where  he  halted  a 
few  days,  Alva  sent  his  salutations  to  the  regent 
by  Francis  of  Ibarra,  who  was,  at  the  same  time, 
directed  to  consult  her  on  the  quartering  of  the 
troops.  On  her  part,  Noirearmes  and  Barlaimont 
were  dispatched  to  the  Spanish  camp  to  con¬ 
gratulate  the  duke  on  his  arrival,  and  to  show  him 
the  customary  marks  of  honor.  At  the  same  time 
they  were  directed  to  ask  him  to  produce  the 
powers  intrusted  to  him  by  the  king,  of  which, 
however,  he  only  showed  a  part.  The  envoys  of 
the  regent  were  followed  by  swarms  of  the  Flemish 
nobility,  who  thought  they  could  not  hasten  soon 
enough  to  conciliate  the  favor  of  the  new  viceroy, 
or,  by  a  timely  submission,  avert  the  vengeance 
which  was  preparing.  Among  them  was  Count 
Egmont.  As  he  came  forward,  the  duke  pointed 
him  out  to  the  bystanders.  “  Here  comes  an  arch¬ 
heretic,”  he  exclaimed,  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
by  Egmont  himself,  who,  surprised  at  these  words, 
stopped  and  changed  color.  But  when  the  duke, 
in  order  to  repair  his  imprudence,  went  up  to  him 
with  a  serene  countenance,  and  greeted  him  with 
a  friendly  embrace,  the  Fleming  was  ashamed  of 

%  Once  only  on  entering  Lorraine,  three  horsemen  ven¬ 
tured  to  drive  away  a  few  sheep  from  a  flock,  of  which 
circumstance  the  duke  was  no  sooner  informed,  than  he 
sent  back  to  the  owner  what  had  been  taken  from  him, 
and  sentenced  the  offenders  to  be  hung.  This  sentence 
was,  at  the  intercession  of  the  Lorraine  general,  who  had 
come  to  the  frontiers  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  duke,  ex¬ 
ecuted  on  only  one  of  the  three,  upon  whom  the  lot  fell  at 
the  drum-head. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


99 


liia  fears,  and  made  light  of  this  warning,  by 
patting  some  frivolous  interpretation  upon  it. 
Egmont  sealed  this  new  friendship  with  a  present 
of  two  valuable  chargers,  which  Alva  accepted 
with  a  grave  condescension. 

Upon  the  assurance  of  the  regent  that  the  pro¬ 
vinces  were  in  the  enjoyment  of  perfect  peace,  and 
that  no  opposition  was  to  be  apprehended  from 
any  quarter,  the  duke  discharged  some  German 
regiments,  which  had  hitherto  drawn  their  pay 
from  the  Netherlands.  Three  thousand  six  hun¬ 
dred  men,  under  the  command  of  Lodrona,  were 
quartered  in  Antwerp,  from  which  town  the  Wal¬ 
loon  garrison,  in  which  full  reliance  could  not  be 
placed,  was  withdrawn;  garrisons  proportionably 
stronger  were  thrown  into  Ghent  and  other  im¬ 
portant  places  ;  Alva  himself  marched  with  the 
Milan  brigade  toward  Brussels,  whither  he  was 
accompanied  by  a  splendid  cortege  of  the  noblest 
in  the  land. 

Here,  as  in  all  the  other  towns  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  fear  and  terror  had  preceded  him,  and  all 
who  were  conscious  of  any  offenses,  and  even 
those  who  were  sensible  of  none,  alike  awaited 
his  approach  with  a  dread  similar  to  that  with 
which  criminals  see  the  coming  of  their  day  of 
trial.  All  who  could  tear  themselves  from  the 
ties  of  family,  property,  and  country,  had  already 
fled,  or  now  at  last  took  to  flight.  The  advance 
of  the  Spanish  army  had  already,  according  to  the 
report  of  the  regent,  diminished  the  population  of 
the  provinces  by  the  loss  of  one  hundred  thousand 
citizens,  and  this  general  flight  still  continued. 
But  the  arrival  of  the  Spanish  general  could  not 
be  more  hateful  to  the  people  of  the  Netherlands, 
than  it  was  distressing  and  dispiriting  to  the 
regent.  At  last,  after  so  many  years  of  anxiety, 
she  had  begun  to  taste  the  sweets  of  repose,  and 
that  absolute  authority,  which  had  been  the  long 
cherished  object  of  eight  years  of  a  troubled  and 
difficult  administration.  This  late  fruit  of  so  much 
anxious  industry,  of  so  many  cares  and  nightly 
vigils,  was  now  to  be  wrested  from  her  by  a 
stranger,  who  was  to  be  placed  at  once  in  posses¬ 
sion  of  all  the  advantages  which  she  had  been 
forced  to  extract  from  adverse  circumstances  by 
a  long  and  tedious  course  of  intrigue  and  patient 
endurance.  Another  was  lightly  to  bear  away  the 
prize  of  promptitude,  and  to  triumph  by  more 
rapid  success  over  her  superior  but  less  glittering 
merits.  Since  the  departure  of  the  minister  Gran- 
vella,  she  had  tasted  to  the  full  the  pleasures  of 
independence.  The  flattering  homage  of  the 
nobility,  which  allowed  her  more  fully  to  enjoy 
the  shadow  of  power,  the  more  they  deprived  her 
of  its  substance,  had,  by  degrees,  fostered  her 
vanity  to  such  an  extent,  that  she  at  last  estranged 
by  her  coldness  even  the  most  upright  of  all  her 
servants,  the  state  counselor  Viglius,  who  always 
addressed  her  in  the  language  of  truth.  All  at 
once,  a  censor  of  her  actions  was  placed  at  her 
side,  a  partner  of  her  power  was  associated  with 
her,  if  indeed  it  was  not  rather  a  master  who  was 
forced  upon  her,  whose  proud,  stubborn,  and  im¬ 
perious  spirit,  which  no  courtesy  could  soften, 
threatened  the  deadliest  wounds  to  her  self-love 
and  vanity.  To  prevent  his  arrival,  she  had,  in 
her  representations  to,  the  king,  vainly  exhausted 


every  political  argument.  To  no  purpose  had  she 
urged,  that  the  utter  ruin  of  the  commerce  of  the 
Netherlands  would  be  the  inevitable  consequence 
of  this  introduction  of  the  Spanish  troops;  in  vain 
had  she  assured  the  king  that  peace  was  univer¬ 
sally  restored,  and  reminded  him  of  her  own  ser¬ 
vices  in  procuring  it,  which  deserved,  she  thought, 
a  better  guerdon  than  to  see  all  the  fruits  of  her 
labors  snatched  from  her  and  given  to  a  foreigner, 
and  more  than  all,  to  behold  all  the  good  which 
she  had  effected,  destroyed  by  a  new  and  different 
line  of  conduct.  Even  when  the  duke  had  already 
crossed  Mount  Cenis,  she  made  one  more  attempt, 
entreating  him  at  least  to  diminish  his  army  ;  but 
in  that  also  failed,  for  the  duke  insisted  upon  acting 
up  to  the  powers  intrusted  to  him.  In  poignant 
grief  she  now  awaited  his  approach,  and  with  the 
tears  she  shed  for  her  country,  were  mingled  those 
of  offended  self-love. 

On  the  22d  of  August,  1567,  the  Duke  of  Alva 
appeared  before  the  gates  of  Brussels.  His  army 
immediately  took  up  their  quarters  in  the  sub¬ 
urbs,  and  he  himself  made  it  his  first  duty  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  sister  of  his  king.  She  gave 
him  a  private  audience,  on  the  plea  of  suffering 
from  sickness.  Either  the  mortification  she  had 
undergone  had  in  reality  a  serious  effect  upon  her 
health,  or,  what  is  not  improbable,  she  had  re¬ 
course  to  this  expedient  to  pain  his  haughty 
spirit,  and  in  some  degree  to  lessen  his  triumph. 
He  delivered  to  her  letters  from  the  king,  and 
laid  before  her  a  co'py  of  his  own  appointment,  by 
which  the  supreme  command  of  the  whole  mili¬ 
tary  force  of  the  Netherlands  was  committed  to 
him,  and  from  which,  therefore,  it  would  appear 
that  the  administration  of  civil  affairs  remained, 
as  heretofore,  in  the  hands  of  the  regent.  But  as 
soon  as  he  was  alone  with  her,  he  produced  a  new 
commission,  which  was  totally  different  from  the 
former.  According  to  this,  the  power  was  dele¬ 
gated  to  him  of  making  war  at  his  discretion,  of 
erecting  fortifications,  of  appointing  and  dismiss¬ 
ing  at  pleasure  the  governors  of  provinces,  the 
commandants  of  towns,  and  other  officers  of  the 
king,  of  instituting  inquiries  into  the  past  troubles, 
of  punishing  those  who  originated  them,  and  of 
rewarding  the  loyal.  Powers  of  this  extent, 
which  placed  him  almost  on  a  level  with  a  sov¬ 
ereign  prince,  and  far  surpassed  those  of  the  re¬ 
gent  herself,  caused  her  the  greatest  consterna¬ 
tion,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  could 
conceal  her  emotion.  She  asked  the  duke  whether 
he  had  not  even  a  third  commission,  or  some  spe¬ 
cial  orders  in  reserve  which  went  still  further,  and 
were  drawn  up  still  more  precisely,  to  which  he 
replied  distinctly  enough  in  the  affirmative,  but 
at  the  same  time  gave  her  to  understand,  that 
this  commission  might  be  too  full  to  suit  the  pre¬ 
sent  occasion,  and  would  be  better  brought  into 
play  hereafter,  with  due  regard  to  time  and  cir¬ 
cumstances.  A  few  days  after  his  arrival,  he 
caused  a  copy  of  the  first  instructions  to  be  laid 
before  the  several  councils  and  the  states,  and 
had  them  printed  to  insure  their  rapid  circula¬ 
tion.  As  the  regent  resided  in  the  palace,  he 
took  up  his  quarters  temporarily  in  Ivuileinberg 
house,  the  same  in  which  the  association  of  the 
Gueux  had  received  its  name,  and  before  which, 


100 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


through  a  wonderful  vicissitude,  Spanish  tyranny 
now  planted  its  flag. 

A  dead  silence  reigned  in  Brussels,  broken  only 
at  times  by  the  unwonted  clang  of  arms.  The 
duke  had  entered  the  town  but  a  few  hours,  when 
his  attendants,  like  blood-hounds  that  have  been 
slipped,  dispersed  themselves  in  all  directions. 
Everywhere  foreign  faces  were  to  be  seen  ;  the 
streets  were  empty,  all  the  houses  carefully  closed, 
all  amusements  suspended,  all  public  places  de¬ 
serted.  The  whole  metropolis  resembled  a  place 
visited  by  the  plague.  Acquaintances  hurried  on 
without  stopping  for  their  usual  greeting ;  all 
hastened  on  the  moment  a  Spaniard  showed  him¬ 
self  in  the  streets.  Every  sound  startled  them, 
as  if  it  were  the  knock  of  the  official^  of  justice 
at  their  doors  ;  the  nobility,  in  trembling  anxiety, 
kept  to  their  houses  ;  they  shunned  appearing  in 
public,  lest  their  presence  should  remind  the  new 
viceroy  of  some  past  offense.  The  two  nations 
now  seemed  to  have  exchanged  characters.  The 
Spaniard  had  become  the  talkative  man,  and  the 
Brabanter  taciturn  ;  distrust  and  fear  had  scared 
away  the  spirit  of  cheerfulness  and  mirth,  a  con¬ 
strained  gravity  fettered  even  the  play  of  the 
features.  Every  moment  the  impending  blow 
was  looked  for  with  dread. 

This  general  straining  of  expectation,  warned 
the  duke  to  hasten  the  accomplishment  of  his 
plans  before  they  should  be  anticipated  by  the 
timely  flight  of  his  victims.  His  first  object  was 
to  secure  the  suspected  nobles,  in  order  at  once 
and  for  ever  to  deprive  the  faction  of  its  leaders, 
and  the  nation,,  whose  freedom  was  to  be  crushed, 
of  all  its  supporters.  By  a  pretended  affability, 
he  had  succeeded  in  lulling  their  first  alarm,  and 
in  restoring  Count  Egmont,  in  particular,  to  his 
former  perfect  confidence,  for  which  purpose  he 
artfully  employed  his  sons,  Ferdinand  and  Fred¬ 
erick  of  Toledo,  whose  companionableness  and 
youth  assimilated  more  easily  with  the  Flemish 
character.  By  this  skillful  device,  he  succeeded 
also  in  enticing  Count  Horn  to  Brussels,  who  had 
hitherto  thought  it  advisable  to  watch  the  first 
measures  of  the  duke  from  a  distance,  but  now 
suffered  himself  to  be  seduced  by  the  good  fortune 
of  his  friend.  Some  of  the  nobility,  and  Count 
Egmont  at  the  head  of  them,  even  resumed  their 
former  gay  style  of  living.  But  they  themselves 
did  not  do  so  with  their  whole  hearts,  and  they 
had  not  many  imitators.  Kuilemberg  house  was 
incessantly  besieged  by  a  numerous  crowd,  who 
thronged  around  the  person  of  the  new  viceroy, 
and  exhibited  an  affected  gayety  on  their  counte¬ 
nances,  while  their  hearts  were  wrung  with  dis¬ 
tress  and  fear.  Egmont,  in  particular,  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  light  heart,  entertaining  the 
duke’s  son,  and  being  feted  by  them  in  return. 
Meanwhile,  the  duke  was  fearful  lest  so  fair  an 
opportunity  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  plans 
might  not  last  long,  and  lest  some  act  of  impru¬ 
dence  might  destroy  the  feeling  of  security  which 
had  tempted  both  his  victims 'voluntarily  to  put 
themselves  into  his  power;  he  only  waited  for  a 
third ;  Hogstraten  also  was  to  be  taken  in  the 
same  net.  Under  a  plausible  pretext  of  business, 
he  therefore  summoned  him  to  the  metropolis. 
At  the  same  time  that  he  purposed  to  secure  the 


three  counts  in  Brussels,  Colonel  Lodrona  was  to 
arrest  the  burgomaster  Strahlen  in  Antwerp,  an 
intimate  friend  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  sus¬ 
pected  of  having  favored  the  Calvinists;  another 
officer  was  to  seize  the  private  secretary  of  Count 
Egmont,  whose  name  was  John  Casembrot  von 
Beckerzeel,  as  also  some  secretaries  of  Count 
Horn,  and  was  to  possess  themselves  of  their 
papers. 

When  the  day  arrived  which  had  been  fixed 
upon  for  the  execution  of  his  plan,  the  duke  sum¬ 
moned  all  the  counselors  and  knights  before  him, 
to  confer  with  them  upon  matters  of  state.  On 
this  occasion,  the  Duke  of  Arschot,  the  Counts 
Mansfeld,  Barlaimont,  and  Aremberg,  attended 
on  the  part  of  the  Netherlanders,  and  on  the  part 
of  the  Spaniards,  besides  the  duke’s  sons,  Yitelli, 
Serbellon,  and  Ibarra.  The  young  Count  Mans¬ 
feld,  who  likewise  appeared  at  the  meeting,  re¬ 
ceived  a  sign  from  his  father  to  withdraw  with  all 
speed,  and  by  a  hasty  flight  avoid  the  fate  which 
was  impending  over  him,  as  a  former  member  of 
the  Geusen  league.  The  duke  purposely  pro¬ 
longed  the  consultation,  to  give  time  before  he 
acted  for  the  arrival  of  the  courtiers  from  Ant¬ 
werp,  who  were  to  bring  him  the  tidings  of  the 
arrest  of  the  other  parties.  To  avoid  exciting 
any  suspicion,  the  engineer  Paciotto  was  required 
to  attend  the  meeting,  to  lay  before  it  the  plans 
for  some  fortifications.  At  last,  intelligence  was 
brought  him  that  Lodrona  had  successfully  exe¬ 
cuted  his  commission.  Upon  this  the  duke  dex¬ 
terously  broke  off  the  debate,  and  dismissed  the 
council.  And  now,  as  Count  Egmont  was  about 
to  repair  to  the  apartment  of  Don  Ferdinand,  to 
finish  a  game  that  he  had  commenced  with  him, 
the  captain  of  the  duke’s  body  guard,  Sancho 
D’Avila,  stopped  him,  and  demanded  his  sword 
in  the  king’s  name.  At  the  same  time,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  number  of  Spanish  soldiers,  who, 
as  had  been  preconcerted,  suddenly  advanced 
from  their  concealment.  So  unexpected  a  blow 
deprived  Egmont,  for  some  moments,  of  all  pow¬ 
ers  of  utterance  and  recollection  ;  after  a  while, 
however,  he  collected  himself,  and  taking  his 
sword  from  his  side  with  dignified  composure, 
said,  as  he  delivered  it  into  the  hands  of  the 
Spaniard,  “  This  sword  has  before  this,  on  more 
than  one  occasion,  successfully  defended  the 
king’s  cause.”  Another  Spanish  officer  arrested 
Count  Horn,  as  he  was  returning  to  his  house, 
without  the  least  suspicion  of  danger.  Horn’s 
first  inquiry  was  after  Egmont.  On  being  told 
that  the  same  fate  had  just  happened  to  his  friend, 
he  surrendered  himself  without  resistance.  “  1 
have  suffered  myself  to  be  guided  by  him,”  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  “it  is  fair  that  I  should  share  his  des¬ 
tiny.”  The  two  counts  were  placed  in  confine¬ 
ment,  in  separate  apartments.  While  this  was 
going  on  in  the  interior  of  Kuilemberg  house,  the 
whole  garrison  was  drawn  out  underarms  in  front 
of  it.  No  one  knew  what  had  taken  place  inside, 
a  mysterious  terror  diffused  itself  throughout 
Brussels,  until  rumor  spread  the  news  of  this  fatal 
event.  Each  felt  as  if  he  himself  were  the  suf¬ 
ferer;  with  many,  indignation  at  Egmont’s  blind 
infatuation,  proponderated  over  sympathy  for  his 
fate  ;  all  rejoiced  that  Orange  had  escaped.  The 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


101 


first  question  of  the  Cardinal  Granvella,  too,  when 
these  tidings  reached  him  in  Rome,  is  said  to  have 
been,  whether  they  had  taken  the  Silent  One  also. 
On  being  answered  in  the  negative,  he  shook  his 
head  :  44  Then  as  they  have  let  him  escape  they 
have  got  nothing.”  Fate  ordained  better  for  the 
Count  of  Hogstraten.  Compelled  by  ill  health 
to  travel  slowly,  he  was  met  by  the  report  of  this 
event,  while  he  was  yet  on  his  way.  He  hastily 
turned  back,  and  fortunately  escaped  destruction. 
Immediately  after  Egmont’s  seizure,  a  writing 
was  extorted  from  him,  addressed  to  the  com¬ 
mandant  of  the  citadel  of  Ghent,  ordering  that 
officer  to  deliver  the  fortress  to  the  Spanish  Colo¬ 
nel,  Alphonso  d’Ulloa.  Upon  this,  the  two  counts 
were  then  (after  they  had  been  for  some  weeks 
confined  in  Brussels)  conveyed  under  a  guard  of 
3,000  Spaniards  to  Ghent,  where  they  remained 
imprisoned  till  late  in  the  following  year.  In  the 
mean  time,  all  their  papers  had  been  seized, 
Many  of  the  first  nobility,  who,  by  the  pretended 
kindness  of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  had  allowed  them¬ 
selves  to  be  cajoled  into  remaining,  experienced 
the  same  fate.  Capital  punishment  was  also, 
without  delay,-  inflicted  on  all  who,  before  the 
duke’s  arrival,  had  been  taken  with  arms  in  their 
hands.  Upon  the  news  of  Egmont’s  arrest  a 
second  body  of  about  ‘20,000  inhabitants  took  up 
the  wanderer’s  staff,  besides  the  100,000  who,  pru¬ 
dently  declining  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  Spa¬ 
nish  general,  had  already  placed  themselves  in 
safety.*  After  so  noble  a  life  had  been  assailed, 
no  one  counted  himself  safe  any  longer  ;  but  many 
found  cause  to  repent  that  they  had  so  long  de¬ 
ferred  this  salutary  step;  for  every  day  flight  was 
rendered  more  difficult,  for  the  duke  ordered  all 
the  ports  to  be  closed,  and  punished  the  attempt  at 
emigration  with  death.  The  beggars  were  now 
esteemed  fortunate,  who  had  abandoned  country 
and  property,  in  order  to  preserve  at  least  their 
liberty  and  their  lives. 

ALVA’S  FIRST  MEASURES,  AND  DEPARTURE  OF  THE 
DUCHESS  OF  PARMA. 

Alva’s  first  step,  after  securing  the  most  sus¬ 
pected  of  the  nobles,  was  to  restore  the  Inquisi¬ 
tion  to  its  former  authority ;  to  put  the  decrees 
of  Trent  again  in  force,  abolish  the  “ Modera¬ 
tion ,”  and  promulgate  anew  the  edicts  against 

*  A  great  part  of  these  fugitives  helped  to  strengthen 
the  arm}'  of  the  Huguenots,  who  had  taken  occasion, 
from  the  passage  of  the  Spanish  army  through  Lorraine, 
to  assemble  their  forces,  and  now  pressed  Charles  IX. 
hard.  On  these  grounds,  the  French  thought  they  had  a 
right  to  demand  aid  from  the  regent  of  the  Netherlands. 
They  asserted  that  the  Huguenots  had  looked  upon  the 
march  of  the  Spanish  army  as  the  result  of  a  precon¬ 
certed  plan,  which  had  been  formed  against  them  by  the 
two  courts  at  Bayonne,  and  that  this  had  roused  them 
from  their  slumber.  That  consequently  it  behooved  the 
Spanish  court  to  assist  in  extricating  the  French  king 
from  difficulties,  into  which  the  latter  had  been  brought, 
simply  by  the  march  of  the  Spanish  troops.  Alva  actu¬ 
ally  sent  the  Count  of  Aremberg  with  a  considerable 
force,  to  join  the  army  of  the  Queen  Mother  in  France, 
and  even  offered  to  command  these  subsidiaries  in  person, 
which,  however,  was  declined.  Strada,  206,  Thuan,  541. 


heretics  in  all  their  original  severity.  The  Court 
of  Inquisition  in  Spain  had  pronounced  the  whole 
nation  of  the  Netherlands  guilty  of  treason  in  the 
highest  degree ;  Catholics  and  heterodox,  loyal¬ 
ists  and  rebels,  without  distinction  ;  the  latter  as 
having  offended  by  overt  acts,  the  former  as  hav¬ 
ing  incurred  equal  guilt  by  their  supineness. 
From  this  sweeping  condemnation  a  very  few 
were  excepted,  whose  names,  however,  were  pur¬ 
posely  reserved,  while  the  general  sentence  was 
publicly  confirmed  by  the  king.  Philip  declared 
himself  absolved  from  all  his  promises,  and  re¬ 
leased  from  all  engagements,  which  the  regent,  in 
his  name,  had  entered  into  with  the  people  of  the 
Netherlands  ;  and  all  the  justice  which  they  had 
in  future  to  expect  from  him  must  depend  on  his 
own  good-will  and  pleasure.  All  who  had  aided 
in  the  expulsion  of  the  minister  Granvella,  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  petition  of  the  confederate 
nobles,  or  had  but  even  spoken  in  favor  of  it ;  all 
who  had  presented  a  petition  against  the  decrees 
of  Trent,  against  the  edicts  relating  to  religion, 
or  against  the  installation  of  the  bishops  ;  all  who 
had  permitted  the  public  preachings,  or  had  only 
feebly  resisted  them  ;  all  who  had  worn  the  in¬ 
signia  of  the  Gueux,  had  sung  Geusen  songs,  or 
who  in  any  way  whatsoever  had  manifested  their 
joy  at  the  establishment  of  the  league  ;  all  who 
had  sheltered  or  concealed  the  reforming  preach¬ 
ers,  attended  Calvinistic  funerals,  or  had  even 
merely  known  of  their  secret  meetings,  and  not 
given  information  of  them ;  all  who  had  appealed 
to  the  national  privileges  ;  all  in  fine,  who  had 
expressed  an  opinion  that  they  ought  to  obey 
God  rather  than  man  ;  all  these,  indiscriminately, 
were  declared  liable  to  the  penalties  which  the 
law  imposed  upon  any  violation  of  the  royal  pre¬ 
rogative,  and  upon  high  treason,  and  these  penal¬ 
ties  were,  according  to  the  instruction  which  Alva 
had  received,  to  be  executed  on  the  guilty  per¬ 
sons,  without  forbearance  or  favor — without  re¬ 
gard  to  rank,  sex,  or  age,  as  an  example  to  pos¬ 
terity,  and  for  a  terror  to  all  future  times.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  this  declaration,  there  was  no  longer 
an  innocent  person  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
Netherlands,  and  the  new  viceroy  had  it  in  his 
power  to  make  a  fearful  choice  of  victims.  Pro¬ 
perty  and  life  were  alike  at  his  command,  and 
whoever  should  have  the  good  fortune  to  preserve 
one  or  both,  must  receive  them  as  the  gift  of  his 
generosity  and  humanity.  By  this  stroke  of 
policy,  as  refined  as  it  was  detestable,  the  nation 
was  disarmed,  and  unanimity  rendered  impossible. 
As  it  absolutely  depended  on  the  duke’s  arbitrary 
will,  upon  whom  the  sentence  should  be  carried 
in  force,  which  had  been  passed  without  excep¬ 
tion  upon  all,  each  individual  kept  himself  quiet, 
in  order  to  escape,  if  possible,  the  notice  of  the 
viceroy,  and  to  avoid  drawing  the  fatal  choice 
upon  himself.  Every  one,  on  the  other  hand,  in 
whose  favor  he  was  pleased  to  make  an  exception, 
stood  in  a  degree  indebted  to  him,  and  was  per¬ 
sonally  under  an  obligation,  which  must  be  mea¬ 
sured  by  the  value  he  set  upon  his  life  and  pro¬ 
perty.  As,  however,  this  penalty  could  only  be 
executed  on  the  smaller  portion  of  the  nation,  the 
duke  naturally  secured  the  greater  by  the  strongest, 
ties  of  fear  and  gratitude,  and  for  one  whom  he 


102 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


sought  out  as  a  victim,  he  gained  ten  others 
whom  he  passed  over.  As  long  as  he  continued 
true  to  this  policy,  he  remained  in  quiet  posses¬ 
sion  of  his  rule,  even  amid  the  streams  of  blood 
which  he  caused  to  flow,  and  did  not  forfeit  this 
advantage,  till  the  want  of  money  compelled  him 
to  impose  a  burden  upon  the  nation,  which  op¬ 
pressed  all  indiscriminately. 

In  order  to  be  equal  to  this  bloody  occupation, 
the  details  of  which  were  fast  accumulating,  and 
to  be  certain  of  not  losing  a  single  victim  through 
the  want  of  instruments  ;  and  on  the  other  hand 
to  render  his  proceedings  independent  of  the 
states,  with  whose  privileges  they  were  so  much 
at  variance,  and  who,  indeed,  were  far  too  humane 
for  him,  he  instituted  an  extraordinarly  court  of 
justice. 

This  court  consisted  of  twelve  criminal  judges, 
who  according  to  their  instructions,  to  the  very 
letter  of  which  they  must  adhere,  were  to  try  and 
pronounce  sentence  upon  those  implicated  in  the 
past  disturbances.  The  mere  institution  of  such 
a  board,  was  a  violation  of  the  liberties  of  the 
country,  which  expressly  stipulated,  that  no  citi¬ 
zen  should  be  tried  out  of  his  own  province;  but 
the  duke  filled  up  the  measure  of  his  injustice, 
when,  contrary  to  the  most  sacred  privileges 
of  the  nation,  he  proceeded  to  give  seats  and 
votes  in  that  court  to  Spaniards,  the  open  and 
avowed  enemies  of  Belgian  liberty.  He  himself 
was  the  president  of  this  court,  and  after  him  a 
certain  Licentiate  Yargas,  a  Spaniard  by  birth, 
of  whose  iniquitous  character  the  historians  of 
both  parties  are  unanimous ;  cast  out  like  a 
plague  spot  from  his  own  country,  where  he  had 
violated  one  of  his  wards,  he  was  a  shameless, 
hardened  villain,  in  whose  mind  avarice,  lust,  and 
the  thirst  for  blood,  struggled  for  ascendency. 
The  principal  members  were  Count  Aremberg, 
Philip  of  Noircarmes,  and  Charles  of  Barlaimont, 
who,  however,  never  sat  in  it;  Hadrian  Nicolai, 
Chancellor  of  Gueldres ;  Jacob  Mertens,  and 
Peter  Asset,  Presidents  of  Artois  and  Flanders  ; 
Jacob  Hesselts,  and  John  de  la  Porte,  Counsel¬ 
ors  of  Ghent;  Louis  del  Roi,  Doctor  of  Theology, 
and  by  birth  a  Spaniard;  John  du  Bois,  King’s 
Advocate ;  and  De  la  Torre,  Secretary  of  the 
Court.  In  compliance  with  the  representations 
of  Ariglius,  the  Privy  Council  was  spared  any 
part  in  this  tribunal ;  nor  was  any  one  introduced 
into  it  from  the  great  council  at  Malines.  The 
votes  of  the  members  were  only  recommendatory, 
not  conclusive ;  the  final  sentence  being  reserved 
by  the  duke  to  himself.  No  particular  time  was 
fixed  for  the  sitting  of  the  court;  the  members, 
however,  assembled  at  noon,  as  often  as  the  duke 
thought  good.  But  after  the  expiration  of  the 
third  month,  Alva  began  to  be  less  frequent  in 
his  attendance,  and  at  last  resigned  his  place  en¬ 
tirely  to  his  favorite  Yargas,  who  filled  it  with 
such  odious  fitness,  that  in  a  short  time  all  the 
members,  with  the  exception  merely  of  the  Spa¬ 
nish  Doctor  Del  Rio,  and  the  Secretary  De  la 
Torre,*  weary  of  the  atrocities  of  which  they 

*  The  sentences  passed  upon  the  most  eminent  persons 
(for  example,  the  sentence  of  death  passed  upon  Strah- 
len,  the  burgomaster  of  Antwerp)  were  signed  only  by 
Vargas,  Del  Rio,  and  De  la  Torre. 


were  compelled  to  be  both  eyewitnesses  and  ac¬ 
complices,  remained  away  from  the  assembly.  It  is 
revolting  to  the  feelings  to  think  how  the  lives  of 
the  noblest  and  the  best  were  thus  placed  at  the 
mercy  of  Spanish  vagabonds,  and  how  even  the 
sanctuaries  of  the  nation,  its  deeds  and  charters, 
were  unscrupulously  ransacked,  the  seals  broken, 
and  the  most  secret  contracts  between  the  sove¬ 
reign  and  the  state  profaned  and  exposed.* 

From  the  Council  of  Twelve,  (which,  from  the 
object  of  its  institution  was  called  the  Council  of 
Disturbances,  but,  on  account  of  its  proceedings, 
is  more  generally  known  under  the  appellation  of 
the  Council  of  Blood,  a  name  which  the  nation  in 
their  exasperation  bestowed  upon  it,)  no  appeal 
was  allowed.  Its  proceedings  could  not  be  re¬ 
vised.  Its  verdicts  were  irrevocable,  and  inde¬ 
pendent  of  all  other  authority.  No  other  tri¬ 
bunal  in  the  country  could  take  cognizance  of 
cases  which  related  to  the  late  insurrection,  so 
that  in  all  the  other  courts,  justice  was  nearly  at 
a  stand-still.  The  great  council  at  Malines  was 
as  good  as  abolished  ;  the  authority  of  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  State  entirely  ceased,  insomuch  that  its  sit¬ 
tings  were  discontinued.  On  some  rare  occasions, 
the  duke  conferred  with  a  few  members  of  the 
late  assembly,  but  even  when  this  did  occur,  the 
conference  was  held  in  his  cabinet,  and  was  no 
more  than  a  private  consultation,  without  any  of 
the  proper  forms  being  observed.  No  privilege, 
no  charter  of  immunity,  however  carefully  pro¬ 
tected,  had  any  weight  with  the  Council  for  Dis¬ 
turbances.!  It  compelled  all  deeds  and  contracts 
to  be  laid  before  it,  and  often  forced  upon  them 
the  most  strained  interpretations  and  alterations. 
If  the  duke  caused  a  sentence  to  be  drawn  out, 
which  there  was  reason  to  fear  might  be  opposed 
by  the  states  of  Brabant,  it  was  legalized  without 
the  Brabant  seal.  The  most  sacred  rights  of  in¬ 
dividuals  were  assailed,  and  a  tyranny  without 
example  forced  its  arbitrary  will  even  into  the 
circle  of  domestic  life.  As  the  Protestants  and 
rebels  had  hitherto  contrived  to  strengthen  their 
party  so  much  by  marriages  with  the  first  fami¬ 
lies  in  the  country,  the  duke  issued  an  edict,  for¬ 
bidding  all  Netherlanders,  whatever  might  be 
their  rank  or  office,  under  pain  of  death  and  con¬ 
fiscation  of  property,  to  conclude  a  marriage  with¬ 
out  previously  obtaining  his  permission. 

All,  whom  the  Council  for  Disturbances  thought 
proper  to  summon  before  it,  were  compelled  to 

*  For  an  example  of  the  unfeeling  levity  with  which 
the  most  important  matters,  even  decisions  in  cases  of 
life  and  death,  were  treated  in  this  sanguinary  council, 
it  may  serve  to  relate  what  is  told  of  the  Counselor  Hes¬ 
selts.  He  was  generally  asleep  during  the  meeting,  an! 
when  his  turn  came  to  vote  on  a  sentence  of  death,  be 
used  to  cry  out,  still  half  asleep:  ‘‘Ad  patibulum  !  Ad 
patibulum  !”  so  glibly  did  his  tongue  utter  this  word.  It 
is  further  to  be  remarked  of  this  Hesselts,  that  his  wife, 
a  daughter  of  the  President  Viglius,  had  expressly  stipu¬ 
lated  in  the  marriage  contract,  that  he  should  resign  the 
dismal  office  of  attorney  for  the  king,  which  made  him 
detested  by  the  whole  nation.  Vigl.  ad  Hopp.  lxvii.  1. 

f  Vargas,  in  a  few  words  of  barbarous  Latin,  de¬ 
molished  at  once  the  boasted  liberties  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands.  “Non  curamus  vestros  privileges, ”  he  replied  to. 
one  who  wished  to  plead  the  immunities  of  the  Univer¬ 
sity  of  Louvain. 


HISTORY  OF  TIIE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS 


ioa 


appear,  clergy  as  well  as  laity,  the  most  venerable 
heads  of  the  senate,  as  well  as  the  reprobate 
rabble  of  the  Iconoclasts.  Whoever  did  not 
present  himself,  as  indeed  scarcely  any  body  did, 
was  declared  an  outlaw,  and  his  property  was  con¬ 
fiscated  ;  but  those  who  were  rash  or  foolish 
enough  to  appear,  or  who  were  so  unfortunate  as 
to  be  seized,  were  lost  without  redemption. 
Twenty,  forty,  often  fifty,  were  summoned  at  the 
same  time  and  from  the  same  town,  and  the  richest 
were  always  the  first  on  whom  the  thunderbolt 
descended.  The  meaner  citizens,  who  possessed 
nothing  that  could  render  their  country  and  their 
homes  dear  to  them,  were  taken  unawares,  and 
arrested  without  any  previous  citation.  Many 
eminent  merchants,  who  had  at  their  disposal  for¬ 
tunes  of  from  60,000  to  100,000  florins,  were  seen 
with  their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs,  dragged 
like  common  vagabonds  at  the  horse’s  tail  to  exe¬ 
cution,  and  in  Valenciennes,  fifty-five  persons 
were  decapitated  at  one  time.  All  the  prisons, 
and  the  duke  immediately  on  commencing  his  ad¬ 
ministration  had  built  a  great  number  of  them, 
were  crammed  full  with  the  accused ;  hanging, 
beheading,  quartering,  burning,  were  the  prevail¬ 
ing  and  ordinary  occupations  of  the  day ;  the 
punishment  of  the  galleys  and  banishment  were 
more  rarely  heard  of,  for  there  was  scarcely  any 
offense,  which  was  reckoned  too  trivial  to  be 
be  punished  with  death.  Immense  sums  were 
thus  brought  into  the  treasury,  which,  however, 
served  rather  to  stimulate  the  new  viceroy’s  and 
his  colleagues’  thirst  for  gold,  than  to  quench  it.  It 
seemed  to  be  his  insane  purpose  to  make  beggars 
of  the  whole  people,  and  to  throw  all  their  riches 
into  the  hands  of  the  king  and  his  servants.  The 
yearly  income  derived  from  these  confiscations 
was  computed  to  equal  the  revenues  of  the  first 
kingdoms  of  Europe ;  it  is  said  to  have  been  esti¬ 
mated,  in  a  report  furnished  to  the  king,  at  the 
incredible  sum  of  20,000,000  of  dollars.  But 
these  proceedings  were  the  more  inhuman,  as 
they  often  bore  hardest  precisely  upon  the  very 
persons  who  were  the  most  peaceful  subjects,  and 
most  orthodox  Roman  Catholics,  whom  they 
could  not  want  to  injure.  Wherever  an  estate 
was  confiscated,  all  the  creditors  who  had  claims 
upon  it  were  defrauded.  The  hospitals,  too,  and 
public  institutions,  which  such  properties  had 
contributed  to  support  were  now  ruined,  and  the 
poor,  who  had  formerly  drawn  a  pittance  from 
this  source,  were  compelled  to  see  their  only 
spring  of  comfort  dried  up.  Whoever  ventured 
to  urge  their  well-grounded  claims  on  the  for¬ 
feited  property,  before  the  Council  of  Twelve, 
(for  no  other  tribunal  dared  to  interfere  with  these 
inquiries,)  consumed  their  substance  in  tedious 
and  expensive  proceedings,  and  were  reduced  to 
beggary  before  they  saw  the  end  of  them.  The 
histories  of  civilized  states,  furnish  but  one  in¬ 
stance  of  a  similar  perversion  of  justice,  of  such 
violation  of  the  rights  of  property,  and  of  such 
waste  of  human  life ;  but  Cinna,  Sylla,  and 
Marius  entered  vanquished  Rome  as  incensed 
victors,  and  practiced  without  disguise,  what  the 
viceroy  of  the  Netherlands  performed  under  the 
venerable  vail  of  the  laws. 

Up  to  the  end  of  the  year  1567,  the  king’s  arri¬ 


val  had  been  confidently  expected,  and  the  well- 
disposed  of  the  people  had  placed  all  their  last 
hopes  on  this  event.  The  vessels,  which  Philip 
had  caused  to  be  equipped  expressly  for  the 
purpose  of  meeting  him,  still  lay  in  the  harbor  of 
Flushing,  ready  to  sail  at  the  first  signal ;  and  the 
town  of  Brussels  had  consented  to  receive  a 
Spanish  garrison,  simply  because  the  king,  it  was 
pretended,  was  to  reside  within  its  walls.  But 
this  hope  gradually  vanished,  as  he  put  off  the 
journey  from  one  season  to  the  next,  and  the  new 
viceroy  very  soon  began  to  exhibit  powers,  which 
announced  him  less  as  a  precursor  of  royalty, 
than  as  an  absolute  minister,  whose  presence 
made  that  of  the  monarch  entirely  superfluous. 
To  complete  the  distress  of  the  provinces,  their 
last  good  angel  was  now  to  leave  them  in  the 
person  of  the  regent. 

From  the  moment,  when  the  production  of  the 
duke’s  extensive  powers  left  no  doubt  remaining, 
as  to  the  practical  termination  of  her  own  rule, 
Margaret  had  formed  the  resolution  of  relinquish¬ 
ing  the  name  also  of  regent.  To  see  a  successor 
in  the  actual  possession  of  a  dignity,  which  a 
nine  year’s  enjoyment  had  made  indispensable  to 
her;  to  see  the  authority,  the  glory,  the  splendor, 
the  adoration,  and  all  the  marks  of  respect,  which 
are  the  usual  concomitants  of  supreme  power, 
pass  over  to  another;  and  to  feel  that  she  had 
lost  that,  which  she  could  never  forget  she  had 
once  held,  was  more  than  a  woman’s  mind  could 
endure  ;  moreover,  the  Duke  of  Alva  was  of  all 
men  the  least  calculated  to  make  her  privation 
the  less  painful,  by  a  forbearing  use  of  his  newly 
acquired  dignity.  The  tranquillity  of  the  country, 
too,  which  was  put  in  jeopardy  by  this  divided 
rule,  seemed  to  impose  upon  the  duchess  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  abdicating.  Many  governors  of  pro¬ 
vinces  refused,  without  an  express  order  from  the 
court,  to  receive  commands  from  the  duke,  and  to 
recognize  him  as  co-regent. 

The  rapid  change  of  their  point  of  attraction, 
could  not  be  met  by  the  courtiers  so  composedly 
and  imperturbably,  but  that  the  duchess  ob¬ 
served  the  alteration,  and  bitterly  felt  it.  Even 
the  few  who,  like  State  Counselor  Viglius,  still 
firmly  adhered  to  her,  did  so  less  from  attachment 
to  her  person,  than  from  vexation  at  being  dis¬ 
placed  by  novices  and  foreigners,  and  from  being 
too  proud  to  serve  a  fresh  apprenticeship  under  a 
new  viceroy.  But  far  the  greater  number,  with 
all  their  endeavors  to  keep  an  exact  mean,  could 
not  help  making  a  difference  between  the  homage 
they  paid  to  the  rising  sun,  and  that  which  they 
bestowed  on  the  setting  luminary.  The  royal 
palace  in  Brussels  became  more  and  more  de¬ 
serted,  while  the  throng  at  Kuilemberg  House 
daily  increased.  But  what  wounded  the  sensitive¬ 
ness  of  the  duchess  most  acutely,  was  the  arrest 
of  Horn  and  Egmont,  which  was  planned  and  ex¬ 
ecuted  by  the  duke,  without  her  knowledge  or 
consent,  just  as  if  there  had  been  no  such  person 
as  herself  in  existence.  Alva  did,  indeed,  after 
the  act  was  done,  endeavor  to  appease  her,  by  de¬ 
claring  that  the  design  had  been  purposely  kept 
secret  from  her,  in  order  to  spare  her  name  from 
being  mixed  up  in  so  odious  a  transaction  ;  but 
no  such  considerations  of  delicacy  could  close  the 


104 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


wound  which  had  been  inflicted  on  her  pride.  In 
order  at  once,  to  escape  all  risk  of  similar  insults, 
of  which  the  present  was  probably  only  a  fore¬ 
runner,  she  dispatched  her  private  secretary  Mac- 
chiavell  to  the  court  of  her  brother,  there  to 
solicit  earnestly  for  permission  to  resign  the  re¬ 
gency.  The  request  was  granted  without  diffi¬ 
culty  by  the  king,  who  accompanied  his  consent 
with  every  mark  of  his  highest  esteem.  He 
would  put  aside  (so  the  king  expressed  himself) 
his  own  advantage  and  that  of  the  provinces,  in 
order  to  oblige  his  sister.  He  sent  her  a  present 
of  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  allotted  to  her  a 
yearly  pension  of  twenty  thousand.*  At  the  same 
time,  a  diploma  was  forwarded  to  the  Duke  of 
Alva,  constituting  him  in  her  stead,  viceroy  of  all 
the  Netherlands,  with  unlimited  powers. 

Gladly  would  Margaret  have  learned  that  she 
was  permitted  to  resign  the  regency  before  a 
solemn  assembly  of  the  states,  a  wish  which  she 
had  not  very  obscurely  hinted  to  the  king.  But 
she  was  not  gratified.  She  was  particularly  fond 
of  solemnity,  and  the  example  of  the  Emperor 
her  father,  who  had  exhibited  the  extraordinary 
spectacle  of  his  abdication  of  the  crown  in  this 
very  city,  seemed  to  have  great  attractions  for 
her.  As  she  was  compelled  to  part  with  supreme 
power,  she  could  scarcely  be  blamed  for  wishing 
to  do  so  with  as  much  splendor  as  possi¬ 
ble.  Moreover,  she  had  not  failed  to  observe 
how  much  the  general  hatred  of  the  duke  had 
effected  in  her  own  favor,  and  she  looked, 
therefore,  the  more  wistfully  forward  to  a  scene, 
which  promised  at  once  to  be  so  flattering  to  her 
and  so  affecting.  She  would  have  been  glad  to 
mingle  her  own  tears  with  those  which  she  hoped 
to  see  shed  by  the  Netherlanders  for  their  good 
regent.  Thus  the  bitterness  of  her  descent  from 
the  throne,  would  have  been  alleviated  by  the  ex¬ 
pression  of  general  sympathy.  Little  as  she  had 
done  to  merit  the  general  esteem,  during  the  nine 
years  of  her  administration,  while  fortune  smiled 
upon  her,  and  the  approbation  of  her  sovereign 
was  the  limit  to  all  her  wishes,  yet  now  the  sym¬ 
pathy  of  the  nation  had  acquired  a  value  in  her 
eyes,  as  the  only  thing  which  could  in  some  de¬ 
gree  compensate  her  for  the  disappointment  of 
all  her  other  hopes.  Fain  would  she  have  per¬ 
suaded  herself  that  she  had  become  a  voluntary 
sacrifice  to  her  goodness  of  heart,  and  her  too 
humane  feelings  toward  the  Netherlanders.  As, 
however,  the  king  was  very  far  from  being  dis¬ 
posed  to  incur  any  danger  by  calling  a  general 
assembly  of  the  states,  in  order  to  gratify  a  mere 
caprice  of  his  sister,  she  was  obliged  to  content 
herself  with  a  farewell  letter  to  them.  In  this 

*  Which,  however,  does  not  appear  to  have  been  very 
punctually  paid,  if  a  pamphlet  may  be  trusted  which 
was  printed  during  her  lifetime.  (It  bears  the  title;  Dis¬ 
cours  sur  la  Blessure  de  Monseigneur  Prince  d’Orange, 
1582,  without  notice  of  the  place  where  it  was  printed, 
and  is  to  be  found  in  the  Elector’s  library  at  Dresden.) 
She  languished,  it  is  there  stated,  at  Namur  in  poverty, 
and  so  ill  supported  by  her  son,  (the  then  governor  of  the 
Netherlands,)  that  her  owu  secretary  Aldrobandin  called 
her  sojourn  there  an  exile.  But  the  writer  goes  on  to 
ask  what  better  treatment  could  she  expect  from  a  son, 
who,  when  still  very  young,  being  on  a  visit  to  her  at 
Brussels,  snapped  his  fingers  at  her,  behind  her  back. 


document,  she  went  over  her  whole  administra- 
tion,  recounted,  not  without  ostentation,  the 
difficulties  with  which  she  had  had  to  struggle, 
the  evils  which,  by  her  dexterity,  she  had  pre¬ 
vented,  and  wound  up  at  last,  by  saying  that  she 
left  a  finished  work,  and  had  to  transfer  to  her 
successor  nothing  but  the  punishment  of  offend¬ 
ers.  The  king,  too,  was  repeatedly  compelled  to 
hear  the  same  statement,  and  she  left  nothing  un¬ 
done  to  arrogate  to  herself  the  glory  of  any  future 
advantages,  which  it  might  be  the  good  fortune 
of  the  duke  to  realize.  Her  own  merits,  as  some¬ 
thing  which  did  not  admit  of  a  doubt,  but  was  at 
the  same  time  a  burden  oppressive  to  her  modesty, 
she  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  king. 

Dispassionate  posterity  may,  nevertheless,  hesi¬ 
tate  to  subscribe  unreservedly  to  this  favorable 
opinion.  Even  though  the  united  voice  of  her 
cotemporaries,  and  the  testimony  of  the  Nether¬ 
lands  themselves  vouch  for  it,  a  third  party  will 
not  be  denied  the  right  to  examine  her  claims 
with  stricter  scrutiny.  The  popular  mind,  easily 
affected,  is  but  too  ready  to  count  the  absence  of 
a  vice  as  an  additional  virtue,  and,  under  the 
pressure  of  existing  evil,  to  give  excess  of 
praise  for  past  benefits.  The  Netherlander  seems 
to  have  concentrated  all  his  hatred  upon  the 
Spanish  name.  To  lay  the  blame  of  the  national 
evils  on  the  regent,  would  tend  to  remove  from 
the  king  and  his  minister  the  curses,  which  he 
would  rather  shower  upon  them  alone  and  undi- 
videdly;  and  the  Duke  of  Alva’s  government  of 
the  Netherlands  was,  perhaps,  not  the  proper 
point  of  view  from  which  to  test  the  merits  of  his 
predecessor.  It  was  undoubtedly  no  light  task  to 
meet  the  kings  expectations,  without  infringing 
the  rights  of  the  people  and  the  duties  of  human¬ 
ity  ;  but  in  struggling  to  effect  these  two  con¬ 
tradictory  objects,  Margaret  had  accomplished 
neither.  She  had  deeply  injured  the  nation,  while 
comparatively  she  had  done  little  service  to  the 
king.  It  is  true  that  she  at  last  crushed  the 
Protestant  faction,  but  the  accidental  outbreak 
of  the  Iconoclasts  assisted  her  in  this,  more  than 
all  her  dexterity.  She  certainly  succeeded  by  her 
intrigues  in  dissolving  the  league  of  the  nobles, 
but  not  until  the  first  blow  had  been  struck  at  its 
roots  by  internal  dissentions.  The  object,  to 
secure  which,  she  had  for  many  years  vainly  ex¬ 
hausted  her  whole  policy,  was  effected  at  last  by 
a  single  enlistment  of  troops,  for  which,  however, 
the  orders  were  issued  from  Madrid.  She  de¬ 
livered  to  the  duke,  no  doubt,  a  tranquilized 
country;  but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  dread 
of  his  approach  had  the  chief  share  in  tranqailizing 
it.  By  her  reports,  she  led  the  Council  in  Spain 
astray ;  because  she  never  informed  it  of  the  dis¬ 
ease,  but  only  of  the  occasional  symptoms  ;  never 
of  the  universal  feeling  and  voice  of  the  nation, 
but  only  of  the  misconduct  of  factions.  Her 
faulty  administration,  moreover,  drew  the  people 
into  the  crime,  because  she  exasperated  without 
sufficiently  awing  them.  She  it  was  that  brought 
the  murderous  Alva  into  the  country,  by  leading 
the  king  to  believe  that  the  disturbances  in  the 
provinces  were  to  be  ascribed,  not  so  much  to  the 
severity  of  the  royal  ordinances,  as  to  the  un- 
worthiuess  of  those  who  were  charged  with  their 


TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  COUNTS  EGMONT  AND  HORN. 


105 


execution.  Margaret  possessed  natural  capacity 
and  intellect ;  and  an  acquired  political  tact 
enabled  her  to  meet  any  ordinary  case;  but  she 
wanted  that  creative  genius  which,  for  new  and 
extraordinary  emergencies,  invents  new  maxims, 
or  wisely  oversteps  old  ones.  In  a  country  where 
honesty  was  the  best  policy,  she  adopted  the  un¬ 
fortunate  plan  of  practicing  her  insidious  Italian 
policy,  and  thereby  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  fatal  dis¬ 
trust  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  The  indulgence 
which  has  been  so  liberally  imputed  to  her  as  a 
merit,  was,  in  truth,  extorted  from  her  weakness 
and  timidity  by  the  courageous  opposition  of  the 
nation  ;  she  had  never  departed  from  the  strict 
letter  of  the  royal  commands,  by  her  own  spon¬ 
taneous  resolution  ;  never  did  the  gentle  feelings 
of  innate  humanity  lead  her  to  misinterpret  the 
cruel  purport  of  her  instructions.  Even  the  few 
concessions,  to  which  necessity  compelled  her, 
were  granted  with  an  uncertain  and  shrinking 
hand,  as  if  fearing  to  give  too  much ;  and  she 
lost  the  fruit  of  her  benefactions,  because  she 
mutilated  them  by  a  sordid  closeness.  What,  in 
all  the  other  relations  of  her  life,  she  was  too 


little,  she  was  on  the  throne  too  much — a  woman  ! 
She  had  it  in  her  power,  after  Granvella’s  expul¬ 
sion,  to  become  the  benefactress  of  the  Belgian 
nation,  but  she  did  not.  Her  supreme  good  was 
the  approbation  of  her  king,  her  greatest  misfor¬ 
tune  his  displeasure;  with  all  the  eminent  quali¬ 
ties  of  her  mind,  she  remained  an  ordinary  cha¬ 
racter,  because  her  heart  was  destitute  of  native 
nobility.  She  used  a  melancholy  power  with 
much  moderation,  and  stained  her  government 
with  no  deed  of  arbitrary  cruelty;  nay,  if  it  had 
depended  on  her,  she  would  have  always  acted 
humanely.  Years  afterward,  when  her  idol,  Philip 
II.,  had  long  forgotten  her,  the  Netherlanders 
still  honored  her  memory  ;  but  she  was  far  from 
deserving  the  glory  which  her  successor’s  inhu¬ 
manity  reflected  upon  her. 

She  left  Brussels  about  the  end  of  December, 
1567.  The  duke  escorted  her  as  far  as  the  fron¬ 
tiers  of  Brabant,  and  there  left  her  under  the  pro¬ 
tection  of  Count  Mansfeld,  in  order  to  hasten 
back  to  the  metropolis,  and  show  himself  to  the 
Netherlanders  as  sole  regent. 


TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION 


OP 

COUNTS  EGMONT  AND  HORN. 


The  two  counts  were,  a  few  weeks  after  their 
arrest,  conveyed  to  Ghent,  under  an  escort  of 
three  thousand  Spaniards,  where  they  were  con¬ 
fined  in  the  citadel  for  more  than  eight  months. 
Their  trial  commenced  in  due  form,  before  the 
Council  of  Twelve ;  and  the  Solicitor-General, 
John  du  Bois,  conducted  the  proceedings.  The 
indictment  against  Egmont  consisted  of  ninety 
counts,  and  that  against  Horn  of  sixty.  It  would 
occupy  too  much  space  to  introduce  them  here. 
Every  action  however  innocent,  every  omission  of 
duty,  was  intrepreted  on  the  principle  which  had 
been  laid  down  in  the  opening  of  the  indictment, 
“  that  the  two  counts,  in  conjunction  with  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  had  planned  the  overthrow  of 
the  royal  authority  in  the  Netherlands,  and  the 
usurpation  of  the  government  of  the  country  ;” 
the  expulsion  of  Granvella;  the  embassy  of  Eg¬ 
mont  to  Madrid  ;  the  confederacy  of  the  Gueux  ; 
the  concessions  which  they  made  to  the  Protest¬ 
ants  in  the  provinces  under  their  government;  all 
were  made  to  have  a  connection  with,  and  a  re¬ 
ference  to,  this  deliberate  design.  Thus  import¬ 
ance  was  attached  to  the  most  insignificant  occur¬ 
rences,  and  one  action  made  to  darken  and 
discolor  another.  By  taking  care  to  treat  each 
of  the  charges  as  in  itself  a  treasonable  offense,  it 
wa3  the  more  easy  to  justify  a  sentence  of  high 
treason  by  the  whole. 

The  accusations  were  sent  to  each  of  the  pri¬ 
soners,  who  were  required  to  reply  to  them  within 


five  days.  After  doing  so,  they  were  allowed  to 
employ  solicitors  and  advocates,  who  were  per¬ 
mitted  free  access  to  them ;  but  as  they  were  ac¬ 
cused  of  treason,  their  friends  were  prohibited 
from  visiting  them.  Count  Egmont  employed  for 
his  solicitor  Yon  Landas,  and  made  choice  of  a 
few  eminent  advocates  from  Brussels. 

Their  first  step  was  to  demur  against  the  tribu¬ 
nal  which  was  to  try  them,  since,  by  the  privilege 
of  their  Order,  they,  as  Knights  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  were  amenable  only  to  the  king  himself, 
the  Grand  Master.  But  this  demurrer  was  over¬ 
ruled,  and  they  were  required  to  produce  their 
witnesses,  in  default  of  which  they  were  to  be 
proceeded  against  in  contumaciam.  Egmont  had 
satisfactorily  answered  to  eighty-two  counts, 
while  Count  Horn  had  refuted  the  charges  against 
him,  article  by  article.  The  accusation  and  the  de¬ 
fense  are  still  extant ;  on  that  defense,  every  im¬ 
partial  tribunal  would  have  acquitted  them  both. 
The  Procurator  Fiscal  pressed  for  the  production 
of  their  evidence,  and  the  Duke  of  Alva  issued  his 
repeated  commands  to  use  dispatch.  They  de¬ 
layed,  however,  from  week  to  week,  while  they 
renewed  their  protests  against  the  illegality  of 
the  court.  At  last,  the  duke  assigned  them  nine 
days  to  produce  their  proofs  ;  on  the  lapse  of  that 
period,  they  were  to  be  declared  guilty,  and  as 
having  forfeited  all  right  of  defense. 

During  the  progress  of  the  trial,  the  relations 
and  friends  of  the  two  counts  were  not  idle. 


106 


TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  COUNT  EGMONT  AND  HORN. 


Egmont’s  wife,  by  birth  a  duchess  of  Bavaria,  ad¬ 
dressed  petitions  to  the  princes  of  the  German 
empire,  to  the  emperor,  and  to  the  King  of  Spain. 
The  Countess  Horn,  mother  of  the  imprisoned 
count,  who  was  connected  by  the  ties  of  friend¬ 
ship  or  of  blood  with  the  principal  royal  families 
of  Germany,  did  the  same.  All  alike  protested 
loudly  against  this  illegal  proceeding,  and  ap¬ 
pealed  to  the  liberty  of  the  German  empire,  on 
which  Horn,  as  a  count  of  the  empire,  had  special 
claims;  the  liberty  of  the  Netherlands,  and  the 
privileges  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  were 
likewise  insisted  upon.  The  Countess  Egmont 
succeeded  in  obtaining  the  intercession  of  almost 
every  German  court  in  behalf  of  her  husband. 
The  King  of  Spain  and  his  viceroy  were  besieged 
by  applications  in  behalf  of  the  accused,  which 
were  referred  from  one  to  the  other,  and  made 
light  of  by  both.  Countess  Horn  collected  certifi¬ 
cates  from  all  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece 
in  Spain,  Germany,  and  Italy,  to  prove  the  privi¬ 
leges  of  the  order.  Alva  rejected  them,  with  a 
declaration  that  they  had  no  force  in  such  a  case 
as  the  present.  “The  crimes  of  which  the  counts 
are  accused,  relate  to  the  affairs  of  the  Belgian 
provinces,  and  he,  the  duke,  was  appointed  by  the 
king  sole  judge  of  all  matters  connected  with  those 
countries.” 

Four  months  had  been  allowed  to  the  Solicitor- 
General  to  draw  up  the  indictment,  and  five  were 
granted  to  the  two  counts  to  prepare  for  their  de¬ 
fense.  But  instead  of  losing  their  time  and  trou¬ 
ble  in  adducing  their  evidence,  which,  perhaps, 
would  have  profited  them  but  little,  they  preferred 
wasting  it  in  protests  against  the  judges,  which 
availed  them  still  less.  By  the  former  course, 
they  would  probably  have  delayed  the  final  sen¬ 
tence,  and  in  the  time  thus  gained,  the  powerful 
intercession  of  their  friends  might  perhaps  have 
not  been  ineffectual.  By  obstinately  persisting  in 
denying  the  competency  of  the  tribunal  which 
was  to  try  them,  they  furnished  the  duke  with  an 
excuse  for  cutting  short  the.  proceedings.  After 
the  last  assigned  period  had  expired,  on  the  1st  of 
June,  1568,  the  Council  of  Twelve  declared  them 
guilty,  and  on  the  4th  of  that  month,  sentence  of 
death  was  pronounced  against  them. 

The  execution  of  twenty-five  noble  Nether- 
landers,  who  were  beheaded  in  three  successive 
days,  in  the  market  place  at  Brussels,  was  the 
terrible  prelude  to  the  fate  of  the  two  counts. 
John  Casembrot  von  Beckerzeel,  Secretary  to 
Count  Egmont,  was  one  of  the  unfortunates,  who 
was  thus  rewarded  for  his  fidelity  ft)  his  master, 
which  he  steadfastly  maintained  even  upon  the 
rack,  and  for  his  zea  in  the  service  of  the  king, 
which  he  had  manifested  against  the  Iconoclasts. 
The  others  had  either  been  taken  prisoners,  with 
arms  in  their  hands,  in  the  insurrection  of  the 
“  Gueux,”  or  apprehended  and  condemned  as 
traitors,  on  account  of  having  taken  a  part  in  the 
petition  of  the  nobles. 

The  duke  had  reason  to  hasten  the  execution 
of  the  sentence.  Count  Louis  of  Nassau  had 
given  battle  to  the  Count  of  Aremberg,  near  the 
monastery  of  Heiligerlee  in  Groningen,  and  had 
the  good  fortune  to  defeat  him.  Immediately 
after  his  victory,  he  had  advanced  against  Gron¬ 


ingen,  and  laid  siege  to  it.  The  success  of  his 
arms  had  raised  the  courage  of  his  faction,  and 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  his  brother,  was  close  at 
hand  with  an  army  to  support  him.  These  cir¬ 
cumstances  made  the  duke’s  presence  necessary 
in  those  distant  provinces  ;  but  he  could  not  ven¬ 
ture  to  leave  Brussels,  before  the  fate  of  two  such 
important  prisoners  was  decided.  The  whole 
nation  loved  them,  which  was  not  a  little  in 
creased  by  their  unhappy  fate.  Even  the  strict 
Papists  disapproved  of  the  execution  of  these 
eminent  nobles.  The  slightest  advantage  which 
the  arms  of  the  rebels  might  gain  over  the  duke, 
or  even  the  report  of  a  defeat,  would  cause  a  revo¬ 
lution  in  Brussels,  which  would  immediately  set 
the  two  counts  at  liberty.  Moreover,  the  peti¬ 
tions  and  intercessions  which  came  to  the  vicerov, 
as  well  as  to  the  King  of  Spain,  from  the  German 
princes,  increased  daily;  nay,  the  Emperor  Maxi¬ 
milian  II.  himself  caused  the  countess  to  be  as¬ 
sured  “  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  for  the  life  ot 
her  spouse.”  These  powerful  applications  might 
at  last  turn  the  king’s  heart  in  favor  of  the  prison¬ 
ers.  The  king  might,  perhaps,  in  reliance  on  his 
viceroy’s  usual  dispatch,  put  on  the  appearance  of 
yielding  to  the  representations  of  so  many  sove¬ 
reigns,  and  rescind  the  sentence  of  death,  under 
the  conviction  that  his  mercy  would  come  too 
late.  These  considerations  moved  the  duke  not 
to  delay  the  execution  of  the  sentence,  as  soon  as 
it  was  pronounced. 

On  the  day  after  the  sentence  was  passed,  the 
two  counts  were  brought,  under  an  escort  of 
3,000  Spaniards,  from  Ghent  to  Brussels,  and 
placed  in  confinement  in  the  Brodhause ,  in  the 
great  market  place.  The  next  morning  the 
Council  of  Twelve  were  assembled  ;  the  duke, 
contrary  to  his  custom,  attended  in  person,  and 
both  the  sentences,  in  sealed  envelopes,  were 
opened,  and  publicly  read  by  Secretary  Pranz. 
The  two  counts  were  declared  guilty  of  treason, 
as  having  favored  and  promoted  the  abominable 
conspiracy  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  protected 
the  confederated  nobles,  and  been  convicted  of 
various  misdemeanors  against  their  king,  and  the 
church,  in  their  governments  and  other  appoint¬ 
ments.  Both  were  sentenced  to  be  publicly  be¬ 
headed,  and  their  heads  were  to  be  fixed  upon 
pikes,  and  not  taken  down  without  the  duke’s  ex¬ 
press  command..  All  their  possessions,  fiefs,  and 
rights  escheated  to  the  royal  treasury.  The  sen¬ 
tence  was  signed  only  by  the  Duke  and  the  Sec¬ 
retary  Pranz,  without  asking  or  oaring  for  the 
consent  of  the  other  members  of  the  council. 

During  the  night  between  the  4th  and  5th 
of  June,  the  sentences  were  brought  to  the 
prisoners,  after  they  had  already  gone  to  rest. 
The  duke  gave  them  to  the  Bishop  of  Ypres, 
Martin  Rithov,  whom  he  had  expressly  sum¬ 
moned  to  Brussels,' to  prepare  the  prisoners  for 
death.  When  the  bishop  received  this  commis¬ 
sion  he  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  duke,  and 
supplicated  him  with  tears  in  his  eye's  for  mercy 
— at  least  for  respite  for  the  prisoners ;  but  he 
was  answered  in  a  rough  and  angry  voice,  that  he 
had  been  sent  for  from  Ypres,  not  to  oppose  the 
sentence,  but  by  his  spiritual  consolation  to  re¬ 
concile  the  unhappy  noblemen  to  it. 


TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  COUNTS  EGMONT  AND  HORN. 


107 


Egmont  was  the  first  to  whom  the  bishop  com¬ 
municated  the  sentence  of  death.  “  That  is,  in¬ 
deed,  a  severe  sentence  !”  exclaimed  the  count, 
turning  pale,  and  with  a  faltering  voice.  “  I  did 
not  think  that  I  had  offended  his  majesty  so 
deeply  as  to  deserve  such  treatment.  If,  how¬ 
ever,  it  must  be  so,  I  submit  to  my  fate  with 
resignation.  May  this  death  atone  for  my  offense, 
and  save  my  wife  and  children  from  suffering  ! 
This,  at  least,  I  think  I  may  claim  for  my  past 
services.  As  for  death,  I  will  meet  it  with  com¬ 
posure,  since  it  so  pleases  God  aud  my  king.” 
lie  then  pressed  the  bishop  to  tell  him  seriously 
and  candidly  if  there  was  no  hope  of  pardon. 
Being  answered  in  the  negative,  he  confessed  and 
received  the  sacrament  from  the  priest,  repeating 
after  him  the  mass  with  great  devoutness.  He 
asked  what  prayer  was  the  best  and  most  effec¬ 
tive  to  recommend  him  to  God  in  his  last  hour. 
On  being  told  that  no  prayer  could  be  more 
effectual  than  the  one  which  Christ  himself  had 
taught,  he  prepared  immediately  to  repeat  the 
Lord’s  prayer.  The  thoughts  of  his  family  inter¬ 
rupted  him  ;  he  called  for  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote 
two  letters,  one  to  his  wife,  the  other  to  the  king; 
the  latter  was  as  follows  : 

“Sire, — This  morning  I  have  heard  the  sen¬ 
tence  which  your  majesty  has  been  pleased  to 
pass  upon  me.  Far  as  I  have  ever  been  from  at¬ 
tempting  any  thing  against  the  person  or  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  your  majesty,  or  against  the  only  true,  old, 
and  Catholic  religion  ;  I  yet  submit  myself  with 
patience  to  the  fate  which  it  has  pleased  God  to 
ordain  I  should  suffer.  If,  during  the  past  dis¬ 
turbances,  I  have  omitted,  advised,  or  done  any 
thing  that  seems  at  variance  with  my  duty,  it  was 
most  assuredly  performed  with  the  best  inten¬ 
tions,  or  was  forced  upon  me  by  the  pressure  of 
circumstances.  I  therefore  pray  your  majesty  to 
forgive  me,  and  in  consideration  of  my  past  ser¬ 
vices,  show  mercy  to  my  unhappy  wife,  my  poor 
children,  and  servants.  In  a  firm  hope  of  this,  I 
ccmmend  myself  to  the  infinite  mercy  of  God. 

“Your  Majesty’s  most  faithful  vassal  and 

servant,  «  -lAM0RAL  Count  Egmont. 

“Brussels,  June  5th,  1568,  near  my  last  mo¬ 
ments.” 

This  letter  he  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  bishop, 
with  the  strongest  injunctions  for  its  safe  delivery  ; 
and  for  greater  security,  he  sent  a  duplicate  in  his 
own  handwriting  to  State  Counselor  Viglius,  the 
most  upright  man  in  the  senate,  by  whom,  there  is 
no  doubt,  it  was  actually  'delivered  to  the  king. 
The  family  of  the  count  were  subsequently  rein¬ 
stated  in  all  his  property,  fiefs,  and  rights,  which, 
by  virtue  of  the*  sentence,  had  escheated  to  the 
royal  treasury. 

Meanwhile,  a  scaffold  had  been  erected  in  the 
market-place,  before  the  town-hall,  on  which  two 
poles  were  fixed  with  iron  spikes,  and  the  whole 
covered  with  black  cloth.  Two-and-twenty  com¬ 
panies  of  the  Spanish  garrison  surrounded  the 
scaffold,  a  precaution  which  was  by  no  means  su¬ 
perfluous.  Between  ten  and  eleven  o’clock,  the 
Spanish  guard  appeared  in  the  apartment  of  the 
count ;  they  were  provided  with  cords  to  tie  his 


hands  according  to  custom.  He  begged  that  this 
might  be  spared  him,  and  declared  that  he  was 
willing  and  ready  to  die.  He  himself  cut  off  the 
collar  from  his  doublet  to  facilitate  the  exe¬ 
cutioner’s  duty.  He  wore  a  robe  of  red  damask, 
and  over  that  a  black  Spanish  cloak,  trimmed 
with  gold  lace.  In  this  dress  he  appeared  on  the 
scaffold,  and  was  attended  by  Don  Julian  Romero, 
Maitre  de  Camp  ;  Salinas,  a  Spanish  captain  ;  and 
the  Bishop  of  Ypres.  The  Grand  Provost  of  the 
court,  with  a  red  wand  in  his  hand,  sat  on  horse¬ 
back  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold  ;  the  executioner 
was  concealed  beneath. 

Egmont  had  at  first  shown  a  desire  to  address 
the  people  from  the  scaffold.  He  desisted,  how¬ 
ever,  on  the  bishop’s  representing  to  him  that, 
either  he  would  not  be  heard,  or  that  if  he  were, 
he  might,  such  at  present  was  the  dangerous  dis¬ 
position  of  the  people,  excite  them  to  acts  of 
violence,  which  would  only  plunge  his  friends  into 
destruction.  For  a  few  moments  he  paced  the 
scaffold  with  noble  dignity,  and  lamented  that  it 
had  not  been  permitted  him  to  die  a  more  honor¬ 
able  death  for  his  king  and  his  country.  Up  to 
the  last  he  seemed  unable  to  persuade  himself  that 
the  king  was  in  earnest,  and  that  his  severity 
would  be  carried  any  further  than  the  mere  terror 
of  execution.  When  the  decisive  period  ap¬ 
proached,  and  he  was  to  receive  the  extreme 
unction,  he  looked  wistfully  round,  and  when 
there  still  appeared  no  prospect  of  a  reprieve,  he 
turned  to  Julian  Romero,  and  asked  him  once 
more  if  there  was  no  hope  of  pardon  for  him. 
Julian  Romero  shrugged  his  shoulders,  looked  on 
the  ground,  and  was  silent. 

He  then  closely  clenched  his  teeth,  threw  off 
his  mantle  and  robe,  knelt  upon  the  cushion,  and 
prepared  himself  for  the  last  prayer.  The  bishop 
presented  him  the  crucifix  to  kiss,  and  adminis¬ 
tered  to  him  extreme  unction,  upon  which  the 
count  made  him  a  sign  to  leave  him.  He  drew  a  silk 
cap  over  his  eyes,  and  awaited  the  stroke.  Over 
the  corpse  and  the  streaming  blood,  a  black  cloth 
was  immediately  thrown. 

All  Brussels  thronged  around  the  scaffold,  and 
the  fatal  blow  seemed  to  fall  on  every  heart. 
Loud  sobs  alone  broke  the  appalling  silence.  The 
duke  himself,  who  watched  the  execution  from  a 
window  of  the  town  house,  wiped  his  eyes  as  his 
victim  died. 

Shortly  afterward,  Count  Horn  advanced  on 
the  scaffold.  Of  a  more  violent  temperament 
than  his  friend,  and  stimulated  by  stronger  reasons 
for  hatred  against  the  king,  he  had  received  the 
sentence  with  less  composure,  although  in  his  case, 
perhaps,  it  was  less  unjust.  He  burst  forth  in 
bitter  reproaches  against  the  king,  and  the  bishop 
with  difficulty  prevailed  upon  him  to  make  a 
better  use  of  his  last  moments,  than  to  abuse  them 
in  imprecations  on  his  enemies.  At  last,  however, 
he  became  more  collected,  and  made  his  con¬ 
fession  to  the  bishop,  which  at  first  he  was  disposed 
to  refuse. 

He  mounted  the  scaffold  with  the  same  attend¬ 
ants  as  his  friend.  In  passing,  he  saluted  many 
of  his  acquaintances  ;  his  hands  were,  like  Eg- 
mont’s  free,  and  he  was  dressed  in  a  black  doublet 
and  cloak,  with  a  Milan  cap  of  the  same  color 


108 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


upon  his  head.  When  he  had  ascended,  he  cast 
his  eyes  upon  the  corpse,  which  lay  under  the 
cloth,  and  asked  one  of  the  bystanders  if  it  was 
the  body  of  his  friend.  On  being  answered  in  the 
affirmative,  he  said  some  words  in  Spanish,  threw 
his  cloak  from  him,  and  knelt  upon  the  cushion. 
All  shrieked  aloud  as  he  received  the  fatal  blow. 

The  heads  of  both  were  fixed  upon  the  poles 
which  were  set  up  on  the  scaffold,  where  they  re- 


l 

mained  until  past  three  in  the  afternoon,  wlen 
they  were  taken  down,  and,  with  the  two  bodies, 
placed  in  leaden  coffins  and  deposited  in  a  vault. 

In  spite  of  the  number  of  spies  and  execution¬ 
ers  who  surrounded  the  scaffold,  the  citizens  of 
Brussels  would  not  be  prevented  from  dipping 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  streaming  blood,  and 
carrying  home  with  them  these  precious  memo¬ 
rials. 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP 

BY  THE  PRINCE  OE  PARMA. 

IN  THE  YEARS  1584  AND  1585. 


It  is  an  interesting  spectacle  to  observe  the 
struggle  of  man’s  inventive  genius  in  conflict  with 
powerful  opposing  elements,  and  to  see  the  diffi¬ 
culties,  which  are  insurmountable  to  ordinary 
capacities,  overcome  by  prudence,  resolution,  and 
a  determined  will.  Less  attractive,  but  only  the 
more  instructive,  perhaps,  is  the  contrary  spec¬ 
tacle,  where  the  absence  of  those  qualities  renders 
all  efforts  of  genius  vain,  throws  away  all  the 
favors  of  fortune,  and  where  inability  to  improve 
such  advantages  renders  hopeless  a  success  which 
otherwise  seemed  sure  and  inevitable.  Examples 
of  both  kinds  are  afforded  by  the  celebrated  siege 
of  Antwerp,  by  the  Spaniards,  toward  the  close 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  by  which  that  flourishing 
city  was  for. ever  deprived  of  its  commercial  pros¬ 
perity,  but  which,  on  the  other  hand,  conferred 
immortal  fame  on  the  general  who  undertook  and 
accomplished  it. 

Twelve  years  had  the  war  continued,  which  the 
northern  provinces  of  Belgium  had  commenced  at 
first  in  vindication  simply  of  their  religious  free¬ 
dom,  and  the  privileges  of  their  states,  from  the 
encroachments  of  the  Spanish  viceroy,  but  main¬ 
tained  latterly  in  the  hope  of  establishing  their 
independence  of  the  Spanish  crown.  Never  com¬ 
pletely  victors,  but  never  entirely  vanquished,  they 
wearied  out  the  Spanish  valor  by  tedious  opera¬ 
tions  on  an  unfavorable  soil,  and  exhausted  the 
wealth  of  the  sovereign  of  both  of  the  Indies,  while 
they  themselves  were  called  beggars,  and  in  a 
degree  actually  were  so.  The  League  of  Ghent, 
which  had  united  the  whole  Netherlands,  Roman 
Catholic  and  Protestant,  iu  a  common  and  (could 
such  a  confederation  have  lasted)  invincible  body, 
was  indeed  dissolved  ;  but  in  place  of  this  uncer¬ 
tain  and  unnatural  combination,  the  northern 
provinces  had,  in  the  year  1579,  formed  among 
themselves  the  closer  Union  of  Utrecht,  which 
promised  to  be  more  lasting,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
linked  and  held  together  by  common  political  and 
religious  interests.  What  the  new  republic  had 
lost  in  extent,  through  this  separation  from  the 
Roman  Catholic  provinces,  it  was  fully  compen¬ 


sated  for  by  the  closeness  of  alliance,  the  unity  of 
enterprise,  and  energy  of  execution  ;  and,  perhaps, 
it  was  fortunate  in  thus  timely  losing  what  no 
exertion,  probably,  would  ever  have  enabled  it  to 
retain. 

The  greater  part  of  the  W alloon  provinces  had, 
in  the  year  1584,  partly  by  voluntary  submission, 
and  partly  by  force  of  arms,  been  again  reduced 
under  the  Spanish  yoke.  The  northern  districts 
alone  had  been  able  at  all  successfully  to  oppose 
it.  A  considerable  portion  of  Brabant  and  Flan¬ 
ders  still  obstinately  held  out  against  the  arms  of 
the  Duke  Alexander  of  Parma,  who  at  that  time 
administered  the  civil  government  of  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  and  the  supreme  command  of  the  army, 
with  equal  energy  and  prudence,  and,  by  a  series 
of  splendid  victories,  had  revived  the  military 
reputation  of  Spain.  The  peculiar  formation  of 
the  country,  which,  by  its  numerous  rivers  and 
canals,  facilitated  the  connection  of  the  towns 
with  one  another  and  with  the  sea,  baffled  all 
attempts  effectually  to  subdue  it,  and  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  one  place  could  only  be  maintained  by  the 
occupation  of  another.  So  long  as  this  com¬ 
munication  was  kept  up,  Holland  and  Zealand 
could  with  little  difficulty  assist  their  allies,  and 
supply  them  abundantly  by  water  as  well  as  by 
land  with  all  necessaries,  so  that  valor  was  of  no 
use,  and  the  strength  of  the  king’s  troops  was 
fruitlessly  wasted  on  tedious  sieges. 

Of  all  the  towns  in  Brabant,  Antwerp  was  the 
most  important,  as  well  from  its  wealth,  its  popu¬ 
lation,  and  its  military  force,  as  by  its  position  on 
the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt.  This  great  and  popu¬ 
lous  town,  which  at  this  date  contained  more  than 
eighty  thousand  inhabitants,  was  one  of  the  most 
active  members  of  the  national  league,  and  had 
in  the  course  of  the  war  distinguished  itself  above 
all  the  towns  of  Belgium,  by  an  untamable  spirit 
of  liberty.  As  it  fostered  within  its  bosom  all  the 
three  Christian  churches,  and  owed  much  of  its 
prosperity  to  this  unrestricted  religious  liberty,  it 
had  the  more  cause  to  dread  the  Spanish  rule, 
which  threatened  to  abolish  this  toleration,  and 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


109 


by  the  terror  of  the  Inquisition  to  drive  all  the 
Protestant  merchants  from  its  markets.  More- 
.  over,  it  had  had  but  too  terrible  experience  of  the 
brutality  of  the  Spanish  garrisons,  and  it  was 
quite  evident  that  if  it  once  more  suffered  this  in¬ 
supportable  yoke  to  be  imposed  upon  it,  it  would 
never  again,  during  the  whole  course  of  the  war, 
be  able  to  throw  it  off. 

But  powerful  as  were  the  motives  which  stimu¬ 
lated  Antwerp  to  resistance,  equally  strong  were 
the  reasons  which  determined  the  Spanish  gene¬ 
ral  to  make  himself  master  of  the  place  at  any 
cost.  On  the  possession  of  this  town  depended, 
in  a  great  measure,  that  of  the  whole  province  of 
Brabant,  which  by  this  channel  chiefly  derived  its 
supplies  of  corn  from  Zealand,  while  the  capture 
of  this  place  would  secure  to  the  victor  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  Scheldt.  It  would  also  deprive  the 
League  of  Brabant,  which  held  its  meetings  in 
the  town,  of  its  principal  support;  the  whole  fac¬ 
tion  of  its  dangerous  influence,  of  its  example,  its 
counsels,  and  its  money,  while  the  treasures  of 
its  inhabitants  would  open  plentiful  supplies  for  the 
military  exigencies  of  the  king.  Its  fall  would, 
sooner  or  later,  necessarily  draw  after  it  that  of  all 
Brabant,  and  the  preponderance  of  power  in  that 
quarter  would  decide  the  whole  dispute  in  favor 
of  the  king.  Determined  by  these  grave  consi¬ 
derations,  the  Duke  of  Parma  drew  his  forces 
together  in  July,  1584,  and  advanced  from  his 
position  at  Dornick  to  the  neighborhood  of  Ant¬ 
werp,  with  the  intention  of  investing  it. 

But  both  the  natural  position  and  fortifications 
of  the  town  appeared  to  defy  attacks.  Surrounded 
on  the  side  of  Brabant  with  insurmountable  works 
and  moats,  and  towards  Flanders  covered  by  the 
broad  and  rapid  stream  of  the  Scheldt,  it  could 
not  be  carried  by  storm  ;  and  to  blockade  a  town 
of  such  extent,  seemed  to  require  a  land  force 
three  times  larger  than  that  which  the  duke  had, 
and  moreover  a  fleet,  of  which  he  was  utterly  des¬ 
titute.  Not  only  did  the  river  yield  the  town  all 
necessary  supplies  from  Ghent,  it  also  opened  an 
easy  communication  with  the  bordering  province 
of  Zealand.  For,  as  the  tide  of  the  North  Sea  ex¬ 
tends  far  up  the  Scheldt,  and  ebbs  and  flows  regu¬ 
larly,  Antwerp  enjoys  the  peculiar  advantage,  that 
the  same  tide  flows  past  it  at  different  times  in  two 
opposite  directions.  Besides,  the  adjacent  towns 
of  Brussels,  Malines,  Ghent,  Dendermonde,  and 
others,  were  all  at  this  time  in  the  hands  of  the 
league,  and  could  aid  the  place  from  the  land  side 
also.  To  blockade,  therefore,  the  town  by  land, 
and  to  cut  off  its  communication  with  Flanders 
and  Brabant,  required  two  different  armies,  one  on 
each  bank  of  the  river.  A  sufficient  fleet  was 
likewise  needed  to  guard  the  passage  of  the 
Scheldt,  and  to  prevent  all  attempts  at  relief, 
which  would  most  certainly  be  made  from  Zealand. 
But  by  the  war  which  he  had  still  to  carry  on  in 
other  quarters,  and  by  the  numerous  garrisons 
which  he  was  obliged  to  leave  in  the  towns  and 
fortified  places,  the  army  of  the  duke  was  reduced 
to  10,000  infantry  and  1,700  horse,  a  force  very 
inadequate  for  an  undertaking  of  such  magnitude. 
Moreover,  these  troops  were  deficient  in  the  most 
necessary  supplies,  and  the  long  arrears  of  pay 
had  excited  them  to  subdued  murmurs,  which 


hourly  threatened  to  break  out  into  open  mutiny. 
If,  notwithstanding  these  difficulties,  he  should  still 
attempt  the  siege,  there  would  be  much  occasion 
to  fear  from  the  strongholds  of  the  enemy,  which 
were  left  in  the  rear,  and  from  which  it  would  be 
easy,  by  vigorous  sallies,  to  annoy  an  army  dis¬ 
tributed  over  so  many  places,  and  to  expose  it  to 
want  by  cutting  off  its  supplies. 

All  these  considerations  were  brought  forward 
by  the  council  of  war,  before  which  the  Duke  of 
Parma  now  laid  his  scheme.  However  great  the 
confidence  which  they  placed  in  themselves,  and 
in  the  proved  abilities  of  such  a  leader,  neverthe¬ 
less,  the  most  experienced  generals  did  not  dis¬ 
guise  their  despair  of  a  fortunate  result.  Two 
only  were  exceptions,  Capizucchi  and  Mondra- 
gone,  whose  ardent  courage  placed  them  above  all 
apprehensions,  the  rest  concurred  in  dissuading 
the  duke  from  attempting  so  hazardous  an  enter¬ 
prise,  by  which  they  ran  the  risk  of  forfeiting  the 
fruit  of  all  their  former  victories,  and  tarnishing 
the  glory  they  had  already  earned. 

But  objections,  which  he  had  already  made  to 
himself  and  refuted,  could  not  shake  the  Duke  of 
Parma  in  his  purpose.  Not  in  ignorance  of  its 
inseparable  dangers,  not  from  thoughtlessly  over¬ 
valuing  his  forces,  had  he  taken  this  bold  resolve. 
But  that  instinctive  genius  which  leads  great  men 
by  paths  which  inferior  minds  either  never  enter 
upon  or  never  finish,  raised  him  above  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  the  doubts  which  a  cold  and  narrow  pru¬ 
dence  would  oppose  to  his  views,  and  without 
being  able  to  convince  his  generals,  he  felt  the 
correctness  of  his  calculations  in  a  conviction  in¬ 
distinct,  indeed,  but  not  on  that  account  less  in¬ 
dubitable.  A  succession  of  fortunate  results  had 
raised  his  confidence,  and  the  sight  of  his  army, 
unequaled  in  Europe  for  discipline,  experience, 
and  valor,  and  commanded  by  a  chosen  body  of 
the  most  distinguished  officers,  did  not  permit 
him  to  entertain  fear  fora  moment.  To  those  who 
objected  to  the  small  number  of  his  troops,  he 
answered,  that  however  long  the  pike,  it  is  only 
the  point  that  kills  ;  and  that  in  military  enter¬ 
prise,  the  moving  power  was  of  more  importance 
than  the  mass  to  be  moved.  He  was  aware,  in¬ 
deed,  of  the  discontent  of  his  troops,  but  he  knew 
also  their  obedience ;  and  he  thought,  more¬ 
over,  that  the  best  means  to  stifle  their  murmurs 
was  by  keeping  them  employed  in  some  important 
undertaking,  by  stimulating  their  desire  of  glory 
by  the  splendor  of  the  enterprise,  and  their  rapa¬ 
city,  by  the  hopes  of  the  rich  booty  which  the 
capture  of  so  wealthy  a  town  would  hold  out. 

In  the  plan  which  he  now  formed  for  the  con¬ 
duct  of  the  siege,  he  endeavored  to  meet  all  these 
difficulties.  Famine  was  the  only  instrument  by 
which  he  could  hope  to  subdue  the  town  ;  but 
effectually  to  use  this  formidable  weapon,  it  would 
be  expedient  to  cut  off  all  its  land  and  water 
communications.  With  this  view,  the  first  object 
was  to  stop,  or  at  least  to  impede,  the  arrival  of 
supplies  from  Zealand.  It  was  therefore  requisite 
not  only  to  carry  all  the  outworks  which  the  peo¬ 
ple  of  Antwerp  had  built  on  both  shores  of  the 
Scheldt  for  the  protection  of  their  shipping,  but 
also,  wherever  feasible,  to  throw  up  new  batteries, 
which  should  command  the  whole  course  of  the 


110 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


river ;  and,  to  prevent  the  place  from  drawing 
supplies  from  the  land  side  while  efforts  were  be¬ 
ing  made  to  intercept  their  transmission  by  sea, 
all  the  adjacent  towns  of  Brabant  and  Flanders 
were  comprehended  in  the  plan  of  the  siege,  and 
the  fall  of  Antwerp  was  based  on  the  destruction 
of  all  those  places.  A  bold,  and,  considering  the 
duke’s  scanty  force,  an  almost  extravagant  pro¬ 
ject,  which  was,  however,  justified  by  the  genius 
of  its  author,  and  crowned  by  fortune  with  a  bril¬ 
liant  result. 

As,  however,  time  was  required  to  accomplish 
a  plan  of  this  magnitude,  the  Prince  of  Parma 
was  content,  for  the  present,  with  the  erection  of 
numerous  forts  on  the  canals  and  rivers  which 
connected  Antwerp  with  Dendermohde,  Ghent, 
M alines,  Brussels,  and  other  places.  Spanish 
garrisons  were  quartered  in  the  vicinity,  and  al¬ 
most  at  the  very  gates  of  those  towns,  which  laid 
waste  the  open  country,  and,  by  their  incursions, 
kept  the  surrounding  territory  in  alarm.  Thus, 
round  Ghent  alone,  were  encamped  about  three 
thousand  men,  and  proportionate  numbers  round 
the  other  towns.  In  this  way,  and  by  means  of 
the  secret  understandings  which  he  maintained 
with  the  Roman  Catholic  inhabitants  of  those 
towns,  the  duke  hoped,  without  weakening  his 
own  forces,  gradually  to  exhaust  their  strength, 
and  by  the  harassing  operations  of  a  petty  but 
incessant  warfare,  even  without  any  formal  siege, 
to  reduce  them  at  last  to  capitulate. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  main  force  was  directed 
against  Antwerp,  which  he  now  closely  invested. 
He  fixed  his  head-quarters  at  Bevern  in  Flanders, 
a  few  miles  from  Antwerp,  where  he  found  a  for¬ 
tified  camp.  The  protection  of  the  Flemish  bank 
of  the  Scheldt  was  intrusted  to  the  Margrave  of 
Rysburg,  general  of  cavalry,  the  Brabant  bank  to 
the  Count  Peter  Ernest  Von  Eansfeld,  who  was 
joined  by  another  Spanish  leader,  Mondragone. 
Both  the  latter  succeeded  in  crossing  the  Scheldt 
upon  pontoons,  notwithstanding  the  Flemish  ad¬ 
miral’s  ship  was  sent  to  oppose  them,  and  passing 
Antwerp,  took  up  their  position  at  Stabroek,  in 
Bergen.  Detached  corps  dispersed  themselves 
along  the  whole  Brabant  side,  partly  to  secure 
the  dykes  and  the  roads. 

Some  miles  below  Antwerp,  the  Scheldt  wras 
guarded  by  two  strong  forts,  of  which  one  was 
situated  at  Liefkenshoek,  on  the  island  Doel,  in 
Flanders,  the  other  at  Lillo,  exactly  opposite  the 
coast  of  Brabant.  The  last  had  been  erected  by 
Mondragone  himself,  by  order  of  the  duke  of 
Alva,  when  the  latter  was  still  master  of  Ant¬ 
werp,  and  for  this  very  reason  the  Duke  of  Parma 
now  intrusted  to  him  the  attack  upon  it.  On  the 
possession  of  these  two  forts  the  success  of  the 
siege  seemed  wholly  to  depend,  since  all  the  ves¬ 
sels  sailing  from  Zealand  to  Antwerp  must  pass 
under  their  guns.  Both  forts  had,  a  short  time 
before,  been  strengthened  by  the  besieged,  and 
the  former  was  scarcely  finished  when  the  Mar¬ 
grave  of  Rysburg  attacked  it.  The  celerity  with 
which  he  went  to  work,  surprised  the  enemy  be¬ 
fore  they  were  sufficiently  prepared  for  defense  ; 
and  a  brisk  assault  quickly  placed  Liefkenshoek 
in  the  hands  of  the  Spaniards.  The  confederates 
sustained  this  loss  on  the  same  fatal  day  that  the 


Prince  of  Orange  fell  at  Delft,  by  the  hands  of  an 
assassin.  The  other  batteries,  erected  on  the 
island  of  Doel,  were  partly  abandoned  by  their  * 
defenders,  partly  taken  by  surprise,  so  that  in  a 
short  time  the  whole  Flemish  side  was  cleared  of 
the  enemy.  But  the  fort  at  Lillo,  on  the  Brabant 
shore,  offered  a  more  vigorous  resistance,  since 
the  people  of  Antwerp  had  had  time  to  strengthen 
its  fortifications,  and  to  provide  it  with  a  strong 
garrison.  Furious  sallies  of  the  besieged,  led  by 
Odets  von  Teligny,  supported  by  the  cannon  of 
the  fort,  destroyed  all  the  works  of  the  Spaniards, 
and  an  inundation,  which  was  effected  by  opening 
the  sluices,  finally  drove  them  away  from  the 
place,  after  a  three  weeks’  siege,  and  with  the  loss 
of  nearly  two  thousand  killed.  They  now  retired 
into  their  fortified  camp  at  Stabroek,  and  con¬ 
tented  themselves  with  taking  possession  of  the 
dams  which  run  across  the  lowlands  of  Bergen, 
and  oppose  a  breastwork  to  the  encroachments 
of  the  East  Scheldt. 

The  failure  of  his  attempt  upon  the  fort  of  Lillo 
compelled  the  Prince  of  Parma  to  change  his 
measures.  As  he  could  not  succeed  in  stopping 
the  passage  of  the  Scheldt  by  his  original  plan, 
on  which  the  success  of  the  siege  entirely  de¬ 
pended,  he  determined  to  effect  his  purpose  by 
throwing  a  bridge  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
river.  The  thought  was  bold,  and  there  were 
many  who  held  it  to  be  rash.  Both  the  breadth 
of  the  stream,  which  at  this  part  exceeds  1,200 
paces,  as  well  as  its  violence,  which  is  still  further 
augmented  by  the  tides  of  the  neighboring  sea, 
appeared  to  render  every  attempt  of  this  kind  im¬ 
practicable.  Moreover,  he  had  to  contend  with 
a  deficiency  of  timber,  vessels,  and  workmen,  as 
well  as  with  the  dangerous  position  between  the 
fleets  of  Antwerp  and  of  Zealand,  to  which  it 
would  necessarily  be  an  easy  task,  in  combination 
with  a  boisterous  element,  to  interrupt  so  tedious 
a  work.  But  the  Prince  of  Parma  knew  his 
power,  and  his  settled  resolution  would  yield  to 
nothing  short  of  absolute  impossibility.  After 
he  had  caused  the  breadth  as  well  as  the  depth 
of  the  river  to  be  measured,  and  had  consulted 
with  two  of  his  most  skillful  engineers,  Barocci 
and  Plato,  it  was  settled  that  the  bridge  should 
be  constructed  between  Calloo  in  Flanders,  and 
Ordham  in  Brabant.  This  spot  was  selected, 
because  the  river  is  here  narrowest,  and  bends  a 
little  to  the  right,  and  so  detains  vessels  a  while 
by  compelling  them  to  tack.  To  cover  the 
bridge,  strong  bastions  were  erected  at  both  ends, 
of  which  the  one  on  the  Flanders  shore  was 
named  fort  St.  Maria,  the  other  on  the  Brabant 
side  fort  St.  Philip,  in  honor  of  the  king. 

While  active  preparations  were  making  in  the 
Spanish  camp  for  the  execution  of  this  scheme, 
and  the  whole  attention  of  the  enemy  was  di¬ 
rected  to  it,  the  duke  made  an  unexpected  attack 
upon  Dendermonde,  a  strong  town  between  Ghent 
and  Antwerp,  at  the  confluence  of  the  Dender 
and  Scheldt.  As  long  as  this  important  place  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  the  towns  of  Ghent 
and  Antwerp  could  mutually  support  each  other, 
and  by  the  facility  of  their  communication,  frus¬ 
trate  all  the  efforts  of  the  besiegers.  Its  capture 
would  leave  the  prince  free  to  act  against  both 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


Ill 


towns,  and  might  decide  the  fate  of  his  under¬ 
taking.  The  rapidity  of  his  attack,  left  the  be¬ 
sieged  no  time  to  open  their  sluices,  and  lay  the 
country  under  water.  A  hot  cannonade  was 
opened  upon  the  chief  bastion  of  the  town,  before 
the  Brussels  gate  ;  but  was  answered  by  the  fire 
of  the  besieged,  which  made  great  havoc  amongst 
the  Spaniards.  It  increased,  however,  rather 
than  discouraged  their  ardor ;  and  the  insults  of 
the  garrison,  who  mutilated  the  statue  of  a  saint 
before  their  eyes,  and  after  treating  it  with  the 
most  contumelious  indignity,  hurled  it  down  from 
(he  rampart,  raised  their  fury  to  the  highest  pitch. 
Clamorously  they  demanded  to  be  led  against  the 
bastion,  before  their  fire  had  made  a  sufficient 
breach  in  it,  and  the  prince,  to  avail  himself  of  the 
first  ardor  of  their  impetuosity,  gave  the  signal 
for  the  assault.  After  a  sanguinary  contest  of 
two  hours,  the  rampart  was  mounted,  and  those, 
who  were  not  sacrificed  to  the  first  fury  of  the 
Spaniards,  threw  themselves  into  the  town.  The 
latter  was,  indeed,  now  more  exposed,  a  fire  being 
directed  upon  it  from  the  works  which  had  been 
carried ;  but  its  strong  walls,  and  the  broad  moat 
which  surrounded  it,  gave  reason  to  expect  a  pro¬ 
tracted  resistance.  The  inventive  resources  of 
the  Prince  of  Parma  soon  overcame  this  obstacle 
also.  While  the  bombardment  was  carried  on 
night  and  day,  the  troops  were  incessantly  em¬ 
ployed  in  diverting  the  course  of  the  Dender,  which 
supplied  the  foss  with  water,  and  the  besieged 
were  seized  with  despair  as  they  saw  the  water  of 
the  trenches,  the  last  defense  of  the  town,  gradu¬ 
ally  disappear.  They  hastened  to  capitulate,  and 
in  August,  1584,  received  a  Spanish  garrison. 
Thus,  in  the  short  space  of  eleven  days,  the  Prince 
of  Parma  accomplished  an  undertaking  which, 
in  the  opinion  of  competent  judges,  would  require 
as  many  weeks. 

The  town  of  Ghent,  now  cut  off  from  Antwerp 
and  the  sea,  and  hard  pressed  by  the  troops  of  the 
king,  which  were  encamped  in  its  vicinity,  and 
without  hope  of  immediate  succor,  began  to  des¬ 
pair,  as  famine,  with  all  its  dreadful  train,  ad¬ 
vanced  upon  them  with  ready  steps.  The  inhabi¬ 
tants  therefore  dispatched  deputies  to  the  Spanish 
camp  at  Bevern  to  tender  its  submission  to  the 
king,  upon  the  same  terms  as  the  prince  had  a 
short  time  previously  offered.  The  deputies  were 
informed  that  the  time  for  treaties  were  past,  and 
that  an  unconditional  submission  alone  could  ap¬ 
pease  the  just  anger  of  the  monarch  whom  they 
had  offended  by  their  rebellion.  Nay,  they  were 
even  given  to  understand,  that  it  would  be  only 
through  his  great  mercy  if  the  same  humiliation 
were  not  exacted  from  them,  as  their  rebellious 
ancestors  were  forced  to  undergo  under  Charles 
V.,  namely,  to  implore  pardon  half-naked,  and 
with  a  cord  round  their  necks.  The  deputies  re¬ 
turned  to  Ghent  in  despair,  but  three  days  after¬ 
ward  a  new  deputation  was  sent  to  the  Spanish 
camp,  which  at  last,  by  the  intercession  of  one  of 
the  prince’s  friends,  who  was  a  prisoner  in  Ghent, 
obtained  peace  upon  moderate  terms.  The  town 
was  to  pay  a  fine  of  200,000  florins,  recall  the 
banished  Papists,  and  expel  its  Protestant  inha¬ 
bitants,  who,  however,  were  to  be  allowed  two 
years  for  the  settlement  of  their  affairs.  All  the 


inhabitants,  except  six,  who  were  reserved  for 
capital  punishment,  (but  afterward  pardoned,)  were 
included  in  a  general  amnesty,  and  the  garrison, 
which  amounted  to  2,000  men,  were  allowed  to 
evacuate  the  place  with  the  honors  of  war.  This 
treaty  was  concluded  in  September  of  the  same 
year,  at  the  head  quarters  of  Bevern,  and  imme¬ 
diately  3,000  Spaniards  marched  into  the  town  as 
a  garrison. 

It  was  more  by  the  terror  of  his  name,  and  the 
dread  of  famine,  than  by  the  force  of  arms,  that 
the  Prince  of  Parma  had  succeeded  in  reducing 
this  city  to  submission,  the  largest  and  strongest 
in  the  Netherlands,  which  was  little  inferior  to 
Paris  within  the  barriers  of  its  inner  town,  con¬ 
sisted  of  37,000  houses,  and  was  built  on  twenty 
islands,  connected  by  ninety-eight  stone  bridges. 
The  important  privileges  which,  in  the  course  of 
several  centuries,  this  city  had  contrived  to  extort 
from  its  rulers,  fostered  in  its  inhabitants  a  spirit 
of  independence,  which  not  unfrequently  degene¬ 
rated  into  riot  and  license,  and  naturally  brought 
it  into  collision  with  the  Austrian-Spanish  go¬ 
vernment.  And  it  was  exactly  this  bold  spirit  of 
liberty,  which  procured  for  the  reformation  the 
rapid  and  extensive  success  it  met  with  in  this 
town,  and  the  combined  incentives  of  civil  and 
religious  freedom  produced  all  those  scenes  of 
violence,  by  which,  during  the  rebellion,  it  had 
unfortunately  distinguished  itself.  Besides  the 
fine  levied,  the  prince  found  within  the  walls  a 
large  store  of  artillery,  carriages,  ships,  and 
building  materials  of  all  kinds,  with  numerous 
workmen  and  sailors,  who  materially  aided  him  in 
his  plans  against  Antwerp. 

Before  Ghent  surrendered  to  the  king,  Vilvor- 
den  and  Herentals  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
the  Spaniards,  and  the  capture  of  the  block¬ 
houses  near  the  village  of  Willebrock  had  cut  off 
Antwerp  from  Brussels  and  Malines.  The  loss 
of  these  places,  within  so  short  a  period,  deprived 
Antwerp  of  all  hope  of  succor  from  Brabant  and 
Flanders,  and  limited  all  their  expectations  to 
the  assistance  which  might  be  looked  for  from 
Zealand.  But  to  deprive  them  also  of  this,  the 
Prince  of  Parma  was  now  making  the  most  ener¬ 
getic  preparations. 

The  citizens  of  Antwerp  had  beheld  the  first 
operations  of  the  enemy  against  their  town  with 
the  proud  security  with  which  the  sight  of  their 
invincible  river  inspired  them.  This  confidence 
was  also  in  a  degree  justified  by  the  opinion  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  who,  upon  the  first  intelli¬ 
gence  of  the  design,  had  said,  that  the  Spanish 
army  would  inevitably  perish  before  the  walls  of 
Antwerp.  That  nothing,  however,  might  be 
neglected,  he  sent,  a  short  time  before  his  assas¬ 
sination,  for  the  Burgomaster  of  Antwerp,  Philip 
Marnix  of  St.  Aldegonde,  his  intimate  friend,  to 
Delft,  where  he  consulted  with  him  as  to  the 
means  of  maintaining  defensive  operations.  It  was 
agreed  between  them  that  it  would  be  advisable 
to  demolish  forthwith  the  great  dam  between 
Sanvliet  and  Lillo,  called  the  Blaaugarendyk,  so 
as  to  allow  the  waters  of  the  East  Scheldt  to  in¬ 
undate,  if  necessary,  the  lowlands  of  Bergen,  and 
thus,  in  the  event  of  the  Scheldt  being  closed,  to 
open  a  passage  for  the  Zealand  vessels  to  the 


112 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


town  across  the  inundated  country.  Aldegonde 
had,  after  his  return,  actually  persuaded  the  ma¬ 
gistrate  and  the  majority  of  the  citizens  to  agree 
to  this  proposal,  when  it  was  resisted  by  the  guild 
of  butchers,  who  complained  that  they  would  be 
ruined  by  such  a  measure;  for  the  plain,  which  it 
was  wished  to  lay  under  water,  was  a  vast  tract 
of  pasture  land,  upon  which  about  twelve  thou¬ 
sand  oxen  were  annually  put  to  graze.  The  ob¬ 
jection  of  the  butchers  was  successful,  and  they 
managed  to  prevent  the  execution  of  this  salutary 
scheme,  until  the  enemy  had  got  possession  of  the 
dams  as  well  as  the  pasture  land. 

At  the  suggestion  of  the  burgomaster,  St.  Al¬ 
degonde,  who,  himself  a  member  of  the  states 
of  Brabant  was  possessed  of  great  I  authority  in 
that  council,  the  fortifications  on  both  sides  of 
the  Scheldt  had,  a  short  time  before  the  arrival 
of  the  Spaniards,  been  placed  in  repair,  and 
many  new  redoubts  erected  around  the  town. 
The  dams  had  been  cut  through  at  Saftingen,  and 
the  water  of  the  West  Scheldt  let  out  over  nearly 
the  whole  country  of  Waes.  In  the  adjacent 
Marquisate  of  Bergen,  troops  had  been  enlisted  by 
the  Count  of  Hohenlohe,  and  a  Scotch  regiment, 
under  the  command  of  Colonel  Morgan,  was 
already  in  the  pay  of  the  republic,  while  fresh  re¬ 
inforcements  were  daily  expected  from  England 
and  France.  Above  all,  the  states  of  Holland 
and  Zealand  were  called  upon  to  hasten  their  sup¬ 
plies.  But  after  the  enemy  had  taken  strong  posi¬ 
tions,  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  and  the  fire  of 
their  batteries  made  the  navigation  dangerous, 
when  place  after  place  in  Brabant  fell  into  their 
hands,  and  their  cavalry  had  cut  off  all  communi¬ 
cation  on  the  land  side,  the  inhabitants  of  Ant¬ 
werp  began  at  last  to  entertain  serious  apprehen¬ 
sions  for  the  future.  The  town  then  contained 
eighty-five  thousand  souls,  and  according  to  cal¬ 
culation  three  hundred  thousand  quarters  of  corn 
were  annually  required  for  their  support.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  siege  neither  the  supply  nor  the 
money  was  wanting  for  the  laying  in  of  such  a 
store  ;  for  in  spite  of  the  enemy’s  fire,  the  Zealand 
victualing  ships,  taking  advantage  of  the  rising 
tide,  contrived  to  make  their  way  to  the  town. 
All  that  was  requisite,  was  to  prevent  any  of  the 
richer  citizens  from  buying  up  these  supplies,  and, 
in  case  of  scarcity,  raising  the  price.  To  secure 
his  object,  one  Gianibelli,  from  Mantua,  who  had 
rendered  important  services  in  the  course  of  the 
siege,  proposed  a  property  tax  of  one  penny  in 
every  hundred,  and  the  appointment  of  a  board  of 
respectable  persons  to  purchase  corn  with  this 
money,  and  distribute  it  weekly.  And  until  the 
returns  of  this  tax  should  be  available,  the  richer 
classes  should  advance  the  required  sum,  holding 
the  corn  purchased,  as  a  deposit,  in  their  own 
magazines ;  and  were  also  to  share  in  the  profit. 
But  this  plan  was  unwelcome  to  the  wealthier 
citizens,  who  had  resolved  to  profit  by  the  general 
distress.  They  recommended  that  every  individ¬ 
ual  should  be  required  to  provide  himself  with  a 
sufficient  supply  for  two  years ;  a  proposition 
which,  however  it  might  suit  their  own  circum¬ 
stances,  was  very  unreasonable  in  regard  to  the 
poorer  inhabitants,  who,  even  before  the  siege, 
could  scarcely  find  means  to  supply  themselves 


for  so  many  months.  They  obtained,  indeed,  theit 
object,  which  was  to  reduce  the  poor  to  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  either  quitting  the  place,  or  becoming 
entirely  their  dependents.  But  when  they  after¬ 
ward  reflected,  that  in  the  time  of  need  the  rights 
of  property  would  not  be  respected,  they  found  it 
advisable  not  to  be  over  hasty  in  making  theii 
own  purchases. 

The  magistrate,  in  order  to  avert  an  evil  which 
would  have  pressed  upon  individuals  only,  had  re¬ 
course  to  an  expedient  which  endangered  the 
safety  of  all.  Some  enterprising  persons  in  Zea 
land  had  freighted  a  large  fleet  with  provisions, 
which  succeeded  in  passing  the  guns  of  the 
enemy,  and  discharged  its  cargo  at  Antwerp. 
The  hope  of  a  large  profit  had  tempted  the  mer¬ 
chants  to  enter  upon  this  hazardous  speculation  ; 
in  this,  however,  they  were  disappointed,  as  the 
magistrate  of  Antwerp  had,  just  before  their  ar¬ 
rival,  issued  an  edict,  regulating  the  price  of  all 
the  necessaries  of  life.  At  the  same  time,  to 
prevent  individuals  from  buying  up  the  whole 
cargo,  and  storing  it  in  their  magazines,  with  a 
view  of  disposing  of  it  afterward  at  a  dearer  rate, 
he  ordered  that  the  whole  should  be  publicly  sold 
in  any  quantities  from  the  vessels.  The  specula¬ 
tors,  cheated  of  their  hopes  of  profit  by  these 
precautions,  set  sail  again,  and  left  Antwerp  with 
the  greater  part  of  their  cargo,  which  would  have 
sufficed  for  the  support  of  the  town  for  several 
months. 

This  neglect  of  the  most  essential  and  natural 
means  of  preservation  can  only  be  explained  by 
the  supposition,  that  the  inhabitants  considered  it 
absolutely  impossible  ever  to  close  the  Scheldt 
completely,  and  consequently  had  not  the  least 
apprehension  that  things  would  come  to  extrem¬ 
ity.  When  the  intelligence  arrived  in  Antwerp 
that  the  prince  intended  to  throw  a  bridge  over 
the  Scheldt,  the  idea  was  universally  ridiculed  as 
chimerical.  An  arrogant  comparison  was  drawn 
between  the  republic  and  the  stream,  and  it  was 
said,  that  the  one  would  bear  the  Spanish  yoke  as 
little  as  the  other.  “  A  river  which  is  2400  feet 
broad,  and,  with  its  own  waters  alone,  above  sixty 
feet  deep,  but  which  with  the  tide  rose  twelve 
feet  more — would  such  a  stream,”  it  was  asked, 
“  submit  to  be  spanned  by  a  miserable  piece  of 
paling?  Where  were  beams  to  be  found  high 
enough  to  reach  to  the  bottom  and  project  above 
the  surface?  and  how  was  a  work  of  this  kind  to 
stand  in  winter,  when  whole  islands  and  moun¬ 
tains  of  ice,  which  stone  walls  could  hardly  resist, 
would  be  driven  by  the  flood  against  its  weak  tim¬ 
bers,  and  splinter  them  to  pieces  like  glass  ?  Or, 
perhaps,  the  prince  purposed  to  construct  a  bridge 
of  boats  :  if  so,  where  would  he  procure  the  lat¬ 
ter,  and  how  bring  them  into  his  entrenchments? 
They  must  necessarily  be  brought  past  Antwerp, 
where  a  fleet  was  ready  to  capture  or  sink  them.” 

But  while  they  were  trying  to  prove  the  ab¬ 
surdity  of  the  Prince  of  Parma’s  undertaking,  he 
had  already  completed  it.  As  soon  as  the  forts 
St.  Maria  and  St.  Philip  were  erected,  and  pro¬ 
tected  the  workmen  and  the  work  by  their  fire,  a 
pier  was  built  out  into  the  stream  from  both 
banks,  for  which  purpose  the  masts  of  the  largest 
vessels  were  employed  ;  by  a  skillful  arrangement 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


113 


of  the  timbers,  they  contrived  to  give  the  whole 
such  solidity,  that,  as  the  result  proved,  it  was 
able  to  resist  the  violent  pressure  of  the  ice. 
These  timbers,  which  rested  firmly  and  securely 
on  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  projected  a  con¬ 
siderable  height  above  it,  being  covered  with 
planks,  afforded  a  commodious  roadway.  It  was 
wide  enough  to  allow  eight  men  to  cross  abreast, 
and  a  balustrade  that  ran  along  it  on  both  sides, 
protected  them  from  the  fire  of  small  arms  from 
the  enemy’s  vessels,  Thi3  “  Stacade,”  as  it  was 
called,  ran  from  the  two  opposite  shores  as  far  as 
the  increasing  depth  and  force  of  the  stream 
allowed.  It  reduced  the  breadth  of  the  river 
to  about  1100  feet  ;  as,  however,  the  middle 
and  proper  current  would  not  admit  of  such 
a  barrier,  there  remained,  therefore,  between 
the  two  stacades,  a  space  of  more  than  six 
hundred  paces,  through  which  a  whole  fleet  of 
transports  could  sail  with  ease.  This  inter¬ 
vening  space  the  prince  designed  to  close  by  a 
bridge  of  boats,  for  which  purpose  the  craft  must 
be  procured  from  Dunkirk.  But  besides  that 
they  could  not  be  obtained  in  any  number  at  that 
place,  it  would  be  difficult  to  bring  them  past  Ant¬ 
werp  without  great  loss.  He  was,  therefore, 
obliged  to  content  himself  for  the  time  with  hav¬ 
ing  narrowed  the  stream  one-half,  and  rendered 
the  passage  of  the  enemy’s  vessels  so  much  the 
more  difficult.  Where  the  stacades  terminated 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  they  spread  out  into 
parallelograms,  which  were  mounted  with  heavy 
guns,  and  served  as  a  kind  of  battery  on  the  water. 
From  these,  a  heavy  fire  was  opened  on  every  ves¬ 
sel  that  attempted  to  pass  through  this  narrow 
channel.  Whole  fleets,  however,  and  single  ves¬ 
sels  still  attempted  and  succeeded  in  passing  this 
dangerous  strait. 

Meanwhile  Ghent  surrendered,  and  this  unex¬ 
pected  success  at  once  rescued  the  prince  from 
his  dilemma.  He  found  in  this  town  every  thing 
necessary  to  complete  his  bridge  of  boats  ;  and 
the  only  difficulty  now  was  its  safe  transport, 
which  was  furnished  by  the  enemy  themselves. 
By  cutting  the  dams  at  Saftingen,  a  great  part 
of  the  country  of  Waes,  as  far  as  the  village  of 
Borcht,  had  been  laid  under  water,  so  that  it  was 
not  difficult  to  cross  it  with  flat-bottomed  boats. 
The  prince,  therefore,  ordered  his  vessels  to  run 
out  from  Ghent,  and  after  passing  Dendermonde 
and  Rupelmonde,  to  pass  through  the  left  dyke 
of  the  Scheldt,  leaving  Antwerp  to  the  right,  and 
sail  over  the  inundated  fields  in  the  direction  of 
Borcht.  To  protect  this  passage,  a  fort  was 
erected  at  the  latter  village,  which  would  keep 
the  enemy  in  check.  All  succeeded  to  his  wishes, 
though  not  without  a  sharp  action  with  the 
enemy’s  flotilla,  which  was  sent  out  to  intercept 
this  convoy.  After  breaking  through  a  few  more 
dams  on  their  route,  they  reached  the  Spanish 
quarters  at  Calloo,  and  successfully  entered  the 
Scheldt  again.  The  exultation  of  the  army  was 
the  greater,  when  they  discovered  the  extent  of 
danger  the  vessels  had  so  narrowly  escaped. 
Scarcely  had  they  got  quit  of  the  enemy’s  vessels, 
when  a  strong  reinforcement  from  Antwerp  got 
under  weigh,  commanded  by  the  valiant  defender 
of  Lillo,  Odets  von  Teligny.  When  this  officer 
Vol.  II. — S  • 


saw  that  the  affair  was  over,  and  that  the  enemy 
had  escaped,  lie  took  possession  of  the  dam 
through  which  their  fleet  had  passed,  and  threw 
up  a  fort  on  the  spot,  in  order  to  stop  the  passage 
of  any  vessels  from  Ghent,  which  might  attempt 
to  follow  them. 

By  this  step,  the  prince  was  again  thrown  into 
embarrassment.  He  was  far  from  having,  as  yet, 
a  sufficient  number  of  vessels,  either  for  the 
construction  of  the  bridge,  or  for  its  defense,  and 
the  passage  by  which  the  former  convoy  had  ar¬ 
rived,  was  now  closed  by  the  fort  erected  by  Te¬ 
ligny.  While  he  was  reconnoitring  the  country 
to  discover  a  new  way  for  his  fleets,  an  idea  oc¬ 
curred  to  him,  which  not  only  put  an  end  to  his 
present  dilemma,  but  greatly  accelerated  the  suc¬ 
cess  of  his  whole  plan.  Not  far  from  the  village 
of  Stecken,in  Waes,  which  is  within  some  five  thou¬ 
sand  paces  of  the  commencement  of  the  inundation, 
flows  a  small  stream  called  the  Moer,  which  falls 
into  the  Scheldt  near  Ghent.  From  this  river,  he 
caused  a  canal  to  be  dug  to  the  spot  where  the 
inundations  began,  and  as  the  water  of  these  was 
not  everywhere  deep  enough  for  the  transit  of  his 
boats,  the  canal  between  Bevcrn  and  Verebroek 
was  continued  to  Calloo,  where  it  was  met  by  the 
Scheldt.  At  this  wrork  five  hundred  pioneers 
labored  without  intermission,  and  in  order  to 
cheer  the  toil  of  the  soldiers,  the  Prince  himself 
took  part  in  it.  In  this  way  did  he  imitate  the  ex¬ 
ample  of  two  celebrated  Romans,  Drusus  and  Cor- 
bnlo,  who,  by  similar  works,  had  united  the  Rhine 
with  the  Zuyderzee,  and  the  Maes  with  the  Rhine. 

The  canal,  which  the  army  in  honor  of  its  pro¬ 
jector,  called  the  canal  of  Parma,  was  fourteen 
thousand  paces  in  length,  and  was  of  proportion- 
able  depth  and  breadth,  so  as  to  be  navigable  for 
ships  of  a  considerable  burden.  It  afforded  to  the 
vessels  from  Ghent,  not  only  a  more  secure,  but 
also  a  much  shorter  course  to  the  Spanish  quar¬ 
ters,  because  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to  follow 
the  many  windings  of  the  Scheldt,  but  entering 
the  Moer  at  once  near  Ghent,  and  from  thence 
passing  close  to  Stecken,  they  could  proceed 
through  the  canal,  and  across  the  inundated  coun¬ 
try  as  far  as  Calloo.  As  the  produce  of  all  Flan¬ 
ders  was  brought  to  the  town  of  Ghent,  this  canal 
placed  the  Spanish  camp  in  communication  with 
the  whole  province.  Abundance  poured  into  the 
camp  from  all  quarters,  so  that  during  the  whole 
course  of  the  siege  the  Spaniards  suffered  no  scar¬ 
city  of  any  kind.  But  the  greatest  benefit  which 
the  prince  derived  from  this  work,  was  an  ade¬ 
quate  supply  of  flat-bottomed  vessels  to  complete 
his  bridge. 

These  preparations  were  overtaken  by  the  ar¬ 
rival  of  winter,  which,  as  the  Scheldt  was 
filled  with  drift  ice,  occasioned  a  considerable 
delay  in  the  building  of  the  bridge.  The  prince 
had  contemplated  with  anxiety  the  approach  of 
this  season,  lest  it  should  prove  highly  destruc¬ 
tive  to  the  work  he  had  undertaken,  and  afford 
the  enemy  a  favorable  opportunity  for  making  a 
serious  attack  upon  it.  But  the  skill  of  his  engi¬ 
neers  saved  him  from  the  one  danger,  and  the 
strange  inaction  of  the  enemy  freed  him  from  the 
other.  It  frequently  happened,  indeed,  that  at 
flood  time  large  pieces  of  ice  were  entangled  in 


114 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


the  timbers,  and  shook  them  violently,  but  they 
stood  the  assault  of  the  furious  element,  which 
only  served  to  prove  their  stability. 

In  Antwerp,  meanwhile,  important  moments 
had  been  wasted  in  futile  deliberations;  and  in  a 
struggle  of  factions,  the  general  welfare  was  neg¬ 
lected.  The  government  of  the  town  was  di¬ 
vided  among  too  many  heads,  and  much  too 
great  a  share  in  it  was  held  by  the  riotous  mob, 
to  allow  room  for  calmness  of  deliberation,  or 
firmness  of  action.  Besides  the  municipal  ma¬ 
gistracy  itself,  in  which  the  burgomaster  had  only 
a  single  voice,  there  were  in  the  city  a  number  of 
guilds,  to  whom  were  consigned  the  charge  of  the 
internal  and  external  defense,  the  provisioning  of 
the  town,  its  fortifications,  the  marine),  commerce, 
&c.;  some  of  whom  must  be  consulted  in  every 
business  of  importance.  By  means  of  this  crowd 
ef  speakers,  who  intruded  at  pleasure  into  the 
council,  and  managed  to  carry  by  clamor  and  the 
number  of  their  adherents,  what  they  could  not 
effect  by  their  arguments,  the  people  obtained  a 
dangerous  influence  in  the  public  debates,  and  the 
natural  struggle  of  such  discordant  interests  re¬ 
tarded  the  execution  of  every  salutary  measure. 
A  government,  so  vacillating  and  impotent,  could 
not  command  the  respect  of  unruly  sailors  and  a 
lawless  soldiery.  The  orders  of  the  state  conse¬ 
quently  were  but  imperfectly  obeyed,  and  the  de¬ 
cisive  moment  was  more  than  once  lost  by  the 
negligence,  not  to  say  the  open  mutiny,  both  of 
the  land  and  sea  forces. 

The  little  harmony  in  the  selection  of  the  means 
by  which  the  enemy  was  to  be  opposed,  would 
not,  however,  have  proved  so  injurious,  had  there 
but  existed  unanimity  as  to  the  end.  But  on  this 
very  point  the  wealthy  citizens  and  poorer  classes 
were  divided,  for  the  former,  having  every  thing 
to  apprehend  from  allowing  matters  to  be 
carried  to  extremity,  were  strongly  inclined  to 
treat  with  the  Prince  of  Parma.  This  disposition 
they  did  not  even  attempt  to  conceal,  after  the 
fort  of  Liefkenshoek  had  fallen  into  the  enemy’s 
hands,  and  serious  fears  were  entertained  for  the 
navigation  of  the  Scheldt.  Some  of  them,  in¬ 
deed,  withdrew  entirely  from  the  danger,  and  left 
to  its  fate  the  town  whose  prosperity  they  had 
been  ready  enough  to  share,  but  in  whose  adver¬ 
sity  they  were  unwilling  to  bear  a  part.  From 
sixty  to  seventy  of  those  who  remained  memo¬ 
rialized  the  council,  advising  that  terms  should 
be  made  with  the  king.  No  sooner,  however,  had 
the  populace  got  intelligence  of  it,  than  their  in¬ 
dignation  broke  out  in  a  violent  uproar,  which 
was  with  difficulty  appeased  by  the  imprisonment 
and  filing  of  the  petitioners.  Tranquillity  could 
only  b3  fully  restored  by  the  publication  of  an 
edict,  which  imposed  the  penalty  of  death  on  all 
who  either  publicly  or  privately  should  counte¬ 
nance  proposals  for  peace. 

The  Prince  of  Parma  did  not  fail  to  take  ad¬ 
vantage  of  these  disturbances  :  for  nothing  that 
transpired  within  the  city  escaped  his  notice,  be¬ 
ing  well  served  by  the  agents  with  whom  he  main¬ 
tained  a  secret  understanding  with  Antwerp,  as 
well  as  the  other  towns  of  Brabant  and  Flanders. 
Although  he  had  already  made  considerable  pro¬ 
gress  iu  his  measures  for  distressing  the  town, 


still  he  had  many  steps  to  take  before  he  could 
actually  make  himself  master  of  it ;  and  one  un¬ 
lucky  moment  might  destroy  the  work  of  many 
months.  Without,  therefore,  neglecting  any  of 
his  warlike  preparations,  he  determined  to  make 
one  more  serious  attempt  to  get  possession  by 
fair  means.  With  this  object,  he  dispatched  a 
letter  in  November  to  the  great  Council  of  Ant¬ 
werp,  in  which  he  skillfully  made  use  of  every 
topic  likely  to  induce  the  citizens  to  come  to 
terms,  or  at  least  to  increase  their  existing  dis¬ 
sensions.  Pie  treated  them  in  this  letter  in  the 
light  of  persons  who  had  been  led  astray,  and 
threw  the  whole  blame  of  their  revolt  and  refrac¬ 
tory  conduct  hitherto  upon  the  intriguing  spirit 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  from  whose  artifices  the 
retributive  justice  of  Heaven  had  so  lately  libe¬ 
rated  them.  “It  was,”  he  said,  “now  in  their 
power  to  awake  from  their  long  infatuation,  and 
return  to  their  allegiance  to  a  monarch,  who  was 
ready  and  anxious  to  be  reconciled  to  his  sub¬ 
jects.  For  this  end,  he  gladly  offered  himself  as 
mediator,  as  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  a  coun¬ 
try  in  which  he  had  been  born,  and  where  he  had 
spent  the  happiest  days  of  his  youth.  He  there¬ 
fore  exhorted  them  to  send  plenipotentiaries  with 
whom  he  could  arrange  the  conditions  of  peace, 
and  gave  them  hopes  of  obtaining  reasonable 
terms  if  they  made  a  timely  submission,  but  also 
threatened  them  with  the  severest  treatment  if 
they  pushed  matters  to  extremity.” 

This  letter,  in  which  we  are  glad  to  recognize 
a  language  very  different  from  that  which  the 
Duke  of  Alva  held  ten  years  before  on  a  similar 
occasion,  was  answered  by  the  townspeople  iu  a 
respectful  and  dignified  tone.  While  they  did 
full  justice  to  the  personal  character  of  the  prince, 
and  acknowledged  his  favorable  intentions  to¬ 
ward  them  with  gratitude,  they  lamented  the 
hardness  of  the  times,  which  placed  it  out  of  his 
power  to  treat  them  in  accordance  with  his 
character  and  disposition.  They  declared  that 
they  would  gladly  place  their  fate  in  his  hands, 
if  he  were  absolute  master  of  his  actions,  instead 
of  being  obliged  to  obey  the  will  of  another, 
whose  proceedings  his  own  candor  would  not 
allow  him  to  approve  of.  The  unalterable  reso¬ 
lution  of  the  King  of  Spain,  as  well  as  the  vow 
which  he  had  made  to  the  Pope,  were  only  too 
well  known  for  them  to  have  any  hopes  in  that 
quarter.  They  at  the  same  time  defended  with  a 
noble  warmth  the  memory  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  their  benefactor  and  preserver,  while 
they  enumerated  the  true  causes  which  had  pro¬ 
duced  this  unhappy  war,  and  had  caused  the  pro¬ 
vinces  to  revolt  from  the  Spanish  crown.  At  the 
same  time,  they  did  not  disguise  from  him  that 
they  had  hopes  of  finding  a  new  and  a  milder 
master  in  the  King  of  France,  and  that,  if  only 
for  this  reason,  they  could  not  enter  into  any 
treaty  with  the  Spanish  king,  without  incurring 
the  charge  of  the  most  culpable  fickleness  and  in- 
I  gratitude. 

The  united  provinces,  in  fact,  dispirited  by  a 
succession  of  reverses,  had  at  last  come  to  the 
determination  of  placing  themselves  under  the 
protection  and  sovereignty  of  France,  and  of  pre¬ 
serving  their  existence  and  their  ancient  privileges 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


115 


by  the  sacrifice  of  their  independence.  With  this 
view,  an  embassy  had  some  time  before  been  dis¬ 
patched  to  Paris,  and  it  was  the  prospect  of  this 
powerful  assistance  which  principally  supported 
the  courage  of  the  people  of  Antwerp.  Henry  Iil., 
King  of  France,  was  personally  disposed  to  accept 
this  offer;  but  the  troubles  which  the  intrigues 
of  the  Spaniards  contrived  to  excite  within  his 
own  kingdom,  compelled  him  against  his  will  to 
abandon  it.  The  provinces  now  turned  for  assist¬ 
ance  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England,  who  sent 
them  some  supplies,  which,  however,  came  too  late 
to  save  Antwerp.  While  the  people  of  this  city 
were  awaiting  the  issue  of  these  negotiations,  and 
expecting  aid  from  foreign  powers,  they  neglected, 
unfortunately,  the  most  natural  and  immediate 
means  of  defense  ;  the  whole  winter  was  lost,  and 
while  the  enemy  turned  it  to  greater  advantage, 
the  more  complete  was  their  indecision  and  in¬ 
activity. 

The  burgomaster  of  Antwerp,  St.  Aldegonde, 
had,  indeed,  repeatedly  urged  the  fleet  of  Zealand 
to  attack  the  enemy’s  works,  which  should  be 
supported  on  the  other  side  from  Antwerp.  The 
long  and  frequently  stormy  nights  would  favor 
this  attempt ;  and  if  at  the  same  time  a  sally  were 
made  by  the  garrison  at  Lillo,  it  seemed  scarcely 
possible  for  the  enemy  to  resist  this  triple  assault. 
But  unfortunately  misunderstandings  had  arisen 
between  the  commander  of  the  fleet,  William  von 
Blois  von  Treslong,  and  the  Admiralty  of  Zea¬ 
land,  which  caused  the  equipment  of  the  fleet  to 
be  most  unaccountably  delayed.  In-  order  to 
quicken  their  movements,  Teligny  at  last  resolved 
to  go  himself  to  Middleburg,  where  the  states  of 
Zealand  were  assembled  ;  but  as  the  enemy  were 
in  possession  of  all  the  roads,  the  attempt  cost 
him  his  freedom,  and  the  republic  its  most  valiant 
defender.  However,  there  was  no  want  of  enter¬ 
prising  vessels,  which,  under  the  favor  of  the  night 
and  the  flood  tide,  passing  through  the  still  open 
bridge,  in  spite  of  the  enemy's  fire,  threw  pro¬ 
visions  into  the  town,  and  returned  with  the  ebb. 
But,  as  many  of  these  vessels  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy,  the  council  gave  orders  that  they 
should  never  risk  the  passage,  unless  they  amounted 
to  a  certain  number;  and  the  result  unfortunately 
was,  that  none  attempted  it,  because  the  required 
number  could  not  be  collected  at  one  time. 
Several  attacks  were  also  made  from  Antwerp  on 
the  ships  of  the  Spaniards,  which  were  not  entirely 
unsuccessful ;  some  of  the  latter  were  captured, 
others  sunk,  and  all  that  was  required  was  to 
execute  similar  attempts  on  a  grand  scale.  But 
however  zealously  St.  Aldegonde  urged  this,  still 
not  a  captain  was  to  be  found  who  would  command 
a  vessel  for  that  purpose. 

Amid  these  delays  the  winter  expired,  and 
scarcely  had  the  ice  begun  to  disappear,  when 
the  construction  of  the  bridge  of  boats  was  actively 
resumed  by  the  besiegers.  Between  the  two  piers, 
a  space  of  more  than  six  hundred  paces  still 
remained  to  be  filled  up,  which  was  effected  in  the 
following  manner.  Thirty-two  flat-bottomed  ves¬ 
sels,  each  sixty-six  feet  long,  and  twenty  broad, 
were  fastened  together  with  strong  cables  and 
iron  chains,  but  at  a  distance  from  each  other  of 
about  twenty  feet,  to  allow  a  free  passage  to  the 


stream.  Each  boat,  moreover,  was  moored  with 
two  cables,  both  up  and  down  the  stream,  but 
which,  as  the  water  rose  with  the  tide,  or  sunk 
with  the  ebb,  could  be  slackened  or  tightened. 
Upon  the  boats  great  masts  were  laid,  which 
reached  from  one  to  another,  and  being  covered 
with  planks,  formed  a  regular  road,  which,  like 
that  along  the  piers,  was  protected  with  a  balus¬ 
trade.  This  bridge  of  boats,  of  which  the  two 
piers  formed  a  continuation,  had,  including  the 
latter,  a  length  of  twenty-four  thousand  paces. 
This  formidable  work  was  so  ingeniously  con 
structed,  and  so  richly  furnished  with  the  instru¬ 
ments  of  destruction,  that  it  seemed  almost 
capable,  like  a  living  creature,  of  defending  itself 
at  the  word  of  command,  scattering  death  among 
all  who  approached  Besides  the  two  forts  of  St. 
Maria  and  St.  Philip,  which  terminated  the  bridge 
on  either  shore,  and  the  two  wooden  bastions  on 
the  bridge  itself,  which  were  filled  with  soldiers 
and  mounted  with  guns  on  all  sides,  each  of  the 
tvvo-and-thirty  vessels  was  manned  with  thirty 
soldiers  and  four  sailors,  who  showed  the  cannon’s 
mouth  to  the  enemy,  whether  he  came  up  from 
Zealand  or  down  from  Antwerp.  There  were  in 
all  ninety-seven  cannon,  which  were  distributed 
beneath  and  above  the  bridge,  and  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  men,  who  were  posted  partly  in 
the  forts,  partly  in  the  vessels,  and  in  case  of  ne¬ 
cessity,  could  maintain  a  terrible  fire  of  small  arms 
upon  the  enemy. 

But  with  all  this,  the  prince  did  not  consider 
his  work  sufficiently  secure.  It  was  to  be  ex¬ 
pected  that  the  enemy  would  leave  nothing  unat¬ 
tempted  to  burst,  by  the  force  of  his  machines,  the 
middle  and  weakest  part.  To  guard  against  this, 
he  erected  in  a  line  with  the  bridge  of  boats,  but 
at  some  distance  from  it,  another  distinct  defense, 
intended  to  break  the  force  of  any  attack  that 
might  be  directed  against  the  bridge  itself.  This 
work  consisted  of  thirty-three  vessels  of  considera¬ 
ble  magnitude,  which  were  moored  in  a  row 
athwart  the  stream,  and  fastened  in  threes  by 
masts,  so  that  they  formed  eleven  different  groups. 
Each  of  these,  like  a  file  of  pikemen,  presented 
fourteen  long  wooden  poles,  with  iron  heads,  to 
the  approaching  enemy.  These  vessels  were 
loaded  merely  with  ballast,  and  were  anchored 
each  by  a  double  but  slack  cable,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  give  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide.  As  they 
were  in  constant  motion,  they  got  from  the  sol¬ 
diers  the  name  of  “  swimmers.”  The  whole  bridge 
of  boats,  and  also  a  part  of  the  piers  was- covered 
by  these  swimmers,  which  were  stationed  above  as 
well  as  below  the  bridge.  To  all  these  defensive 
preparations,  was  added  a  fleet  of  forty  men  of 
war,  which  were  stationed  on  both  coasts,  and 
served  as  a  protection  to  the  whole. 

This  astonishing  work  was  finished  in  March, 
1585,  the  seventh  month  of  the  siege,  and  the  day 
on  w'hich  it  was  completed  was  kept  as  a  jubilee 
by  the  troops.  The  great  event  was  announced 
to  the  besieged  by  a  grand  feu  de  joie,  and  the 
army,  as  if  to  enjoy  ocular  demonstration  of  its 
triumph,  extended  itself  along  the  whole  platform 
to  gaze  upon  the  proud  stream,  peacefully  and 
obediently  flowing  under  the  yoke,  which  had  been 
imposed  upon  it.  All  the  toil  they  had  under- 


116 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


gone  was  forgotten  in  this  delightful  spectacle, 
and  every  man  who  had  had  a  hand  in  it,  however 
insignificant  he  might  be,  assumed  to  himself  a 
portion  of  the  honor,  which  the  successful  exe¬ 
cution  of  so  gigantic  an  enterprise  conferred  on 
its  illustrious  projector.  On  the  other  hand, 
nothing  could  equal  the  consternation  which 
seized  the  citizens  of  Antwerp,  when  intelligence 
was  brought  them,  that  the  Scheldt  was  now 
actually  closed,  and  all  access  from  Zealand  cut 
off.  To  increase  their  dismay,  they  learned  the 
fall  of  Brussels  also,  which  had  at  last  been  com¬ 
pelled  by  famine  to  capitulate.  An  attempt, 
made  by  the  Count  of  Hohenlohe  about  the  same 
time,  on  Herzogenbusch,  with  a  view  to  recapture 
the  town,  or  at  least  form  a  diversiorl,  was  equally 
unsuccessful  ;  and  thus  the  unfortunate  city  lost 
all  hope  of  assistance,  both  by  sea  and  land. 

These  evil  tidings  were  brought  them  by  some 
fugitives,  who  had  succeeded  in  passing  the  Span¬ 
ish  videttes,  and  had  made  their  way  into  the 
town  ;  and  a  spy,  whom  the  Burgomaster  had 
sent  out  to  reconnoitre  the  enemy’s  works,  in¬ 
creased  the  general  alarm  by  his  report.  He  had 
been  seized  and  carried  before  the  Prince  of 
Parma,  who  commanded  him  to  be  conducted 
over  all  the  works,  and  all  the  defenses  of  the 
bridge  to  be  pointed  out  to  him.  After  this  had 
been  done,  he  was  again  brought  before  the  gene¬ 
ral,  who  dismissed  him  with  these  words.  “  Go,” 
said  he,  “and  report  what  you  have  seen,  to  those 
who  sent  you.  And  tell  them,  too,  that  it  is  my 
firm  resolve  to  bury  myself  under  the  ruins  of 
this  bridge,  or  by  means  of  it  to  pass  into  your 
town.” 

But  the  certainty  of  danger  now  at  last  awak¬ 
ened  the  zeal  of  the  confederates,  and  it  was  no 
fault  of  theirs,  if  the  former  half  of  the  prince’s 
vow  was  not  fulfilled.  The  latter  had  long  viewed 
with  apprehension  the  preparations  which  were 
making  in  Zealand  for  the  relief  of  the  town.  He 
saw  clearly  that  it  was  from  this  quarter,  that  he 
had  to  fear  the  most  dangerous  blow,  and  that 
with  all  his  works,  he  could  not  make  head  against 
the  combined  fleets  of  Zealand  and  Antwerp,  if 
they  were  to  fall  upon  him  at  the  same  time,  and 
at  the  proper  moment.  For  a  while,  the  delays 
of  the  Admiral  of  Zealand,  which  he  had  labored 
by  all  the  means  in  his  power  to  prolong,  had 
been  his  security ;  but  now  the  urgent  necessity 
accelerated  the  expedition,  and  without  waiting 
for  the  admiral,  the  states  at  Middleburg  dis¬ 
patched  the  Count  Justin  of  Nassau,  with  as 
many  ships  as  they  could  muster,  to  the  assist¬ 
ance  of  the  besieged.  This  fleet  took  up  a  posi¬ 
tion  before  Liefkenshoek,  which  was  in  possession 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  supported  by  a  few  vessels 
from  the  opposite  fort  of  Lillo,  cannonaded  it 
with  such  success,  that  the  walls  were  in  a  short 
tiine  demolished,  and  the  place  carried  by  storm. 
rJ  he  Walloons,  who  formed  the  garrison,  did  not 
display  the  firmness  which  might  have  been  ex¬ 
pected  from  soldiers  of  the  Duke  of  Parma  ;  they 
shamefully  surrendered  the  fort  to  the  enemy,  who 
in  a  short  time  were  in  possession  of  the  whole 
Island  of  Doel,  with  all  the  redoubts  situated  upon 
it.  The  loss  of  these  places,  which  were,  how¬ 
ever,  so(  n  retaken,  incensed  the  Duke  of  Parma 


so  much,  that  he  tried  the  officers  by  court-mar¬ 
tial,  and  caused  the  most  culpable  among  them  to 
be  beheaded.  Meanwhile,  this  important  con¬ 
quest  opened  to  the  Zealanders  a  free  passage  as 
far  as  the  bridge;  and  after  concerting  with  the 
people  of  Antwerp,  the  time  was  fixed  for  a  com¬ 
bined  attack  on  this  work.  It  was  arranged  that, 
while  the  bridge  of  boats  was  blown  up  by.  ma¬ 
chines  already  prepared  in  Antwerp,  the  Zealand 
fleet,  with  a  sufficient  supply  of  provisions,  should 
be  in  the  vicinity,  ready  to  sail  to  the  town  through 
the  opening. 

While  the  Duke  of  Parma  was  engaged  in  con¬ 
structing  his  bridge,  an  engineer,  within  the  walls, 
was  already  preparing  the  materials  for  its  de¬ 
struction.  Frederick  Gianibelli,  was  the  name  of 
the  man  whom  fate  had  destined  to  be  the  Archi¬ 
medes  of  Antwerp,  and  to  exhaust  in  its  defense, 
the  same  ingenuity  with  the  same  want  of  success. 
He  was  born  in  Mantua,  and  had  formerly  visited 
Madrid,  for  the  purpose,  it  Avas  said,  of  offering 
his  services  to  King  Philip  in  the  Belgian  war. 
But  wearied  with  waiting,  the  offended  engineer 
left  the  court,  with  the  intention  of  making  the 
King  of  Spain  sensibly  feel  the  value  of  talents 
which  he  had  so  little  known  how  to  appreciate. 
He  next  sought  the  service  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
of  England,  the  declared  enemy  of  Spain,  who, 
after  Avitnessing  a  feAV  specimens  of  his  skill,  sent 
him  to  AntAverp.  He  took  up  his  residence  in 
that  town,  and,  in  the  present  extremity,  devoted 
to  its  defense,  his  knowledge,  his  energy,  and  his 
zeal. 

As  soon  as  this  artist  perceived  that  the  project 
‘of  erecting  the  bridge  Avas  seriously  intended,  and 
that  the  Avork  Avas  fast  approaching  to  completion, 
he  applied  to  the  magistracy  for  three  large  ves¬ 
sels,  fom  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  five  hundred  tons, 
in  Avhich  he  proposed  to  place  mines.  He  also 
demanded  sixty  boats,  which,  fastened  together 
with  cables  and  chains,  furnished  with  projecting 
grappling  irons,  and  put  in  motion  with  the  ebb¬ 
ing  of  the  tide,  were  intended  to  second  the  ope¬ 
ration  of  the  mine-ships,  by  being  directed  in  a 
Avedgelike  form  against  the  bridge.  But  he  had 
to  deal  with  men  who  were  quite  incapable  of 
comprehending  an  idea  out  of  the  common  way, 
and  even  where  the  salvation  of  their  country  was 
at  stake,  could  not  forget  the  calculating  habits 
of  trade. 

His  scheme  was  rejected  as  too  expensive,  and 
with  difficulty  he  at  last  obtained  the  grant  of  two 
smaller  vessels,  from  seventy  to  eighty  tons,  with 
a  number  of  flat-bottomed  boats.  With  these 
tAvo  vessels,  one  of  which  he  called  the  “For¬ 
tune,”  and  the  other  the  “Hope,”  he  proceeded 
in  the  following  manner;  In  the  hold  of  each, 
he  built  a  holloAV  chamber  of  freestone,  five 
feet  broad,  three  and  a  half  high,  and  forty  long. 
This  magazine  he  filled  with  sixty  hundred-weight 
of  the  finest  priming  powder,  of  his  own  com¬ 
pounding,  and  covered  it  with  as  heavy  a  weight 
of  large  slabs  and  millstones,  as  the  vessels  could 
carry.  Over  these  he  further  added  a  roof  of 
similar  stones,  which  ran  up  to  a  point,  and  pro¬ 
jected  six  feet  above  the  ship’s  side.  The  deck 
itself  was  crammed  with  iron  chains  and  hooks, 
knives,  nails  and  other  destructive  missiles ;  the 


2— — G.  p.  136 


2— E.  p.  116 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


117 


remaining  space,  which  was  not  occupied  by 
the  magazine,  was  likewise  tilled  up  with  planks. 
Several  small  apertures  were  left  in  the  chamber 
for  the  matches,  which  were  to  set  fire  to  the 
mine.  For  greater  certainty,  he  had  also  con¬ 
trived  a  piece  of  mechanism,  which,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  given  time,  would  strike  out  sparks, 
and  even  if  the  matches  failed,  would  set  the  ship 
on  tire.  To  delude  the  enemy  into  a  belief  that 
these  machines  were  only  intended  to  set  the 
bridge  on  fire,  a  composition  of  brimstone  and 
pitch  was  placed  in  the  top,  which  could  burn  a 
whole  hour.  Aud  still  further  to  divert  the  ene¬ 
my’s  attention  from  the  proper  seat  of  danger,  he 
also  prepared  thirty-two  small  flat-bottomed  boats, 
upon  which  there  were  only  fireworks  burning, 
and  whose  sole  object  was  to  deceive  the  enemy. 
These  tire-ships  were  to  be  sent  down  upon  the 
bridge,  in  four  separate  squadrons,  at  intervals  of 
half  an  hour,  and  keep  the  enemy  incessantly  en¬ 
gaged  for  two  whole  hours,  so  that,  tired  of  firing, 
and  wearied  by  vain  expectation,  they  might  at 
last  relax  their  vigilance,  before  the  real  fireships 
came.  In  addition  to  all  this,  he  also  dispatched 
a  few  vessels  in  which  powder. was  concealed,  in 
order  to  blow  up  the  floating  work  before  the 
bridge,  and  to  clear  a  passage  for  the  two  princi¬ 
pal  ships.  At  the  same  time,  he  hoped  by  this 
preliminary  attack  to  engage  the  enemy’s  atten¬ 
tion,  to  draw  them  out,  and  expose  them  to  the 
full  deadly  effect  of  the  volcano. 

The  night  between  the  4th  and  5th  of  April 
was  fixed  for  the  execution  of  this  great  under¬ 
taking.  An  obscure  rumor  of  it  had  already  dif¬ 
fused  itself  through  the  Spanish  camp,  and  parti¬ 
cularly  from  the  circumstance  of  many  divers 
from  Antwerp  having  been  detected,  endeavoring 
to  cut  the  cables  of  the  vessels.  They  were  pre¬ 
pared,  therefore,  for  a  serious  attack  ;  they  only 
mistook  the  real  nature  of  it,  and  counted  on 
having  to  fight  rather  with  man  than  the  elements. 
In  this  expectation,  the  duke  caused  the  guards 
along  the  whole  bank  to  be  doubled,  and  drew  up 
the  chief  part  of  his  troops  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
bridge,  where  he  wras  present  in  person  ;  thus 
meeting  the  danger  while  endeavoring  to  avoid  it. 
No  sooner  was  it  dark,  than  three  burning  vessels 
were  seen  to  float  down  from  the  city  toward  the 
bridge,  then  three  more,  and  directly  after,  the 
same  number.  They  beat  to  arms  throughout  the 
Spanish  camp,  and  the  whole  length  of  the  bridge 
was  crowded  with  soldiers.  Meantime,  the  num¬ 
ber  of  the  fireships  increased,  and  they  came  in 
regular  order  down  the  stream,  sometimes  two, 
and  sometimes  three  abreast,  being  at  first  steered 
by  sailors  on  board  them.  The  Admiral  of  the 
Antwerp  fleet,  Jacob  Jacobson,  (whether  design¬ 
edly,  or  through  carelessness,  was  not  known.)  had 
committed  the  error  of  sending  off  the  four  squad¬ 
rons  of  fireships  too  quickly  one  after  another, 
and  caused  the  two  large  mine-ships  also  to  fol¬ 
low  them  too  soon,  and  thus  disturbed  the  in¬ 
tended  order  of  attack. 

The  array  of  vessels  kept  approaching,  and  the 
darkness  of  night  still  further  heightened  the  ex¬ 
traordinary  spectacle.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
follow  the  course  of  the  stream,  all  was  fire;  the 
fireships  burning  as  bri’liantly  as  if  they  were 


themselves  in  the  flames  ;  the  surface  of  the  water 
glittered  with  light ;  the  dykes  and  the  batteries 
along  the  shore,  the  flags,  arms,  and  accoutre¬ 
ments  of  the  soldiers,  who  lined  the  rivers  as  well 
as  the  bridge,  wrere  clearly  distinguishable  in  the 
glare.  With  a  mingled  sensation  of  awe  and 
pleasure,  the  soldiers  watched  the  unusual  sight, 
which  rather  resembled  a  fete  than  a  hostile  pre¬ 
paration,  but  from  the  very  strangeness  of  the 
contrast  filled  the  mind  with  a  mysterious  awe. 
When  the  burning  fleet  had  come  within  two 
thousand  paces  of  the  bridge,  those  who  had  the 
charge  of  it  lighted  the  matches,  impelled  the  two 
mine-vessels  into  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and 
leaving  the  others  to  the  guidance  of  the  current 
of  the  waves,  they  hastily  made  their  escape  in 
boats,  which  had  been  kept  in  readiness. 

Their  course,  however,  was  irregular,  and,  des¬ 
titute  of  steersmen,  they  arrived  singly  and  sepa¬ 
rately  at  the  floating  works,  where  they  either 
continued  hanging,  or  were  dashed  off  sidewise  on 
the  shore.  The  foremost  powder-ships,  which 
were  intended  to  set  fire  to  the  floating  works, 
were  cast  by  the  force  of  a  squall,  which  arose  at 
that  instant,  on  the  Flemish  coast;  one  of  the 
two,  the  “  Fortune,”  grounded  in  its  passage  be¬ 
fore  it  reached  the  bridge,  and  killed  by  its  explo¬ 
sion  some  Spanish  soldiers,  who  w-ere  at  work  in 
a  neighboring  battery.  The  other  and  larger  fire¬ 
ship,  called  the  “  Hope,”  narrowly  escaped  a  si¬ 
milar  fate.  The  current  drove  her  against  the 
floating  defenses  toward  the  Flemish  bank,  where 
it  remained  hanging  ;  and  had  it  taken  fire  at  that 
ment  the  greatest  part  of  its  effect  would  have 
been  lost.  Deceived  by  the  flames,  which  this 
machine,  like  the  other  vessels,  emitted,  the  Spa¬ 
niards  took  it  for  a  common  fireship,  intended  to 
burn  the  bridge  of  boats.  And  as  they  had  seen 
them  extinguished  one  after  the  other  without  fur¬ 
ther  effect,  all  fears  were  dispelled,  and  the  Spa¬ 
niards  began  to  ridicule  the  preparations  of  the 
enemy,  which  had  been  ushered  in  with  so  much 
display,  and  now  had  so  absurd  an  end.  Some  of 
the  boldest  threw  themselves  into  the  stream,  in 
order  to  get  a  close  view  of  the  fireship,  and  ex¬ 
tinguish  it,  when,  by  its  weight,  it  suddenly  broke 
through,  burst  the  floating  work  which  had  de¬ 
tained  it,  and  drove  with  terrible  force  on  the 
bridge  of  boats.  All  was  now  in  commotion  on 
the  bridge,  and  the  prince  called  to  the  sailors  to 
keep  the  vessel  off  with  poles  and  to  extinguish 
the  flames  before  they  caught  the  timbers. 

At  this  critical  moment  he  was  standing  at  the 
furthest  end  of  the  left  pier,  where  it  formed  a 
bastion  in  the  water,  and  joined  the  bridge  of 
boats.  By  his  side  stood  the  Margrave  of  Rys- 
burg,  general  of  cavalry,  and  governor  of  ti  e  pro¬ 
vince  of  Artois,  who  had  formerly  served  the 
states,  but  from  a  protector  of  the  republic  had 
become  its  worst  enemy;  the  Baron  of  Billy,  Go¬ 
vernor  of  Friesland,  and  commander  of  the  Ger¬ 
man  regiments ;  the  Generals  Cajetan  and  Guas- 
to,  with  several  of  the  principal  officers  ;  all  for¬ 
getful  of  their  own  danger,  and  entirely  occupied 
with  averting  the  general  calamity.  At  this  mo¬ 
ment  a  Spanish  ensign  approached  the  Prince 
of  Parma,  and  conjured  him  to  remove  from  a 
place,  where  his  life  was  in  manifest  and  immi- 


118 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


nent  peril.  No  attention  being  paid  to  his  en¬ 
treaty,  he  repeated  it  still  more  urgently,  and  at 
last  fell  at  his  feet,  and  implored  him  in  this  one 
instance  to  take  advice  from  his  servant.  While 
he  said  this,  he  had  laid  hold  of  the  duke’s  coat, 
as  though  he  wished  forcibly  to  draw  him  away 
from  the  spot,  and  the  latter,  surprised  rather  at 
the  man’s  boldness,  than  persuaded  by  his  argu¬ 
ments,  retired  at  last  to  the  shore  attended  by 
Cajetan  and  Guasto.  He  had  scarcely  time  to 
reach  the  fort  St.  Maria,  at  the  end  of  the  bridge, 
when  an  explosion  took  place  behind  him,  just  as 
if  the  earth  had  burst,  or  the  vault  of  heaven 
given  way.  The  duke  and  his  whole  army  fell  to 
the  ground  as  dead,  and  several  minutes  elapsed 
before  they  recovered  their  consciousness. 

But  then  what  a  sight  presented  itself !  The 
waters  of  the  Scheldt  had  been  divided  to  its 
lowest  depth,  and  driven  with  a  surge,  which  rose 
like  a  wall  above  the  dam  that  confined  it ;  so 
that  all  the  fortifications  on  the  banks  were  seve¬ 
ral  feet  under  water.  The  earth  shook  for  three 
miles  round.  Nearly  the  whole  left  pier,  on  which 
the  fireship  had  been  driven,  with  a  part  cf  the 
bridge  of  boats,  had  been  burst  and  shattered  to 
atoms,  with  all  that  was  upon  it ;  spars,  cannon, 
and  men,  blown  into  the  air.  Even  the  enormous 
blocks  of  stone  which  had  covered  the  mine,  had, 
by  the  force  of  the  explosion,  been  hurled  into 
the  neighboring  fields,  so  that  many  of  them  were 
afterwards  dug  out  of  the  ground  at  the  distance 
of  a  thousand  paces  from  the  bridge.  Six  vessels 
were  buried,  several  had  gone  to  pieces.  But 
still  more  terrible  was  the  carnage,  which  the 
murderous  machine  had  dealt  amongst  the  sol¬ 
diers.  Five  hundred,  according  to  other  reports 
even  eight  hundred,  were  sacrificed  to  its  fury, 
without  reckoning  those  who  escaped  with  muti¬ 
lated  or  injured  bodies.  The  most  opposite  kinds 
of  death  were  combined  in  this  frightful  moment. 
Some  were  consumed  by  the  flames  of  the  explo¬ 
sion,  others  scalded  to  death  by  the  boiling  water 
of  the  river,  others  stifled  by  the  poisonous  vapor 
of  the  brimstone;  some  were  drowned  in  the 
stream,  some  buried  under  the  hail  of  falling 
masses  of  rock,  many  cut  to  pieces  by  the  knives 
and  hooks,  or  shattered  bv  the  balls  which  were 
poured  from  the  bowels  of  the  machine.  Some 
were  found  lifeless  without  any  visible  injury, 
having  in  all  probability  been  killed  by  the  mere 
concussion  of  the  air.  The  spectacle,  which  pre¬ 
sented  itself  directly  after  the  firing  of  the  mine, 
was  fearful.  Men  were  seen  wedged  between  the 
palisades  of  the  bridge,  or  struggling  to  free  them¬ 
selves  from  beneath  ponderous  masses  of  rock, 
or  hanging  in  the  rigging  of  the  ships ;  and  from 
all  places  and  quarters  the  most  heart-rending 
cries  for  help  arose,  but  as  each  was  absorbed  in 
his  own  safety,  these  could  only  be  answered  by 
helpless  wailings. 

Many  had  escaped  in  the  most  wonderful 
manner.  An  officer  named  Tucei,  was  carried  by 
the  whirlwind,  high  into  the  air,  where  he  was  for  a 
moment  suspended,  and  then  dropped  into  the  river, 
where  he  saved  himself  by  swimming.  Another, 
was  taken  up  by  the  force  of  the  blast  from  the 
Flanders  shore,  and  deposited  on  that  of  Brabant, 
incurring  merely  a  slight  contusion  on  the  shoulder ; 


he  felt,  as  he  afterward  said,  during  this  rapid 
aerial  transit,  just  as  if  he  had  been  fired  out  of  a 
cannon.  The  Prince  of  Parma  himself  had  never 
been  so  near  death  as  at  that  moment,  when  half 
a  minute  saved  his  life.  He  had  scarcely  set  foot 
in  the  fort  of  St.  Maria,  when  he  was  lifted  off'  his 
feet,  as  if  by  a  hurricane  ;  and  a  beam,  which  struck 
him  on  the  head  and  shoulders,  stretched  him  sense¬ 
less  on  the  earth.  For  a  long  time  he  was  be¬ 
lieved  to  be  actually  killed,  many  remembering  to 
have  seen  him  on  the  bridge  only  a  few  minutes 
before  the  fatal  explosion.  He  was  found  at  last 
between  his  attendants,  Cajetan  and  Guasto, 
raising  himself  up  with  his  hand  on  his  sword ; 
and  the  intelligence  stirred  the  spirits  of  the 
whole  army.  But  vain  would  be  the  attempt  to 
depict  his  feelings,  when  he  surveyed  the  devasta¬ 
tion,  which  a  single  moment  had  caused  in  the 
work  of  so  many  months.  The  bridge  of  boats, 
upon  which  all  his  hopes  rested,  was  rent  asunder ; 
a  great  part  of  his  army  wras  destroyed  ;  another 
portion  maimed  and  rendered  ineffective  for  many 
days ;  many  of  his  best  officers  were  killed  ;  and 
as  if  the  present  calamity  were  not  sufficient,  he 
had  now  to  learn  the  painful  intelligence,  that  the 
Margrave  of  Rysburg,  whom  of  all  his  officers  he 
prized  the  highest,  was  missing.  And  yet  the 
•worst  was  still  to  come,  for  every  moment  the 
fleets  of  the  enemy  were  to  be  expected  from  Ant¬ 
werp  and  Lillo,  to  which  this  fearful  position  of 
the  army  would  disable  him  from  offering  any  ef¬ 
fectual  resistance.  The  bridge  was  entirely  de¬ 
stroyed,  and  nothing  could  prevent  the  fleet 
from  Zealand  passing  through  in  full  sail ;  while 
the  confusion  of  the  troops  in  this  first  moment 
was  so  great  and  general,  that  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  give  or  obey  orders  as  many  corps 
had  lost  their  commanding  officers,  and  many 
commanders  their  corps ;  and  even  the  places 
where  they  had  been  stationed  were  no  longer 
to  be  recognized  amid  the  general  ruin.  Add 
to  this,  that  all  the  batteries  on  shore  were 
under  water,  that  several  cannon  were  sunk,  that 
the  matches  were  wet,  and  the  ammunition  dam¬ 
aged.  What  a  moment  for  the  enemy,  if  they 
had  known  how  to  avail  themselves  of  it ! 

It  will  scarcely  be  believed,  however,  that  this 
success,  which  surpassed  all  expectation,  was  lost 
to  Antwerp,  simply  because  nothing  was  known 
of  it.  St.  Aldegonde,  indeed,  as  soon  as  the  ex¬ 
plosion  of  the  mine  was  heard  in  the  town,  had 
sent  out  several  galleys  in  the  direction  of  the 
bridge,  with  orders  to  send  up  fireballs  and  rock¬ 
ets  the  moment  they  had  passed  it,  and  then  to 
sail  with  the  intelligence  straight  on  to  Lillo,  in 
order  to  bring  up,  without  delay,  the  Zealand 
fleet,  which  had  orders  to  co-operate.  At  the 
same  time,  the  Admiral  of  Antwerp  was  ordered, 
as  soon  as  the  signal  was  given,  to  sail  out  with 
his  vessels,  and  attack  the  enemy  in  their  first 
consternation.  But  although  a  considerable  re¬ 
ward  was  promised  to  the  boatmen  sent  to  recon¬ 
noitre,  they  did  not  venture  near  the  enemy,  but 
returned  without  effecting  their  purpose,  and  re¬ 
ported  that  the  bridge  of  boats  was  uninjured, 
and  the  fire-ship  had  had  no  effect.  Even  on  the 
following  day,  also,  no  better  measures  were  taken 
to  learn  the  true  state  of  the  bridge ;  and  as  the 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


119 


fleet  at  Lillo,  in  spite  of  the  favorable  wind,  was 
seen  to  remain  inactive,  the  belief  that  the  fire¬ 
ships  had  accomplished  nothing  was  confirmed. 
It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  any  one,  that  this  very 
inactivity  of  the  confederates,  which  misled  the 
people  of  Antwerp,  might  also  keep  back  the 
Zealanders  at  Lillo,  as  in  fact  it  did.  So  signal 
an  instance  of  neglect  could  only  have  occurred 
in  a  government,  which,  without  dignity  or  inde¬ 
pendence,  was  guided  by  the  tumultuous  multitude 
it  ought  tc  have  governed.  The  more  supine, 
however,  they  were  themselves  ii:  opposing  the 
enemy,  the  more  violently  did  their  rage  boil 
against  Gianibelli,  whom  the  frantic  mob  would 
have  torn  in  pieces,  if  they  could  have  caught 
him.  For  two  days,  the  engineer  was  in  the  most 
imminent  danger,  until  at  last,  on  the  third  morn¬ 
ing,  a  courier  from  Lillo,  who  had  swum  under 
the  bridge,  brought  authentic  intelligence  of  its 
having  been  destroyed,  but  at  the  same  time  an¬ 
nounced  that  it  had  been  repaired. 

This  rapid  restoration  of  the  bridge  was  really 
a  miraculous  effort  of  the  Prince  of  Parma. 
Scarcelv  had  he  recovered  from  the  shock,  which 
seemed  to  have  overthrown  all  his  plans,  when  he 
contrived,  with  wonderful  presence  of  mind,  to 
prevent  all  its  evil  consequences.  The  absence 
of  the  enemy’s  fleet  at  this  decisive  moment,  re¬ 
vived  his  hopes.  The  ruinous  state  of  the  bridge 
appeared  to  be  a  secret  to  them,  and  though  it 
was  impossible  to  repair,  in  a  few  hours,  the  work 
of  so  many  months,  yet  a  great  point  would  be 
gained  if  it  could  be  done  even  in  appearance. 
All  his  men  were  immediately  set  to  work  to  re¬ 
move  the  rains,  to  raise  the  timbers  which  had 
been  thrown  down,  to  replace  those  which  were 
demolished,  and  to  fill  up  the  chasms  with  ships. 
The  duke  himself  did  not  refuse  to  share  in  the 
toil,  and  his  example  was  followed  by  all  his  offi¬ 
cers.  Stimulated  by  this  popular  behavior,  the 
common  soldiers  exerted  themselves  to  the  ut¬ 
most  ;  the  work  was  carried  on  during  the  whole 
night  under  the  constant  sounding  of  drums  and 
trumpets,  which  were  distributed  along  the  bridge 
to  drown  the  noise  of  the  work-people.  With 
dawn  of  day,  few  traces  remained  of  the  night’s 
havoc  ;  and  although  the  bridge  was  restored  only 
in  appearance,  it  nevertheless  deceived  the  spy, 
and  consequently  no  attack  was  made  upon  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  prince  contrived  to  make 
the  repairs  solid,  nay,  even  to  introduce  some 
essential  alterations  in  the  structure.  In  order 
to  guard  against  similar  accidents  for  the  future, 
a  part  of  the  bridge  of  boats  was  made  movable, 
so  that,  in  case  of  necessity,  it  could  be  taken 
away,  and  a  passage  opened  to  the  fire-ships. 
Ilis  loss  of  men  was  supplied  from  the  garrisons 
of  the  adjoining  places,  and  by  a  German  regi¬ 
ment  which  arrived  very  opportunely  from  Guel- 
dres.  He  filled  up  the  vacancies  of  the  officers 
who  were  killed,  and  in  doing  this,  he  did  not  for¬ 
get  the  Spanish  ensign  who  had  saved  his  life. 

The  people  of  Antwerp,  after  learning  the  suc¬ 
cess  of  their  mine-ship,  now  did  homage  to  the 
inventor  with  as  much  extravagance,  as  they  had 
a  short  time  before  mistrusted  him,  and  they  en¬ 
couraged  his  genius  to  new  attempts.  Gianibelli 
now  actually  obtained  the  number  of  flat-bot- 


tomed  vessels  which  he  had  at  first  demanded  in 
vain,  and  these  he  equipped  in  such  a  manner, 
that  they  struck  with  irresistible  force  on  the 
bridge,  and  a  second  time  also  burst  and  sepa¬ 
rated  it.  But  this  time,  the  wind  was  contrary  to 
the  Zealand  fleet,  so  that  they  could  not  put  out, 
and  thus  the  prince  obtained  once  more  the  neces¬ 
sary  respite  to  repair  the  damage.  The  Archi¬ 
medes  of  Antwerp  was  not  deterred  by  any  of 
these  disappointments.  Anew  he  fitted  out  two 
large  vessels,  which  were  armed  with  iron  hooks 
and  similar  instruments,  in  order  to  tear  asunder 
the  bridge.  But  when  the  moment  came  for 
these  vessels  to  get  under  weigh,  no  one  was  found 
ready  to  embark  in  them.  The  engineer  was  there¬ 
fore  obliged  to  think  of  apian  for  giving  to  these 
machines  such  a  self-impulse,  that,  without  being 
guided  by  a  steersman,  they  would  keep  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  stream,  and  not,  like  the  former  ones, 
be  driven  on  the  bank  by  the  wind.  One  of  his 
workmen,  a  German,  here  hit  upon  a  strange  in¬ 
vention,  if  Strada’s  description  of  it  is  to  be  cre¬ 
dited.  He  affixed  a  sail  under  the  vessel,  which 
was  to  be  acted  upon  by  the  water,  just  as  an  or¬ 
dinary  sail  is  by  the  wind,  and  could  thus  impel 
the  ship  with  the  whole  force  of  the  current.  The 
result  proved  the  correctness  of  his  calculation  ; 
for  this  vessel,  with  the  position  of  its  sails  re¬ 
versed,  not  only  kept  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
but  also  ran  against  the  bridge  with  such  impe¬ 
tuosity  that  the  enemy  had  not  time  to  open  it, 
and  it  was  actually  burst  asunder.  But  all  these 
results  were  of  no  service  to  the  town,  because 
the  attempts  were  made  at  random,  and  were  sup¬ 
ported  by  no  adequate  force.  A  new  fire-ship, 
equipped  like  the  former,  which  had  succeeded  so 
well,  and  which  Gianibelli  had  filled  with  four 
thousand  pounds  of  the  finest  powder,  was  not 
even  used  ;  for  a  new  mode  of  attempting  their 
deliverance  had  now  occurred  to  the  people  of 
Antwerp. 

Terrified,  by  so  many  futile  attempts,  from  en 
deavoring  to  clear  a  passage  for  vessels  on  the 
river  by  force,  they  at  last  came  to  the  determi¬ 
nation  of  doing  without  the  stream  entirely. 
They  remembered  the  example  of  the  town  of 
Leyden,  which,  when  besieged  by  the  Spaniards 
ten  years  before,  had  saved  itself  by  opportunely 
inundating  the  surrounding  country,  and  it  was 
resolved  to  imitate  this  example.  Between  Lille 
and  Stabroek,  in  the  district  of  Bergen,  a  wide 
and  somewhat  sloping  plain  extends  as  far  as 
Antwerp,  being  protected  by  numerous  embank¬ 
ments  and  counter-embankments  against  the  ir¬ 
ruptions  of  the  East  Scheldt.  Nothing  more  was 
requisite  than  to  break  these  dams,  when  the 
whole  plain  would  become  a  sea,  navigable  by 
flat-bottomed  vessels  almost  to  the  very  walls  of 
Antwerp.  If  this  attempt  should  succeed,  the 
Duke  of  Parma  might  keep  the  Scheldt  guarded 
with  his  bridge  of  boats  as  long  as  he  pleased  ;  a 
new  river  would  be  formed,  which,  in  case  of  ne¬ 
cessity,  would  fie  equally  serviceable  for  the  time. 
This  was  the  very  plan  which  the  Prince  of 
Orange  had,  at  the  commencement  of  the  siege, 
recommended,  and  in  which  he  had  been  strenu¬ 
ously,  but  unsuccessfully,  seconded  by  St.  Alde- 
gonde,  because  some  of  the  citizens  could  not  be 


120 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


persuaded  to  sacrifice  their  own  fields.  In  the 
present  emergency  they  reverted  to  this  last  re¬ 
source,  but  circumstances  in  the  mean  time  had 
greatly  changed. 

The  plain  in  question  is  intersected  by  a  broad 
and  high  dam,  which  takes  its  name  from  the  ad¬ 
jacent  Castle  of  Cowenstein,  and  extends  for 
three  miles  from  the  village  of  Stabroek,  in  Ber¬ 
gen,  as  far  as  the  Scheldt,  with  the  great  dam  of 
which  it  unites  near  Ordam.  Beyond  this  dam 
no  vessels  can  proceed,  however  high  the  tide, 
and  the  sea  would  be  vainly  turned  into  the  fields 
as  long  as  such  an  embankment  remained  in  the 
way,  which  would  prevent  the  Zealand  vessels 
from  descending  into  the  plain  before  Antwerp. 
The  fate  of  the  town  would  therefore  depend  upon 
the  demolition  of  this  Cowenstein  dam  ;  but, 
foreseeing  this,  the  Prince  of  Parma  had,  imme¬ 
diately  on  commencing  the  blockade,  taken  pos¬ 
session  of  it,  and  spared  no  pains  to  render  it  ten¬ 
able  to  the  last.  At  the  village  of  Stabroek, 
Count  Mansfeld  was  encamped  with  the  greatest 
part  of  his  army,  and  by  means  of  this  very  Cow¬ 
enstein  dam  kept  open  the  communication  with 
the  bridge,  the  head  quarters,  and  the  Spanish 
magazines  at  Calloo.  Thus  the  army  formed  an 
uninterrupted  line  from  Stabroek  in  Brabant,  as 
far  asBevern  in  Flanders,  intersected  indeed,  but 
not  broken,  by  the  Scheldt,  and  which  could  not 
be  cut  off  without  a  sanguinary  conflict.  On  the 
dam  itself,  within  proper  distances,  five  different 
batteries  had  been  erected,  the  command  of  which 
was  given  to  the  most  valiant  officers  in  the  army. 
Nay,  as  the  Prince  of  Parma  could  not  doubt 
that  now  the  whole  fury  of  the  war  would  be 
turned  to  this  point,  he  intrusted  the  defense  of 
the  bridge  to  Count  Mansfeld,  and  resolved  to 
defend  this  important  post  himself.  The  war, 
therefore,  now  assumed  a  different  aspect,  and  the 
theatre  of  it  was  entirely  changed. 

Both  above  and  below  Lillo,  the  Netherlander 
had  in  several  places  cut  through  the  dam,  which 
follows  the  Brabant  shore  of  the  Scheldt ;  and 
where  a  short  time  before  had  been  green  fields,  a 
new  element  now  presented  itself,  studded  with 
masts  and  boats.  A  Zealand  fleet,  commanded 
by  Count  Hohenlohe,  navigated  the  inundated 
fields,  and  made  repeated  movements  against  the 
Cowenstein  dam,  without,  however,  attempting  a 
serious  attack  on  it,  while  another  fleet  showed 
itself  in  the  Scheldt,  threatening  the  two  coasts 
alternately  with  a  landing,  and  occasionally  the 
bridge  of  boats  with  an  attack.  For  several  days, 
this  manoeuvre  was  practiced  on  the  enemy,  who, 
uncertain  of  the  quarter  whence  an  attach  was  to 
be  expected,  would,  it  was  hoped,  be  exhausted  by 
continual  watching,  and  by  degrees  lulled  into  se¬ 
curity  by  so  many  false  alarms.  Antwerp  had 
promised  Count  Hohenlohe  to  support  the  attack 
on  the  dam  by  a  flotilla  from  the  town  ;  three 
beacons  on  the  principal  tower  were  to  be  the 
signal  that  this  was  on  the  way.  When,  there¬ 
fore,  on  a  dark  night,  the  expected*  columns  of  fire 
really  ascended  above  Antwerp,  Count  Hohenlohe 
immediately  caused  500  of  his  troops  to  scale  the 
dam  between  two  of  the  enemy’s  redoubts,  who  sur¬ 
prised  part  of  the  Spanish  garrison  asleep,  and  cut 
dowu  the  others,  who  attempted  to  defend  them¬ 


selves.  In  a  short  time,  they  had  gained  a  firm  foot 
ing  upon  the  dam,  and  were  just  on  the  point  of  dis¬ 
embarking  the  remainder  of  their  force,  2000  in  nun* 
ber,  when  the  Spaniards  in  the  adjoining  redoubts 
marched  out,  and  favored  by  the  narrowness  of 
the  ground,  made  a  desperate  attack  on  the 
crowded  Zealanders.  The  guns  from  the  neigh¬ 
boring  batteries  opened  upon  the  approaching 
fleet,  and  thus  rendered  the  landing  of  the  remain¬ 
ing  troops  impossible  ;  and  as  there  were  no  signs 
of  co-operation  on  the  part  of  the  city,  the  Zea¬ 
landers  were  overpowered  after  a  short  conflict, 
and  again  driven  down  from  the  dam.  The  victo¬ 
rious  Spaniards  pursued  them  through  the  water 
as  far  as  their  boats,  sunk  many  of  the  latter,  and 
compelled  the  rest  to  retreat  with  heavy  loss. 
Count  Hohenlohe  threw  the  blame  of  this  defeat 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  Antwerp,  who  had  de¬ 
ceived  him  by  a  false  signal,  and  it  certainly  must 
be  attributed  to  the  bad  arrangement  of  both  par¬ 
ties,  that  the  attempt  failed  of  better  success. 

But  at  last  the  allies  determined  to  make  a  sys¬ 
tematic  assault  on  the  enemy  with  their  combined 
force,  and  to  put  an  end  to  the  siege  by  a  grand 
attack,  as  well  on  the  dam  as  on  the  bridge.  The 
16th  of  May,  1585,  was  fixed  upon  for  the  execu¬ 
tion  of  this  design,  and  both  armies  used  their 
utmost  endeavors  to  make  this  day  decisive.  The 
force  of  the  Hollanders  and  Zealanders,  united  to 
that  of  Antwerp,  exceeded  200  ships,  to  man 
which  they  had  stripped  their  towns  and  citadels, 
and  with  this  force  they  purposed  to  attack  the 
Cowenstein  dam  on  both  sides.  The  bridge  over 
the  Scheldt  was  to  be  assailed  with  new  machines 
of  Gianibelli’s  invention,  and  the  Duke  of  Parma 
thereby  hindered  from  assisting  the  defense  of  the 
dam. 

Alexander,  apprised  of  the  danger  which  threat¬ 
ened  him,  spared  nothing  on  his  side  to  meet  it 
with  energy.  Immediately  after  getting  posses¬ 
sion  of  the  dam,  he  had  caused  redoubts  to  be 
erected  at  five  different  places,  and  had  given  the 
command  of  them  to  the  most  experienced  officers 
of  the  army.  The  first  of  these,  which  was  called 
the  Cross  Battery,  was  erected  on  the  spot  where 
the  Cowenstein  dam  enters  the  great  embankment 
of  the  Scheldt,  and  makes  with  the  latter  the  form 
of  a  cross ;  the  Spaniard,  Mondragone,  was  ap¬ 
pointed  to  the  command  of  this  battery.  A  thou¬ 
sand  paces  further  on,  near  the  Castle  of  Cowen¬ 
stein,  was  posted  the  battery  of  St.  James,  which 
was  intrusted  to  the  command  of  Camillo  de 
Monte.  At  an  equal  distance  from  this,  lay  the 
battery  of  St.  George,  and  at  a  thousand  paces 
from  the  latter,  the  Pile  Battery,  under  the  com¬ 
mand  of  Gamboa,  so  called  from  the  pile  work  on 
which  it  rested ;  at  the  furthest  end  of  the  dam, 
near  Stabroek,  was  the  fifth  redoubt,  where  Count 
Mansfeld,  with  Capizucchi,  an  Italian,  commanded. 
All  these  forts  the  prince  now  strengthened  with 
artillery  and  men ;  on  both  sides  of  the  dam,  and 
along  its  whole  extent,  he  caused  piles  to  be 
driven,  as  well  to  render  the  main  embankment 
firmer,  as  to  impede  the  labor  of  the  pioneers  who 
were  to  dig  through  it. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  16th  of  May,  the 
enemy’s  forces  were  in  motion.  With  the  dusk  of 
dawn,  there  came  floating  down  from  Lillo,  over 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


121 


the  inundated  country,  four  burning  vessels, 
which  so  alarmed  the  guards  upon  the  dams,  who 
recollected  the  former  terrible  explosion,  that 
they  hastily  retreated  to  the  next  battery.  This 
was  exactly  what  the  enemy  desired.  In  these 
vessels,  which  had  merely  the  appearance  of  fire¬ 
ships,  soldiers  were  concealed,  who  now  suddenly 
jumped  ashore,  and  succeeded  in  mounting  the 
dam  at  the  undefended  spot,  between  the  St- 
George  and  Pile  batteries.  Immediately  after¬ 
ward,  the  whole  Zealand  fleet  showed  itself,  con¬ 
sisting  of  numerous  ships  of  war,  transports,  and 
a  crowd  of  smaller  craft,  which  were  laden  with 
great  sacks  of  earth,  wool,  fascines,  gabions,  and 
the  like,  for  throwing  up  breastworks,  wherever 
necessary.  The  ships  of  war  were  furnished  with 
powerful  artillery,  and  numerously  and  bravely 
manned,  and  a  whole  army  of  pioneers  accom¬ 
panied  it,  in  order  to  dig  through  the  dam  as  soon 
as  it  should  be  in  their  possession. 

The  Zealanders  had  scarcely  begun  on  their 
side  to  ascend  the  dam,  when  the  fleet  of  Ant¬ 
werp  advanced  from  Osterweel,  and  attacked  it  on 
the  other.  A  high  breastwork  was  hastily  thrown 
up  between  the  two  nearest  hostile  batteries,  so 
as  at  once  to  divide  the  two  garrisons  and  to 
cover  the  pioneers.  The  latter,  several  hundreds 
in  number,  now  fell  to  work  with  their  spades  on 
both  sides  of  the  dam,  and  dug  with  such  energy, 
that  hopes  were  entertained  of  soon  seeing  the 
two  seas  united.  But,  meanwhile,  the  Spaniards 
also  had  gained  time  to  hasten  to  the  spot  from 
the  two  nearest  redoubts,  and  make  a  spirited  as¬ 
sault,  while  the  guns  from  the  battery  of  St. 
George  played  incessantly  upon  the  enemy’s  fleet. 

A  furious  battle  now  raged  in  the  quarter 
where  they  were  cutting  through  the  dike,  and 
throwing  up  the  breastwork.  The  Zealanders 
had  drawn  a  strong  line  of  troops  round  the 
pioneers,  to  keep  the  enemy  from  interrupting 
their  work  ;  and  in  this  confusion  of  battle,  in 
the  midst  of  a  storm  of  bullets  from  the  enemy, 
often  up  to  the  breast  in  water,  among  the  dead 
and  dying,  the  pioneers  pursued  their  work,  under 
the  incessant  exhortations  of  the  merchants,  who 
impatiently  waited  to  see  the  dam  opened  and 
their  vessels  in  safety.  The  importance  of  the 
result,  which  it  might  be  said  depended  entirely 
upon  their  spades,  appeared  to  animate  even  the 
common  laborers  with  heroic  courage.  Solely 
intent  upon  their  task,  they  neither  saw  nor  heard 
the  work  of  death  which  was  going  on  around 
them,  and  as  fast  as  the  foremost  ranks  fell,  those 
behind  them  pressed  into  their  places.  Their 
operations  were  greatly  impeded  by  the  piles 
which  had  been  driven  in,  but  still  more  by  the 
attacks  of  the  Spaniards,  who  burst  with  despe¬ 
rate  courage  through  the  thickest  of  the  enemy, 
stabbed  the  pioneers  in  the  pits  where  they  were 
digging,  and  filled  up  again  with  dead  bodies,  the 
cavities  which  the  living  had  made.  At  last, 
however,  when  most  of  their  officers  were  killed 
or  wounded,  and  the  number  of  the  enemy  con¬ 
stantly  increasing,  while  fresh  laborers  were  sup¬ 
plying  the  place  of  those  who  had  been  slain,  the 
courage  of  these  valiant  troops  began  to  give 
way,  and  they  thought  it  advisable  to  retreat 
to  their  batteries.  Now,  therefore,  the  confede¬ 


rates  saw  themselves  masters  of  the  whole 
extent  of  the  dam,  from  fort  St.  George  as  far  as 
the  Pile  Battery.  As,  however,  it  seemed  too 
long  to  wait  for  the  thorough  demolition  of  the 
dam,  they  hastily  unloaded  a  Zealand  transport, 
and  brought  the  cargo  over  the  dam  to  a  vessel 
of  Antwerp,  with  which  Count  Hohenlolie  sailed 
in  triumph  to  the  city.  The  sight  of  the  pro¬ 
visions  at  once  filled  the  inhabitants  with  joy, 
and  as  if  the  victory  was  already  won,  they  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  wildest  exultation.  The 
bells  were  rung,  the  cannon  discharged,  and  the 
inhabitants  transported  at  their  unexpected  suc¬ 
cess,  hurried  to  the  Osterweel  gate,  to  await  the 
store  ships,  which  were  supposed  to  be  at  hand. 

In  fact,  fortune  had  never  smiled  so  favorably 
on  the  besieged  as  at  that  moment.  The  enemy, 
exhausted  and  dispirited,  had  thrown  themselves 
into  their  batteries,  and  far  from  being  able  to 
struggle  with  the  victors  for  the  post  they  had 
conquered,  they  found  themselves  rather  besieged 
in  the  places  where  they  had  taken  refuge.  Some 
companies  of  Scots,  led  by  their  brave  colonel, 
Balfour,  attacked  the  battery  of  St.  George, 
which,  however,  was  relieved,  but  not  without  se¬ 
vere  loss,  by  Camillo  de  Monte,  who  hastened 
thither  from  the  St.  James’s  battery.  The  Pile 
battery  was  in  a  much  worse  condition,  it  being 
hotly  cannonaded  by  the  ships,  and  threatened 
every  moment  to  crumble  to  pieces  ;  Gamboa, 
who  commanded  it,  lay  wounded,  and  it  was  un¬ 
fortunately  deficient  in  artillery  to  keep  the  enemy 
at  a  distance.  The  breastwork,  too,  which  the 
Zealanders  had  thrown  up  between  this  battery 
and  that  of  St.  George,  cut  off  all  hope  of  assist¬ 
ance  from  the  Scheldt.  If,  therefore,  the  Bel¬ 
gians  had  only  taken  advantage  of  this  weakness 
and  inactivity  of  the  enemy,  to  proceed  with  zeal 
and  perseverance  in  cutting  through  the  dam, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  a  passage  might  have  been 
made  and  thus  put  an  end  to  the  whole  siege% 
But  here,  also,  the  same  want  of  consistent  en¬ 
ergy  showed  itself,  which  had  marked  the  conduct 
of  the  people  of  Antwerp  during  the  whole  course 
of  the  siege.  The  zeal  with  which  the  work  had 
been  commenced,  cooled  in  proportion  to  the  suc¬ 
cess  which  attended  it.  It  was  soon  found  too 
tedious  to  dig  through  the  dyke  ;  it  seemed  far 
easier  to  transfer  the  cargoes  from  the  large  store- 
ships  into  smaller  ones,  and  carry  these  to  the 
town  with  the  flood  tide.  St.  Aldegonde  and 
Hohenlohe,  instead  of  remaining  to  animate  the 
industry  of  the  workmen  by  their  personal  pre¬ 
sence,  left  the  scene  of  action  in  the  decisive  mo¬ 
ment,  in  order  by  sailing  to  the  town  with  a  .°orn 
vessel,  to  win  encomiums  on  their  wisdom  and 
valor. 

While  both  parties  were  fighting  on  the  dam 
with  the  most  obstinate  fury,  the  bridge  over  the 
Scheldt  had  been  attacked  from  Antwerp,  with 
new  machines,  in  order  to  give  employment  to 
the  prince  in  that  quarter.  But  the  sound  of  the 
firing  soon  apprised  him  of  what  was  going  on  at 
the  dyke,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  bridge  clear, 
he  hastened  to  support  the  defense  of  the  dyke. 
Followed  by  two  hundred  Spanish  pikemen,  he 
flew  to  the  place  of  attack,  and  arrived  just  in 
time  to  prevent  the  complete  defeat  of  his  troops. 


122 


SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP. 


He  hastily  posted  some  guns,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him,  in  the  two  nearest  redoubts, 
and  maintained  from  thence  a  heavy  fire  upon 
the  enemy’s  ships.  He  placed  himself  at  the 
head  of  his  men,  and  with  his  sword  in  one  hand 
and  shield  in  the  other,  led  them  against  the 
enemy.  The  news  of  his  arrival,  which  quickly 
spread  from  one  end  of  the  dyke  to  the  other,  re¬ 
vived  the  drooping  spirits  of  his  troops,  and  the 
conflict  recommenced  with  renewed  violence; 
made  still  more  murderous  by  the  nature  of  the 
ground  where  it  was  fought.  Upon  the  narrow 
ridge  of  the  dam,  which  in  many  places  was  not 
more  than  nine  paces  broad,  about  five  thousand 
combatants  were  fighting ;  so  confined  was  the 
spot  upon  which  the  strength  of- both  armies  was 
assembled,  aud  which  was  to  decide  the  whole 
issue  of  the  siege.  With  the  Antwerpers  the  last 
bulwark  of  their  citv  was  at  stake ;  with  the 
Spaniards  it  was  to  determine  the  whole  success 
of  their  undertaking.  Both  parties  fought  with 
a  courage,  which  despair  alone  could  inspire. 
From  both  the  extremities  of  the  dam,  the  tide 
of  war  rolled  itself  toward  the  centre,  where  the 
Zealanders  and  Antwerpers  had  the  advantage, 
and  where  they  had  collected  their  whole  strength. 
The  Italians  and  Spaniards,  inflamed  by  a  noble 
emulation,  pressed  on  from  Stabroek  ;  and  from 
the  Scheldt,  the  Walloons  and  Spaniards  ad¬ 
vanced  with  their  general  at  their  head.  While 
the  former  endeavored  to  relieve  the  pile  battery, 
which  was  hotly  pressed  by  the  enemy  both  by 
sea  and  land,  the  latter  threw  themselves  on  the 
breastwork,  between  the  St.  George  and  the  Pile 
batteries,  with  a  fury  which  carried  every  thing 
before  it.  Here  the  flower  of  the  Belgian  troops 
fought  behind  a  well-fortified  rampart,  and  the  guns 
of  the  two  fleets  covered  this  important  post. 
The  prince  was  already  pressing  forward  to  at¬ 
tack  this  formidable  defense  with  his  small  army, 
when  he  received  intelligence  that  the  Italians 
and  Spaniards,  under  Capizucchi  and  Aquila,  had 
forced  their  way,  sword  in  hand,  into  the  Pile 
battery,  had  got  possession  of  it,  and  were  now 
likewise  advancing  from  the  other  side  against 
the  enemy’s  breastwork.  Before  this  entrench¬ 
ment,  therefore,  the  whole  force  of  both  armies 
was  now  collected,  and  both  sides  used  their  ut¬ 
most  efforts  to  carry  and  to  defend  this  position. 
The  Netherlanders  on  board  the  fleet,  loath  to 
remain  idle  spectators  of  the  conflict,  sprang 
ashore  from  their  vessels.  Alexander  attacked 
the  breastwork  on  one  side,  Count  Mansfeld  on 
the  other  ;  five  assaults  wrere  made,  and  five  times 
they  were  repulsed.  The  Netherlanders,  in  this 
decisive  moment,  surpassed  themselves  ;  never  in 
the  whole  course  of  the  war  had  they  fought  with 
such  determination.  But  it  was  the  Scotch  and 
English  in  particular,  who  baffled  the  attempts  of 
the  enemy  by  their  valiant  resistance.  As  no 
one  would  advance  to  the  attack  in  the  quarter 
where  the  Scotch  fought,  the  duke  himself  led  on 
the  troops,  with  a  javelin  in  his  hand,  and  up  to 
his  breast  in  water.  At  last,  after  a  protracted 
struggle,  the  forces  of  Count  Mansfeld  succeeded 
with  their  halberts  and  pikes,  in  making  a  breach 
in  the  breastwork,  and  by  raising  themselves  on 
one  another’s  shoulders,  scaled  the  parapet.  Bar- 


thelemy  Toralva,  a  Spanish  captain,  was  the  first 
who  showed  himself  on  the  top  ;  and  almost  at 
the  same  instant,  the  Italian  Capizucchi  appeared 
upon  the  edge  of  it ;  and  thus  the  contest  of  valor 
was  decided  with  equal  glory  for  both  nations.  It 
is  worth  while  to  notice  here,  the  manner  in  which 
the  Prince  of  Parma,  who  was  made  arbiter  of 
this  emulous  strife,  encouraged  this  delicate  sense 
of  honor  among  his  warriors.  He  embraced  the 
.  Italian  Capizucchi  in  presence  of  the  troops,  and 
acknowledged  aloud  that  it  was  principally  to  the 
courage  of  this  officer  that  he  owed  the  capture  of 
the  breastwork.  He  caused  the  Spanish  captain, 
Toralva,  who  was  dangerously  wounded,  to  be 
conveyed  to  his  own  quarters  at  Stabroek,  laid  on 
his  own  bed,  and  covered  with  the  cloak  which  he 
himself  had  worn  the  day  before  the  battle. 

After  the  capture  of  the  breastwork,  the  victory 
no  longer  remained  doubtful.  The  Dutch  and 
Zealand  troops,  who  had  disembarked  to  come  to 
close  action  with  the  enemy,  at  once  lost  their 
courage,  when  they  looked  about  them  and  saw  the 
vessels,  which  were  their  last  refuge,  putting  off 
from  the  shore. 

For  the  tide  had  begun  to  ebb,  and  the  com¬ 
manders  of  the  fleet,  from  fear  of  being  stranded 
with  their  heavy  transports,  and,  in  case  of  an  un¬ 
fortunate  issue  to  the  engagement,  becoming  the 
prey  of  the  enemy,  retired  from  the  dam,  and 
made  for  deep  water.  No  sooner  did  Alexander 
perceive  this,  than  he  pointed  out  to  his  troops 
the  flying  vessels,  and  encouraged  them  to  finish 
the  action  with  an  enemy,  who  already  despaired 
of  their  safety.  The  Dutch  auxiliaries  were  the 
first  that  gave  way,  and  their  example  was  soon 
followed  by  the  Zealanders.  Hastily  leaping  from 
the  dam,  they  endeavored  to  reach  the  vessels  by 
wading  or  swimming  ;  but  from  their  disorderly 
flight,  they  impeded  one  another,  and  fell  in  heaps 
under  the  swords  of  the  pursuers.  Many  perished 
even  in  the  boats,  as  each  strove  to  get  on  board 
before  the  other,  and  several  vessels  sank  under 
the  weight  of  the  numbers  who  rushed  into  them. 
The  Antwerpers,  who  fought  for  their  liberty, 
their  hearths,  their  faith,  were  the  last  who  re¬ 
treated,  but  this  very  circumstance  augmented 
their  disaster.  Many  of  their  vessels  were  out¬ 
stripped  by  the  ebb  tide,  and  grounded  within 
reach  of  the  enemy’s  cannon,  and  were  conse¬ 
quently  destroyed  with  all  on  board.  Crowds  of 
fugitives  endeavored  by  swimming  to  gain  the 
other  transports,  which  had  got  into  deep  water  ; 
but  such  was  the  rage  and  boldness  of  the  Span¬ 
iards,  that  they  swam  after  them  with  their  swcrds 
between  their  teeth,  and  dragged  many  even  from 
the  ships.  The  victory  of  the  king’s  troops  was 
complete,  but  bloody;  for  of  the  Spaniards  about 
800,  of  the  Netherlands  some  thousands,  (without 
reckoning  those  who  were  drowned,)  were  left  on 
the.  field,  and  on  both  sides  many  of  the  principal 
nobility  perished.  More  than  thirty  vessels,  with 
a  large  supply  of  provisions  for  Antwerp,  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  victors,  with  150  cannon  and 
other  military  stores.  The  dam,  the  possession  of 
which  had  been  so  dearly  maintained,  was  pierced 
in  thirteen  different  places,  and  the  bodies  of  those 
who  had  cut  through  it  were  now  used  to  stop  up 
the  openings. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


123 


The  next  day,  a  transport  of  immense  size  and 
singular  construction,  fell  into  thj3  hands  of  the 
royalists.  It  formed  a  floating  castle,  and  had 
been  destined  for  the  attack  on  the  Cowenstein 
dam.  The  people  of  Antwerp  had  built  it  at  an 
immense  expense,  at  the  very  time  when  the  engi¬ 
neer  Gianibelli’s  useful  proposals  had  been  rejected, 
on  account  of  the  cost  they  entailed,  and  this  ri¬ 
diculous  monster  was  called  by  the  proud  title  of 
“End  of  the  War.”  which  appellation  was  after¬ 
wards  changed  for  the  more  appropriate  sobriquet 
of  “  Money  lost !”  When  this  vessel  was  launched, 
it  turned  out,  as  every  sensible  person  had  fore¬ 
told,  that  on  account  of  its  unwieldy  size  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  steer  it,  and  it  could  hardly 
be  floated  by  the  highest  tide.  With  great  diffi¬ 
culty  it  was  worked  as  far  as  Ordam,  where,  de¬ 
serted  by  the  tide,  it  went  aground,  and  fell  a  prey 
to  the  enemy. 

The  attack  upon  the  Cowenstein  dam  was  the 
last  attempt  which  was  made  to  relieve  Antwerp. 
From  this  time,  the  courage  of  the  besieged  sank, 
and  the  magistracy  of  the  town  vainly  labored  to 
inspirit  with  distant  hopes  the  lower  orders,  on 
whom  the  present  distress  weighed  heaviest. 
Hitherto  the  price  of  bread  had  been  kept  down 
to  a  tolerable  rate,  although  the  quality  of  it  con¬ 


tinued  to  deteriorate ;  by  degrees,  however,  pro¬ 
visions  became  so  scarce,  that  a  famine  was  evi¬ 
dently  near  at  hand.  Still,  hopes  were  entertained 
of  being  able  to  hold  out,  at  least,  until  the  corn 
between  the  town  and  the  furthest  batteries,  which 
was  already  in  full  ear,  could  be  reaped  ;  but  be¬ 
fore  that  could  be  done,  the  enemy  had  carried 
the  last  outwork,  and  had  appropriated  the  whole 
harvest  to  their  use.  At  last,  the  neighboring 
and  confederate  town  of  Malines  fell  into  the 
enemy’s  hands,  and  with  its  fall  vanished  the  only 
remaining  hope  of  getting  supplies  from  Brabant. 
As  there  was,  therefore,  no  longer  any  means  of 
increasing  the  stock  of  provisions,  nothing  was 
left  but  to  diminish  the  consumers.  All  useless 
persons,  all  strangers,  nay  even  the  women  and 
children,  were  to  be  sent  away  out  of  the  town  ; 
but  this  proposal  was  too  revolting  to  humanity 
to  be  carried  into  execution.  Another  plan,  that 
of  expelling  the  Catholic  inhabitants,  exasperated 
them  so  much,  that  it  had  almost  ended  in  open 
mutiny.  And  thus  St.  Aldegonde  at  last  saw 
himself  compelled  to  yield  to  the  riotous  clamors 
of  the  populace,  and  on  the  17th  of  August,  1585, 
to  make  overtures  to  the  Duke  of  Parma  for  the 
surrender  of  the  town. 


HISTORY 

OF  THE 

THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR  IN  GERMANY. 


BOOK  I. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  religious  wars  in 
Germany,  to  the  peace  of  Munster,  scarcely  any 
thing  great  or  remarkable  occurred  in  the  political 
world  of  Europe  in  which  the  Reformation  had  not 
an  important  share.  All  the  events  of  this  period, 
if  they  did  not  originate  in,  soon  became  mixed  up 
with,  the  question  of  religion,  and  no  state  was 
either  too  great  or  too  little  to  feel  directly  or  in¬ 
directly  more  or  less  of  its  influence. 

Against  the  reformed  doctrine  and  its  adherents, 
the  House  of  Austria  directed,  almost  exclusively, 
the  whole  of  its  immense  political  power.  In 
France,  the  Reformation  had  enkindled  a  civil 
war  which,  under  four  stormy  reigns,  shook  the 
kingdom  to  its  foundations,  brought  foreign 
armies  into  the  heart  of  the  country,  and  for  half 
a  century  rendered  it  the  scene  of  the  most 
mournful  disorders.  It  was  the  Reformation,  top, 
that  rendered  the  Spanish  yoke  intolerable  to  the 
Flemings,  and  awakened  in  them  both  the  desire 
and  the  courage  to  throw  off'  its  fetters,  while  it 
also  principally  furnished  them  with  the  means  of 
their  emancipation.  And  as  to  England,  all  the 
ev'ls  with  which  Philip  the  Second  threatened 


Elizabeth,  were  mainly  intended  in  revenge  for 
her  having  taken  his  Protestant  subjects  under 
her  protection,  and  placing  herself  at  the  head  of 
a  religious  party  which  it  was  his  aim  and  endeavor 
to  extirpate.  In  Germany,  the  schisms  in  the 
church  produced  also  a  lasting  political  schism, 
which  made  that  country  for  more  than  a  century 
the  theatre  of  confusion,  but  at  the  same  time 
threw  up  a  firm  barrier  against  political  oppres¬ 
sion.  It  was,  too,  the  Reformation  principally 
that  first  drew  the  northern  powers,  Denmark  and 
Sweden,  into  the  political  system  of  Europe;  and 
while  on  the  one  hand  the  Protestant  League  was 
strengthened  by  their  adhesion,  it  on  the  other 
was  indispensable  to  their  interests.  States  which 
hitherto  scarcely  concerned  themselves  with  one 
another’s  existence,  acquired  through  the  Re¬ 
formation  an  attractive  centre  of  interest,  and 
began  to  be  united  by  new  political  sympathies. 
And  as  through  its  influence  new  relations  sprang 
up  between  citizen  and  citizen,  and  between  rulers 
and  subjects,  so  also  entire  states  were  forced  by 
it  into  new  relative  positions.  Thus,  by  a  strange 
course  of  events,  religious  disputes  were  the  means 
of  cementing  a  closer  union  among  the  nations  of 
Europe. 


124 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Fearful  indeed,  and  destructive,  was  the  first 
movement  in  which  this  general  political  sympa¬ 
thy  announced  itself ;  a  desolating  war  of  thirty 
years,  which,  from  the  interior  of  Bohemia  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Scheldt,  and  from  the  banks  of  the 
Po  to  the  coasts  of  the  Baltic,  devastated  whole 
countries,  destroyed  harvests,  and  reduced  towns 
and  villages  to  ashes  ;  which  opened  a  grave  for 
many  thousand  combatants,  and  for  half  a  century 
smothered  the  glimmering  sparks  of  civilization  in 
Germany,  and  threw  back  the  improving  manners 
of  the  country  into  their  pristine  barbarity  and 
wildness.  Yet  out  of  this  fearful  war  Europe 
came  forth  free  and  independent.  In  it  she  first 
learned  to  recognize  herself  as  a  community  of 
nations  ;  and  this  intercommunion  of  states,  which 
originated  in  the  thirty  years’  war,  wTould  alone  be 
sufficient  to  reconcile  the  philosopher  to  its  hor¬ 
rors.  The  hand  of  industry  has  slowly  but 
gradually  effaced  the  traces  of  its  ravages,  while 
its  beneficent  influence  still  survives ;  and  this 
general  sympathy  among  the  states  of  Europe, 
which  grew  out  of  the  troubles  in  Bohemia,  is  our 
guarantee  for  the  continuance  of  that  peace  which 
was  the  result  of  the  war.  As  the  flames  of  de¬ 
struction  found  their  way  from  the  interior  of  Bo¬ 
hemia,  Moravia,  and  Austria,  to  kindle  Germany, 
France,  and  the  half  of  Europe,  so  also  will  the 
torch  of  civilization  make  a  path  for  itself  from 
the  latter  to  enlighten  the  former  countries. 

All  .this  was  effected  by  religion.  Religion 
alone  could  have  rendered  possible  all  that  was 
accomplished,  but  it  was  far  from  being  the  sole 
motive  of  the  war.  Had  not  private  advantages 
and  state  interests  been  closely  connected  with  it, 
Vain  and  powerless  would  have  been  the  arguments 
of  theologians ;  and  the  cry  of  the  people  would 
never  have  met  with  princes  so  willing  to  espouse 
their  cause,  nor  the  new  doctrines  have  found  such 
numerous,  brave,  and  persevering  champions.  The 
Reformation  is  undoubtedly  owing  in  a  great 
measure  to  the  invincible  power  of  truth,  or  of 
opinions  which  were  held  as  such.  The  abuses  in 
the  old  church,  the  absurdity  of  many  of  its  dog¬ 
mas,  the  extravagance  of  its  requisitions,  neces¬ 
sarily  revolted  the  tempers  of  men,  already  won 
with  the  promise  of  a  better  light,  and  favorably 
disposed  them  toward  the  new  doctrines.  The 
charm  of  independence,  the  rich  plunder  of 
monastic  institutions,  made  the  Reformation  at¬ 
tractive  in  the  eyes  of  princes,  and  tended  not  a 
little  to  strengthen  their  inward  convictions. 
Nothing,  however,  but  political  considerations 
could  have  driven  them  to  espouse  it.  Had  not 
Charles  the  Fifth,  in  the  intoxication  of  success, 
made  an  attempt  on  the  independence  of  the  Ger¬ 
man  States,  a  Protestant  league  would  scarcely 
have  rushed  to  arms  in  defense  of  freedom  of 
belief;  but  for  the  ambition  of  the  Guises,  the 
Calvinists  in  France  would  never  have  beheld  a 
Conde  or  a  Coligny  at  their  head.  Without  the 
exaction  of  the  tenth  and  the  twentieth  penny,  the 
See  of  Rome  had  never  lost  the  United  Nether¬ 
lands.  Princes  fought  in  self-defense  or  for 
aggrandizement,  while  religious  enthusiasm  re¬ 
cruited  their  armies,  and  opened  to  them  the 
treasures  ol  their  subjects.  Of  the  multitude  who 
flocked  to  their  standards,  such  as  were  not  lured 


by  the  hope  of  plunder,  imagined  they  were  fight¬ 
ing  for  the  truth,  while  in  fact  they  were  shedding 
their  blood  for  the  personal  objects  of  their 
princes. 

And  well  was  it  for  the  people,  that,  on  this 
occasion,  their  interests  coincided  with  those  of 
their  princes.  To  this  coincidence  alone  were 
they  indebted  for  their  deliveran-ce  from  popery. 
Well  was  it  also  for  the  rulers,  that  the  subject 
contended  too  for  his  own  cause,  while  he  was 
fighting  their  battles.  Fortunately,  at  this  date, 
no  European  sovereign  was  so  absolute  as  to  be 
able,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  political  designs,  to  dis¬ 
pense  with  the  good-will  of  his  subjects.  Yet 
how  difficult  was  it  to  gain  and  to  set  to  woVk  this 
good-will !  The  most  impressive  arguments 
drawn  from  reasons  of  state,  fall  powerless  on  the 
ear  of  the  subject,  who  seldom  understands,  and 
still  more  rarely  is  interested  in  them.  In  such 
circumstances,  the  only  course  open  to  a  prudent 
prince  is  to  connect  the  interests  of  the  cabinet 
with  some  one  that  sits  nearer  to  the  people’s 
heart,  if  such  exists,  or  if  not,  to  create  it. 

In  such  a  position  stood  the  greater  part  of 
those  princes  who  embraced  the  cause  of  the 
Reformation.  By  a  strange  concatenation  of 
events,  the  divisions  of  the  Church  were  associ¬ 
ated  with  two  circumstances,  without  which,  in 
all  probability,  they  would  have  had  a  very  differ¬ 
ent  conclusion.  These  were,  the  increasing  power 
of  the  House  of  Austria,  which  threatened  the 
liberties  of  Europe,  and  its  active  zeal  for  the  old 
religion.  The  first  aroused  the  princes,  while  the 
second  armed  the  people. 

The  abolition  of  a  foreign  jurisdiction  within 
their  own  territories,  the  supremacy  in  ecclesias¬ 
tical  matters,  the  stopping  of  the  treasure  which 
had  so  long  flowed  to  Rome,  the  rich  plunder  of 
religious  foundations,  were  tempting  advantages 
to  every  sovereign.  Why,  then,  it  may  be  asked, 
did  they  not  operate  with  equal  force  upon  the 
princes  of  the  House  of  Austria?  What  pre¬ 
vented  this  house,  particularly  in  its  German 
branch,  from  yielding  to  the  pressing  demands  of 
so  many  of  its  subjects,  and,  after  the  example 
of  other  princes,  enriching  itself  at  the  expense 
of  a  defenseless  clergy?  It  is  difficult  to  credit 
that  a  belief  in  the  infallibility  of  the  Romish 
Church  had  any  greater  influence  on  the  pious 
adherence  of  this  house,  than  the  opposite  con 
viction  had  on  the  revolt  of  the  Protestant 
princes.  In  fact,  several  circumstances  combined 
to  make  the  Austrian  princes  zealous  supporters 
of  popery.  Spain  and  Italy,  from  which  Austria 
derived  its  principal  strength,  were  still  devoted 
to  the  See  of  Rome  wjtli  that  blind  obedience 
which,  ever  since  the  days  of  the  Gothic  dynasty, 
had  been  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  Span¬ 
iard.  The  slightest  approximation,  in  a  Spanish 
prince,  to  the  obnoxious  tenets  of  Luther  and 
Calvin,  would  have  alienated  for  ever  the  affec¬ 
tions  of  his  subjects,  and  a  defection  from  the 
Pope  would  have  cost  him  the  kingdom.  A 
Spanish  prince  had  no  alternative  but  orthodoxy 
or  abdication.  The  same  restraint  was  imposed 
upon  Austria  by  her  Italian  dominions,  which  she 
was  obliged  to  treat,  if  possible,  with  even  greater 
indulgence ;  impatient  as  they  naturally  were  of 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


125 


a  foieign  yoke,  and  possessing  also  readier  means  i 
of  shaking  it  off.  In  regard  to  the  latter  pro¬ 
vinces,  moreover,  the  rival  pretensions  of  France, 
and  the  neighborhood  of  the  Pope,  were  motives 
sufficient  to  prevent  the  Emperor  from  declaring 
in  favor  of  a  party  which  strove  to  annihilate  the 
papal  See,  and  also  to  induce  him  to  show  the 
most  active  zeal  in  behalf  of  the  old  religion. 
These  general  considerations,  which  must  have 
been  equally  weighty  with  every  Spanish  monarch, 
were,  in  the  particular  case  of  Charles  V.,  still 
further  enforced  by  peculiar  and  personal  motives. 
In  Italy,  this  monarch  had  a  formidable  rival  in 
the  King  of  France,  under  whose  protection  that 
country  might  throw  itself  the  instant  that 
Charles  should  incur  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
heresy.  Distrust  on  the  part  of  the  Roman 
Catholics,  and  a  rupture  with  the  church,  would 
have  been  fatal  also  to  many  of  his  most  cherished 
designs.  Moreover,  when  Charles  was  first  called 
upon  to  make  his  election  between  the  two  par¬ 
ties,  the  new  doctrine  had  not  yet  attained  to  a 
full  and  commanding  influence,  and  there  still 
subsisted  a  prospect  of  its  reconciliation  with  the 
old.  In  his  son  and  successor,  Philip  the  Second, 
a  monastic  education  combined  with  a  gloomy 
and  despotic  disposition  to  generate  an  unmiti¬ 
gated  hostility  to  all  innovations  in  religion  ;  a 
feeling  which  the  thought  that  his  most  formida¬ 
ble  political  opponents  were  also  the  enemies  of 
his  faith  was  not  calculated  to  weaken.  As  his 
European  possessions,  scattered  as  they  were  over 
so  many  countries,  were  on  all  sides  exposed  to 
the  seductions  of  foreign  opinions,  the  progress 
of  the  Reformation  in  other  quarters  could  not 
well  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him.  His  im¬ 
mediate  interests,  therefore,  urged  him  to  attach 
himself  devotedly  to  the  old  church,  in  order  to 
close  up  the  sources  of  the  heretical  contagion. 
Thus,  circumstances  naturally  placed  this  prince 
at  the  head  of  the  league  which  the  Roman  Cath¬ 
olics  formed  against  the  Reformers.  The  princi¬ 
ples  which  had  actuated  the  long  and  active 
reigns  of  Charles  V.  and  Philip  II.,  remained 
a  law  for  their  successors  ;  and  the  more  the 
breach  in  the  church  widened,  the  firmer  be¬ 
came  the  attachment  of  the  Spaniards  to  Roman 
Catholicism. 

The  German  line  of  the  House  of  Austria  was 
apparently  more  unfettered  ;  but,  in  reality,  though 
free  from  many  of  these  restraints,  it  was  yet  con¬ 
fined  by  others.  The  possession  of  the  imperial 
throne — a  dignity  it  was  impossible  for  a  Protest¬ 
ant  to  hold,  (for  with  what  consistency  could  an 
apostate  from  the  Romish  church  wear  the  crown 
of  a  Roman  emperor  ?)  bound  the  successors  of 
Ferdinand  I.  to  the  See  of  Rome.  Ferdinand 
himself  was,  from  conscientious  motives,  heartily 
attached  to  it.  Besides,  the  German  princes  of 
the  House  of  Austria  were  not  powerful  enough 
to  dispense  with  .the  support  of  Spain,  which, 
however,  they  would  have  forfeited  by  the  least 
show  of  leaning  towards  the  new  doctrines.  The 
imperial  dignity,  also,  required  them  to  preserve 
the  existing  political  system  of  Germany,  with 
which  the  maintenance  of  their  own  authority  was 
closely  bound  up,  but  which  it  was  the  aim  of  the 
Protestant  League  to  destroy.  If  to  these  grounds 


i  we  add  the  indifference  of  the  Protestants  to  the 
Emperor’s  necessities  and  to  the  common  dangers 
of  the  empire,  their  encroachments  on  the  tem¬ 
poralities  of  the  church,  and  their  aggressive  vio¬ 
lence  when  they  became  conscious  of  their  own 
power,  we  can  easily  conceive  how  so  many  con¬ 
curring  motives  must  have  determined  the  em¬ 
perors  to  the  side  of  Popery,  and  how  their  own 
interests  came  to  be  intimately  interwoven  with 
those  of  the  Roman  church.  As  its  fate  seemed 
to  depend  altogether  on  the  part  taken  by  Aus¬ 
tria,  the  princes  of  this  house  came  to  be  regarded 
by  all  Europe  as  the  pillars  of  Popery.  The 
hatred,  therefore,  which  the  Protestants  bore 
against  the  latter,  was  turned  exclusively  upon 
Austria ;  and  the  cause  became  gradually  con¬ 
founded  with  its  protector. 

But  this  irreconcilable  enemy  of  the  Reforma¬ 
tion — the  House  of  Austria — by  its  ambitious  pro¬ 
jects  and  the  overwhelming  force  which  it  could 
bring  to  their  support,  endangered,  in  no  small  de¬ 
gree,  the  freedom  of  Europe,  and  more  especially 
of  the  German  States.  This  circumstance  could 
not  fail  to  rouse  the  latter  from  their  security, 
and  to  render  them  vigilant  in  self-defense.  Their 
ordinary  resources  were  quite  insufficient  to  resist 
so  formidable  a  power.  Extraordinary  exertions 
were  required  from  their  subjects  ;  and  when  even 
these  proved  far  from  adequate,  they  had  recourse 
to  foreign  assistance  ;  and,  by  means  of  a  com¬ 
mon  league,  they  endeavored  to  oppose  a  power 
which,  singly,  they  were  unable  to  withstand. 

But  the  strong  political  inducements  which  the 
German  princes  had  to  resist  the  pretensions  of 
the  House  of  Austria,  naturally  did  not  extend  to 
their  subjects.  It  is  only  immediate  advantages 
or  immediate  evils  that  set  the  people  in  action, 
and  for  these  a  sound  policy  cannot  wait.  Ill 
then  would  it  have  fared  with  these  princes,  if  by 
good  fortune  another  effectual  motive  had  not  of¬ 
fered  itself,  which  roused  the  passions  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  and  kindled  in  them  an  enthusiasm  which 
might  be  directed  against  the  political  danger,  as 
having  with  it  a  common  cause  of  alarm. 

-  This  motive  was  their  avowed  hatred  of  the  re¬ 
ligion  which  Austria  protected,  and  their  enthu¬ 
siastic  attachment  to  a  doctrine  which  that  House 
was  endeavoring  to  extirpate  by  fire  and  sword. 
Their  attachment  was  ardent,  their  hatred  invin¬ 
cible.  Religious  fanaticism  anticipates  even  the 
remotest  dangers.  Enthusiasm  never  calculates 
its  sacrifices.  What  the  most  pressing  danger  of 
the  state  could  not  effect  with  the  citizens,  was 
effected  by  religious  zeal.  For  the  state,  or  for 
the  prince,  few  would  have  drawn  the  sword;  but 
for  religion,  the  merchant,  the  artist,  the  peasant, 
all  cheerfully  flew  to  arms.  For  the  state,  or  for 
the  prince,  even  the  smallest  additional  impost 
would  have  been  avoided ;  but  for  religion  the 
people  readily  staked  at  once  life, fortune,  and  all 
earthly  hopes.  It  trebled  the  contributions  which 
flowed  into  the  exchequer  of  the  princes,  and  the 
armies  which  marched  to  the  field ;  and,  in  the 
ardent  excitement  produced  in  all  minds  by  the 
peril  to  which  their  faith  was  exposed,  the  subject 
felt  not  the  pressure  of  those  burdens  and  priva¬ 
tions  under  which,  in  cooler  moments,  he  would 
have  sunk  exhausted.  The  terrors  of  the  Spanish 


126 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Inquisition,  and  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholo¬ 
mew’s,  procured  for  the  Prince  of  Orange,  the 
Admiral  Coligny,  the  British  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  the  Protestant  princes  of  Germany,  supplies 
of  men  and  money  from  their  subjects,  to  a  degree 
which  at  present  is  inconceivable. 

But,  with  all  their  exertions,  they  would  have 
effected  little  against  a  power  which  was  an  over¬ 
match  for  any  single  adversary,  however  powerful. 
At  this  period  of  imperfect  policy,  accidental  cir¬ 
cumstances  alone  could  determine  distant  states 
to  afford  one  another  a  mutual  support.  The  differ¬ 
ences  of  government,  of  laws,  of  language,  of  man¬ 
ners,  and  of  character,  which  hithertoo  had  kept 
whole  nations  and  countries  as  it  were  insulated, 
and  raised  a  lasting  barrier  between  them,  ren¬ 
dered  one  state  insensible  to  the  distresses  of  an¬ 
other,  save  where  national  jealously  could  indulge 
a  malicious  joy  at  the  reverses  of  a  rival.  This 
barrier  the  Reformation  destroyed.  An  interest 
more  intense  and  more  immediate  than  national 
aggrandizement  or  patriotism,  and  entirely  inde¬ 
pendent  of  private  utility,  began  to  animate  whole 
states  and  individual  citizens;  an  interest  capable 
of  uniting  numerous  and  distant  nations,  even 
while  it  frequently  lost  its  force  among  the  sub¬ 
jects  of  the  same  government.  With  the  inhabi¬ 
tants  of  Geneva,  for  instance,  of  England,  of 
Germany,  or  of  Holland,  the  French  Calvinist 
possessed  a  common  point  of  union  which  he  had 
not  with  his  own  countrymen.  Thus,  in  one  im¬ 
portant  particular,  he  ceased  to  be  the  citizen  of 
a  single  state,  and  to  confine  his  views  and  sym¬ 
pathies  to  his  own  country  alone.  The  sphere  of  his 
views  became  enlarged.  He  began  to  calculate 
his  own  fate  from  that  of  other  nations  of  the 
same  religious  profession,  and  to  make  their  cause 
his  own.  Now  for  the  first  time  did  princes  ven¬ 
ture  to  bring  the  affairs  of  other  countries  before 
their  own  councils;  for  the  first  time  could  they 
hope  for  a  willing  ear  to  their  own  necessities,  and 
prompt  assistance  from  others.  Foreign  affairs 
had  now  become  a  matter  of  domestic  policy,  and 
that  aid  was  readily  granted  to  the  religious  con¬ 
federate  which  would  have  been  denied  to  the 
mere  neighbor,  and  still  more  to  the  distant 
stranger.  The  inhabitant  of  the  Palatinate  leaves 
his  native  fields  to  fight  side  by  side  with  his  reli¬ 
gious  associate  of  France,  against  the  common 
enemy  of  their  faith.  The  Huguenot  draws  his 
sword  against  the  country  which  persecutes  him, 
and  sheds  his  blood  in  defense  of  the  liberties  of 
Holland.  Swiss  is  arrayed  against  Swiss  ;  Ger¬ 
man  against  German,  to  determine,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire  and  the  Seine,  the  succession  of  the 
French  crown.  The  Dane  crosses  the  Eider,  and 
the  Swede  the  Baltic,  to  break  the  chains  which 
are  forged  for  Germany. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  what  would  have  been  the 
fate  of  the  Reformation,  and  the  liberties  of  the 
Empire,  had  not  the  formidable  power  of  Austria 
declared  against  them.  This,  however,  appears 
certain,  that  nothing  so  completely  damped  the 
Austrian  hopes  of  universal  monarchy,  as  the  ob¬ 
stinate  war  which  they  had  to  wage  against  the 
new  religious  opinions.  Under  no  other  circum¬ 
stances  could  the  weaker  princes  have  roused  their 
subjects  to  such  extraordinary  exertions  against 


the  ambition  of  Austria,  or  the  States  themselves 
have  united  so  closely  against  the  common 
enemy. 

The  power  of  Austria  never  stood  higher  than 
after  the  victory  which  Charles  Y.  gained  over 
the  Germans  at  Mlihlberg.  With  the  treaty  of 
Smalcalde  the  freedom  of  Germany  lay,  as  it 
seemed,  prostrate  forever ;  but  it  revived  under 
Maurice  of  Saxony,  once  its  most  formidable 
enemy.  All  the  fruits  of  the  victory  of  Mlihlberg 
were  lost  again  in  the  congress  of  Passau,  and 
the  diet  of  Augsburg;  and  every  scheme  for  civil 
and  religious  oppression  terminated  in  the  con¬ 
cessions  of  an  equitable  peace. 

The  diet  of  Augsburg  divided  Germany  into 
two  religious  and  two  political  parties,  by  recog¬ 
nizing  the  independent  rights  and  existence  of 
both.  Hitherto  the  Protestants  had  been  looked 
on  as  rebels ;  they  were  henceforth  to  be  regarded 
as  brethren — not  indeed  through  affection,  but  ne¬ 
cessity.  By  the  Interim,*  the  Confession  of 
Augsburg  was  allowed  temporarily  to  take  a  sis¬ 
terly  place  alongside  of  the  olden  religion,  though 
only  as  a  tolerated  neighbor.  To  every  secular 
state  was  conceded  the  right  of  establishing  the 
religion  it  acknowledged  as  supreme  and  exclusive 
within  its  own  territories,  and  of  forbidding  the 
open  profession  of  its  rival.  Subjects  were  to  be 
free  to  quit  a  country  where  their  own  religion 
was  not  tolerated.  The  doctrines  of  Luther  for 
the  first  time  received  a  positive  sanction ;  and 
if  they  were  trampled  under  foot  in  Bavaria  and 
Austria,  they  predominated  in  Saxony  and  Thu¬ 
ringia.  But  the  sovereigns  alone  were  to  deter¬ 
mine  what  form  of  religion  should  prevail  within 
their  territories  ;  the  feelings  of  subjects  who  had 
no  representatives  in  the  diet  were  little  attended 
to  in  the  pacification.  In  the  ecclesiastical  ter¬ 
ritories,  indeed,  where  the  unreformed  religion  en¬ 
joyed  an  undisputed  supremacy,  the  free  exercise 
of  their  religion  was  obtained  for  all  who  had 
previously  embraced  the  Protestant  doctrine  ;  but 
this  indulgence  rested  only  on  the  personal  guar¬ 
antee  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  the  Romans,  by 
whose  endeavors  chiefly  this  peace  was  effected ; 
a  guarantee,  which  being  rejected  by  the  Roman 
Catholic  members  of  the  diet,  and  only  inserted 
in  the  treaty  under  their  protest,  could  not,  of 
course,  have  the  force  of  law. 

If  it  had  been  opinions  only  that  thus  divided 
the  minds  of  men,  with  what  indifference  would 
all  have  regarded  the  division !  But  on  these 
opinions  depended  riches,  dignities,  and  rights ; 
and  it  was  this  which  so  deeply  aggravated  the 
evils  of  divisions.  Of  two  brothers,  as  it  were, 
who  had  hitherto  enjoyed  a  paternal  inheritance 
in  common,  one  now  remained  while  the  other 
was  compelled  to  leave  his  father’s  house,  and 
hence  arose  the  necessity  of  dividing  the  patri¬ 
mony.  For  this  separation,  which  he  could  not 
have  foreseen,  the  father  had  made  no  provision. 
By  the  beneficent  donations  of  pious  ancestors  the 
riches  of  the  church  had  been  accumulating 

*  A  system  of  theology  so  called,  prepared  by  order  . 
of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  for  the  use  of  Germany,  to 
reconcile  the  differences  between  the  Roman  Catholics 
and  the  Lutherans,  which,  however,  was  rejected  by 
both  parties.—  Ed. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


127 


through  a  thousand  years,  and  these  benefactors 
were  as  much  the  progenitors  of  the  departing 
brother  as  of  him  who  remained.  Was  the  right 
of  inheritance  then  to  be  limited  to  the  paternal 
house,  or  to  be  extended  to  blood  ?  The  gifts 
had  been  made  to  the  church  in  communion  with 
Home,  because  at  that  time  no  other  existed, — to 
the  first-born,  as  it  were,  because  he  was  as  yet 
the  only  son.  Was  then  a  right  of  primogeniture 
to  be  admitted  in  the  church,  as  in  noble  families? 
W  ere  the  pretensions  of  one  party  to  be  favored 
by  a  prescription  from  times  when  the  claims  of 
the  other  could  not  have  come  into  existence  ? 
Could  the  Lutherans  be  justly  excluded  from 
these  possessions,  to  which  the  benevolence  of 
their  forefathers  had  contributed,  merely  on  the 
ground  that,  at  the  date  of  their  foundation,  the 
differences  between  Lutheranism  and  Romanism 
were  unknown?  Both  parties  have  disputed, 
and  still  dispute,  with  equal  plausibility,  on  these 
points.  Both  alike  have  found  it  difficult  to  prove 
their  right.  Law  can  be  applied  only  to  conceiv¬ 
able  cases,  and  perhaps  spiritual  foundations  are 
not  among  the  number  of  these,  and  still  less 
where  the  conditions  of  the  founders  generally  ex¬ 
tended  to  a  system  of  doctrines  ;  for  how  is  it  con¬ 
ceivable  that  a  permanent  endowment  should  be 
made  of  opinions  left  open  to  change  ? 

What  law  cannot  decide,  is  usually  determined 
by  might,  and  such  was  the  case  here.  The  one 
party  held  firmly  all  that  could  no  longer  be 
wrested  from  it — the  other  defended  what  it  still 
possessed.  All  the  bishoprics  and  abbeys  which 
had  been  secularized  before  the  peace,  remained 
with  the  Protestants;  but,  by  an  express  clause, 
the  unreformed  Catholics  provided  that  none 
should  thereafter  be  secularized.  Every  impro¬ 
priator  of  an  ecclesiastical  foundation,  who  held 
immediately  of  the  Empire,  whether  elector,  bishop, 
or  abbot,  forfeited  his  benefice  and  dignity  the 
moment  he  embraced  the  Protestant  belief;  he 
was  obliged  in  that  event  instantly  to  resign  its 
emoluments,  and  the  chapter  was  to  proceed  to  a 
new  election,  exactly  as  if  his  place  had  been 
vacated  by  death.  By  this  sacred  anchor  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Reservation,  ( Reservatura  Ecclesi- 
asticum,)  which  makes  the  temporal  existence  of 
a  spiritual  prince  entirely  dependent  on  his  fidelity 
to  the  olden  religion,  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
in  Germany  is  still  held  fast ;  and  precarious, 
indeed,  would  be  its  situation  were  this  anchor  to 
give  way.  The  principle  of  the  Ecclesiastical 
Reservation  was  strongly  opposed  by  the  Protest¬ 
ants;  and  though  it  was  at  last  adopted  into  the 
treaty  of  peace,  its  insertion  was  qualified  with 
the  declaration,  that  parties  had  come  to  no  final 
determination  on  the  point.  Could  it  then  be 
more  binding  on  the  Protestants  than  Ferdinand’s 
guarantee  in  favor  of  Protestant  subjects  of  eccle¬ 
siastical  states  was  upon  the  Roman  Catholics  ? 
Thus  were  two  important  subjects  of  dispute  left 
unsettled  in  the  treaty  of  peace,  and  by  them  the 
war  was  rekindled. 

Such  was  the  position  of  things  with  regard  to 
religious  toleration  and  ecclesiastical  property  ;  it 
was  the  same  with  regard  to  rights  and  dignities. 
The  existing  German  system  provided  only  for 
one  church,  because  one  only  wTas  in  existence 


when  that  system  was  framed.  The  church  had 
now  divided  ;  the  Diet  had  broken  into  two  reli¬ 
gious  parties  ;  was  the  whole  system  of  the  Em¬ 
pire  still  exclusively  to  follow  the  one  ?  The 
emperors  had  hitherto  been  members  of  the  Rom¬ 
ish  church,  because  till  now  that  religion  had  no 
rival.  But  was  it  his  connection  with  Rome  which 
constituted  a  German  emperor,  or  was  it  not 
rather  Germany  which  was  to  be  represented  in 
its  head?  The  Protestants  were  now  spread  over 
the  whole  Empire,  and  how  justly  could  they  still 
be  represented  by  an  unbroken  line  of  Roman 
Catholic  emperors?  In  the  Imperial  Chamber 
the  German  States  judge  themselves,  for  they 
elect  the  judges  ;  it  was  the  very  end  of  its  insti¬ 
tution  that  they  should  do  so,  in  order  that  equal 
justice  should  be  dispensed  to  all ;  but  would  this 
be  still  possible,  if  the  representatives  of  both 
professions  were  not  equally  admissible  to  a  seat 
in  the  Chamber?  That  one  religion  only  existed 
in  Germany  at  the  time  of  its  establishment,  was 
accidental  ;  that  no  one  estate  should  have  the 
means  of  legally  oppressing  another,  was  the  es¬ 
sential  purpose  of  the  institution.  Now  this  ob¬ 
ject  would  be  entirely  frustrated  if  one  religious 
party  were  to  have  the  exclusive  power  of  decid¬ 
ing  fertile  other.  Must,  then,  the  design  be  sacri¬ 
ficed,  because  that  which  was  merely  accidental  had 
changed?  With  great  difficulty  the  Protestants, 
at  last,  obtained  for  the  representatives  of  their 
religion  a  place  in  the  Supreme  Council,  but  still 
there  was  far  from  being  a  perfect  equality  of 
voices.  To  this  day  no  Protestant  prince  has 
been  raised  to  the  imperial  throne. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  equality  which  the 
peace  of  Augsburg  was  to  have  established  be¬ 
tween  the  two  German  churches,  the  Roman 
Catholic  had  unquestionably  still  the  advantage. 
All  that  the  Lutheran  church  gained  by  it  was 
toleration  ;  all  that  the  Romish  church  conceded, 
was  a  sacrifice  to  necessity,  not  an  offering  to 
justice.  Yery  far  was  it  from  being  a  peace  be¬ 
tween  two  equal  powers,  but  a  truce  between  a 
sovereign  and  unconquered  rebels.  From  this 
principle  all  the  proceedings  of  the  Roman  Cath¬ 
olics  against  the  Protestants  seemed  to  flow,  and 
still  continue  to  do  so.  To  join  the  reformed 
faith  was  still  a  crime,  since  it  was  to  be  visited 
with  so  severe  a  penalty  as  that  which  the  Eccle¬ 
siastical  Reservation  held  suspended  over  the 
apostasy  of  the  spiritual  princes.  Even  to  the 
last,  the  Romish  church  preferred  to  risk  the  loss 
of  every  thing  by  force,  than  voluntarily  to  yield 
the  smallest  matter  to  justice.  The  loss  was  ac¬ 
cidental  and  might  be  repaired  ;  but  the  abandon¬ 
ment  of  its  pretensions,  the  concession  of  a  single 
point  to  the  Protestants,  would  shake  foundations 
of  the  church  itself.  Even  in  the  treaty  of  peace 
this  principle  was  not  lost  sight  of.  Whatever 
in  this  peace  was  yielded  to  the  Protestants  was 
always  under  condition.  It  was  expressly  de¬ 
clared,  that  affairs  werd  to  remain  on  the  stipu¬ 
lated  footing  only  till  the  next  general  council, 
which  was  to  be  called  with  the  view  of  effecting 
a  union  between  the  two  confessions.  Then  only, 
when  this  last  attempt  should  have  failed,  was  the 
religious  treaty  to  become  valid  and  conclusive. 
However  little  hope  there  might  be  of  such  a  re- 


128 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


conciliation,  however  little  perhaps  the  Roman¬ 
ists  themselves  were  in  earnest  with  it,  still  it  was 
something-  to  have  clogged  the  peace  with  these 
stipulations. 

Thus  this  religious  treaty,  which  was  to  extin¬ 
guish  forever  the  flames  of  civil  war,  was,  in  fact, 
but  a  temporary  truce,  extorted  by  force  and  ne¬ 
cessity  ;  not  dictated  by  justice,  nor  emanating 
from  just  notions  either  of  religion  or  toleration. 
A  religious  treaty  of  this  kind  the  Roman  Cath¬ 
olics  were  as  incapable  of  granting,  to  be  candid, 
as  in  truth  the  Lutherans  were  unqualified  to  re¬ 
ceive.  Far  from  evincing  a  tolerant  spirit  toward 
the  Roman  Catholics,  when  it  was  in  their  power, 
they  even  oppressed  the  Calvinists;  ^vho  indeed 
just  as  little  deserved  toleration,  since  they  were 
unwilling  to  practice  it.  For  such  a  peace  the 
times  were  not  yet  ripe — the  minds  of  men  not 
yet  sufficiently  enlightened.  How  could  one  party 
expect  from  another  what  itself  was  incapable  of 
performing?  What  each  side  saved  or  gained  by 
the  treaty  of  Augsburg,  it  owed  to  the  imposing 
attitude  of  strength  which  it  maintained  at  the 
time  of  its  negotiation.  What  was  won  by  force 
was  to  be  maintained  also  by  force  ;  if  the  peace 
was  to  be  permanent,  the  two  parties  to  it  must 
preserve  the  same  relative  positions.  The  bound¬ 
aries  of  the  two  churches  had  been  marked  out 
with  the  sword  ;  with  the  sword  they  must  be  pre¬ 
served,  or  woe  to  that  party  which  should  be  first 
disarmed  !  A  sad  and  fearful  prospect  for  the 
tranquillity  of  Germany,  when  peace  itself  bore  so 
threatening  an  aspect. 

A  momentary  lull  now  pervaded  the  empire  ;  a 
transitory  bond  of  concord  appeared  to  unite  its 
scattered  limbs  into  one  body,  so  that  for  a  time  a 
feeling  also  for  the  common  weal  returned.  But 
the  division  had  penetrated  its  inmost  being,  and 
to  restore  its  original  harmony  was  impossible. 
Carefully  as  the  treaty  of  peace  appeared  to  have 
defined  the  rights  of  both  parties,  its  interpreta¬ 
tion  was  nevertheless  the  subject  of  many  disputes. 
In  the  heat  of  conflict  it  had  produced  a  cessation 
of  hostilities  ;  it  covered,  not  extinguished,  the 
fire,  and  unsatisfied  claims  remained  on  either 
side.  The  Romanists  imagined  they  had  lost  too 
much,  the  Protestants  that  they  had  gained  too 
little  ;  and  the  treaty  which  neither  party  could 
venture  to  violate,  was  interpreted  by  each  in  its 
own  favor. 

The  seizure  of  the  ecclesiastical  benefices,  the 
motive  which  had  so  strongly  tempted  the  ma¬ 
jority  of  the  Protestant  princes  to  embrace  the 
doctrines  of  Luther,  was  not  less  powerful  after 
than  before  the  peace  ;  of  those  whose  founders 
did  not  hold  their  fiefs  immediately  of  the  empire, 
such  as  were  not  already  in  their  possession  would, 
it  was  evident,  soon  be  so.  The  whole  of  Lower 
Germany  was  already  secularized  ;  and  if  it  were 
otherwise  in  Upper  Germany,  it  was  owing  to  the 
vehement  resistance  of  the  Catholics,  who  had 
there  the  preponderance.  Each  party,  where  it 
was  the  most  powerful,  oppressed  the  adherents 
of  the  other  ;  the  ecclesiastical  princes  in  par¬ 
ticular,  as  the  most  defenseless  members  of  the 
empire,  were  incessantly  tormented  by  the  ambi¬ 
tion  ot  their  Protestant  neighbors.  Those  who 
were  too  weak  to  repel  force  by  force,  took  refuge 


under  the  wing3  of  justice ;  and  the  complaints 
of  spoliation  were  heaped  up  against  the  Protest¬ 
ants  in  the  Imperial  Chamber,  which  was  ready 
enough  to  pursue  the  accused  with  judgments,  but 
found  too  little  support  to  carry  them  into  effect. 
The  peace  which  stipulated  for  complete  religious 
toleration  to  the  dignitaries  of  the  Empire,  had 
provided  also  for  the  subject,  by  enabling  him, 
without  interruption,  to  leave  the  country  in  which 
the  exercise  of  his  religion  was  prohibited.  But 
from  the  wrongs  which  the  violence  of  a  sovereign 
might  inflict  on  an  obnoxious  subject  ;  from  the 
nameless  oppressions  by  which  he  might  harass 
and  annoy  the  emigrant;  from  the  artful  snares 
in  which  subtilty  combined  with  power  might  en¬ 
mesh  him — from  these,  the  dead  letter  of  the 
treaty  could  afford  him  no  protection.  The  Cath¬ 
olic  subject  of  Protestant  princes  complained 
loudly  of  violations  of  the  religious  peace — the 
Lutherans  still  more  loudly  of  the  oppression  they 
experienced  under  their  Romanist  suzerains.  The 
rancor  and  animosities  of  theologians  infused  a 
poison  into  every  occurrence,  however  inconsidera¬ 
ble,  and  inflamed  the  minds  of  the  people.  Happy 
would  it  have  been  had  this  theological  hatred  ex¬ 
hausted  its  zeal  upon  the  common  enemy,  instead 
of  venting  its  virus  on  the  adherents  of  a  kindred 
faith  ! 

Unanimity  amongst  the  Protestants  might,  by 
preserving  the  balance  between  the  contending 
parties,  have  prolonged  the  peace;  but  as  if  to 
complete  the  confusion,  all  concord  was  quickly 
broken.  The  doctrines  which  had  been  propa¬ 
gated  by  Zuingli  in  Zurich,  and  by  Calvin  in 
Geneva,  soon  spread  to  Germany,  and  divided  the 
Protestants  among  themselves,  with  little  in  uni¬ 
son  save  their  common  hatred  to  popery.  The 
Protestants  of  this  date  bore  but  slight  resem¬ 
blance  to  those  who,  fifty  years  before,  drew  up 
the  Confession  of  Augsburg;  and  the  cause  of 
the  change  is  to  be  sought  in  that  Confession 
itself.  It  had  prescribed  a  positive  boundary  to 
the  Protestant  faith,  before  the  newly  awakened 
spirit  of  inquiry  had  satisfied  itself  as  to  the  limits 
it  ought  to  set ;  and  the  Protestants  seemed  un¬ 
wittingly  to  have  thrown  away  much  of  the  ad¬ 
vantage  acquired  by  their  rejection  of  popery. 
Common  complaints  of  the  Romish  hierarchy, 
and  of  ecclesiastical  abuses,  and  a  common  dis¬ 
approbation  of  its  dogmas,  formed  a  sufficient 
centre  of  union  for  the  Protestants;  but  not  con¬ 
tent  with  this,  they  sought  a  rallying  point  in  the 
promulgation  of  a  new  and  positive  creed,  in 
which  they  sought  to  embody  the  distinctions, 
the  privileges,  and  the  essence  of  the  church,  and 
to  thi§  they  referred  the  convention  entered  into 
with  their  opponents.  It  was  as  professors  of 
this  creed  that  they  had  acceded  to  the  treaty; 
and  in  the  benefits  of  this  peace  the  advocates  of 
the  confessional  one  were  entitled  to  participate. 
In  anv  case,  therefore,  the  situation  of  its  adhe- 
rents  was  embarrassing.  If  a  blind  obedience 
were  yielded  to  the  dicta  of  the  Confession,  a 
lasting  bound  would  be  set  to  the  spirit  of  in¬ 
quiry  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  they  dissented  from 
the  formulae  agreed  upon,  the  point  of  union 
would  be  lost.  Unfortunately  both  incidents  oc¬ 
curred,  and  the  evil  results  of  both  were  quickly 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


129 


felt.  One  party  rigorously  adhered  to  the  origi¬ 
nal  symbol  of  faith,  and  the  other  abandoned  it, 
only  to  adopt  another  with  equal  exclusiveness. 

Nothing  could  have  furnished  the  common 
enemy  a  more  plausible  defense  of  his  cause  than 
this  dissension ;  no  spectacle  could  have  been 
more  gratifying  to  him  than  the  rancor  with  which 
the  Protestants  alternately  persecuted  each  other. 
Who  could  condemn  the  Roman  Catholics,  if 
they  laughed  at  the  audacity  with  which  the  Re¬ 
formers  had  presumed  to  announce  the  only  true 
belief? — if  from  Protestants  they  borrowed  the 
weapons  against  Protestants? — if,  in  the  midst 
of  this  clashing  of  opinions,  they  held  fast  to  the 
authority  of  their  own  church,  for  which,  in  part, 
there  spoke  an  honorable  antiquity,  and  a  yet 
more  honorable  plurality  of  voices.  But  this  di¬ 
vision  placed  the  Protestants  in  still  more  serious 
embarrassments.  As  the  covenants  of  the  treaty 
applied  only  to  the  partisans  of  the  Confession, 
their  opponents,  with  some  reason,  called  upon 
them  to  explain  who  were  to  be  recognized  as  the 
adherents  of  that  creed.  The  Lutherans  could 
not,  without  offending  conscience,  include  the 
Calvinists  in  their  communion ;  except  at  the  risk 
of  converting  a  useful  friend  into  a  dangerous 
enemy,  could  they  exclude  them.  This  unfortu¬ 
nate  difference  opened  a  way  for  the  machina¬ 
tions  of  the  Jesuits  to  sow  distrust  between  both 
parties,  and  to  destroy  the  unity  of'their  measures. 
Fettered  by  the  double  fear  of  their  direct  adver¬ 
saries,  and  of  their  opponents  among  themselves, 
the  Protestants  lost  for  ever  the  opportunity  of 
placing  their  church  on  a  perfect  equality  with 
the  Catholic.  All  these  difficulties  would  have 
been  avoided,  and  the  defection  of  the  Calvinists 
would  not  have  prejudiced  the  common  cause,  if 
the  point  of  union  had  been  placed  simply  in  the 
abandonment  of  Romanism,  instead  of  in  the  Con¬ 
fession  of  Augsburg. 

But  however  divided  on  other  points,  they  con¬ 
curred  in  this — that  the  security  which  had  re¬ 
sulted  from  equality  of  power  could  only  be  main¬ 
tained  by  the  preservation  of  that  balance.  In 
the  mean  while,  the  continual  reforms  of  one 
party,  and  the  opposing  measures  of  the  other, 
Kept  both  upon  the  watch,  while  the  interpreta¬ 
tion  of  the  religious  treaty  was  a  never-ending 
subject  of  dispute.  Each  party  maintained  that 
every  step  taken  by  its  opponent  was  an  infrac¬ 
tion  of  the  peace,  while  of  every  movement  of  its 
own  it  was  asserted  that  it  was  essential  to  its 
maintenance.  Yet  all  the  measures  of  the  Catho¬ 
lics  did  not,  a3  their  opponents  alleged,  proceed 
from  a  spirit  of  encroachment — many  of  them 
were  the  necessary  precautions  of  self-defense. 
The  Protestants  had  shown  unequivocally  enough 
what  the  Romanists  might  expect  if  they  were 
unfortunate  enough  to  become  the  weaker  party. 
The  greediness  of  the  former  for  the  property  of 
the  church,  gave  no  reason  to  expect  indul¬ 
gence; — their  bitter  hatred  left  no  hope  of  mag¬ 
nanimity  or  forbearance. 

But  the  Protestants,  likewise,  were  excusable 
if  they  toQ  placed  little  confidence  in  the  sincerity 
of  the  Roman  Catholics.  By  the  treacherous  and 
inhuman  treatment  which  their  brethren  in  Spain, 
Frauce,  and  the  Netherlands,  had  suffered  ;  by  the 

Vol.  11. — 9 


disgraceful  subterfuge  of  the  Romish  princes,  who 
held  that  the  Pope  had  power  to  relieve  them 
from  the  obligation  of  the  most  solemn  oaths; 
and  above  all,  by  the  detestable  maxim,  that  faith 
was  not  to  be  kept  with  heretics,  the  Roman 
Church,  in  the  eyes  of  all  honest  men,  had  lost  its 
honor.  No  engagement,  no  oath,  however  sacred, 
from  a  Roman  Catholic,  could  satisfy  a  Protest¬ 
ant.  What  security  then  could  the  religious 
peace  afford,  when,  throughout  Germany,  the 
Jesuits  represented  it  as  a  measure  of  mere  tem¬ 
porary  convenience,  and  in  Rome  itself  it  was 
solemnly  repudiated. 

The  General  Council,  to  which  reference  had 
been  made  in  the  treaty,  had  already  been  held 
in  the  city  of  Trent;  but,  as  might  have  been 
foreseen,  without  accommodating  the  religious 
differences,  or  taking  a  single  step  to  effect  such 
accommodation,  and  even  without  being  attended 
by  the  Protestants.  The  latter,  indeed,  were  now 
solemnly  excommunicated  by  it  in  the  name  of 
the  church,  whose  representative  the  Council  gave 
itself  out  to  be.  Could  then,  a  secular  treaty,  ex¬ 
torted  moreover  by  force  of  arms,  afford  them 
adequate  protection  against  the  ban  of  the  church  ; 
a  treaty,  too,  based  on  a  condition  which  the  deci¬ 
sion  of  the  Council  seemed  entirely  to  abolish? 
There  was  then  a  show  of  right  for  violating  the 
peace,  if  only  the  Romanists  possessed  the  power  ; 
and  henceforward  the  Protestants  were  protected 
by  nothing  but  the  respect  for  their  formidable 
array. 

Other  circumstances  combined  to  augment  this 
distrust.  Spain,  on  whose  support  the  Romanists 
in  Germany  chiefly  relied,  was  engaged  in  a  bloody 
conflict  with  the  Flemings.  By  it,  the  flower  of 
the  Spanish  troops  wrere  drawn  to  the  confines  of 
Germany.  With  what  ease  might  they  be  intro¬ 
duced  within  the  empire,  if  a  decisive  stroke  should 
render  their  presence  necessary?  Germany  wras 
at  that  time  a  magazine  of  war  for  nearly  all  the 
powers  of  Europe.  The  religious  war  had  crowded 
it  with  soldiers,  w'hom  the  peace  left  destitute  ;  its 
many  independent  princes  found  it  easy  to  assem¬ 
ble  armies,  and  afterward,  for  the  sake  of  gain, 
or  the  interests  of  party,  hire  them  out  to  other 
powers.  With  German  troops,  Philip  the  Second 
waged  war  against  the  Netherlands,  and  with 
German  troops  they  defended  themselves.  Every 
such  levy  in  Germany  wras  a  subject  of  alarm  to 
the  one  party  or  the  other,  since  it  might  be  in¬ 
tended  for  their  oppression.  The  arrival  of  an 
ambassador,  an  extraordinary  legate  of  the  Pope, 
a  conference  of  princes,  every  unusual  incident, 
must,  it  was  thought,  be  pregnant  with  destruc¬ 
tion  to  some  party.  Thus,  for  nearly  half  a  cen¬ 
tury,  stood  Germany,  her  hand  upon  the  sword  ; 
every  rustle  of  a  leaf  alarmed  her. 

Ferdinand  the  First,  King  of  Hungary,  and  his 
excellent  son,  Maximilian  the  Second,  held  at  this 
memorable  epoch  the  reins  of  government.  With 
a  heart  full  of  sincerity,  with  a  truly  heroic  pa¬ 
tience,  had  Ferdinand  brought  about  the  religious 
peace  of  Augsburg,  and  afterward,  in  the  Coun¬ 
cil  of  Trent,  labored  assiduously,  though  vainly, 
at  the  ungrateful  task  of  reconciling  the  two  reli¬ 
gions.  Abandoned  by  his  nephew,  Philip  of 
Spain,  and  hard  pressed  both  in  Hungary  and 


130 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Transylvania  by  the  victorious  armies  of  the 
Turks,  it  was  not  likely  that  this  emperor  would 
entertain  the  idea  of  violating  the  religious  peace, 
and  thereby  destroying  his  own  painful  work.  The 
heavy  expenses  of  the  perpetually  recurring  war 
with  Turkey  could  not  be  defrayed  by  the  meagre 
contributions  of  his  exhausted  hereditary  domin¬ 
ions.  He  stood,  therefore,  in  need  of  the  assist¬ 
ance  of  the  whole  empire  ;  and  the  religious  peace 
alone  preserved  in  one  body  the  otherwise  divided 
empire.  Financial  necessities  made  the  Protest¬ 
ant  as  needful  to  him  as  the  Romanist,  and  im¬ 
posed  upon  him  the  obligation  of  treating  both 
parties  with  equal  justice,  which  amidst  so  many 
contradictory  claims,  was  truly  a  cplossal  task. 
Very  far,  however,  was  the  result  from  answering 
his  expectations.  His  indulgence  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  served  only  to  bring  upon  his  successors 
a  war,  which  death  saved  himself  the  mortification 
of  witnessing.  Scarcely  more  fortunate  was  his 
son  Maximilian,  with  whom  perhaps  the  pressure 
of  circumstances  was  the  only  obstacle,  and  a 
longer  life  perhaps  the  only  want,  to  his  establish¬ 
ing  the  new  religion  upon  the  imperial  throne. 
Necessity  had  taught  the  father  forbearance  to¬ 
ward  the  Protestants — necessity  and  justice  dic¬ 
tated  the  same  course  to  the  son.  The  grandson 
had  reason  to  repent  that  he  neither  listened  to 
justice,  nor  yielded  to  necessity. 

Maximilian  left  six  sons,  of  whom  the  eldest, 
the  Archduke  Rodolph,  inherited  his  dominions, 
and  ascended  the  imperial  throne.  The  other 
brothers  were  put  off  with  petty  appendages.  A 
few  mesne  fiefs  were  held  by  a  collateral  branch, 
which  had  their  uncle,  Charles  of  Styria,  at  its 
head  ;  and  even  these  were  afterward,  under  his 
son,  Ferdinand  the  Second,  incorporated  with  the 
rest  of  the  family  dominions.  With  this  excep¬ 
tion,  the  whole  of  the  imposing  power  of  Austria 
was  now  wielded  by  a  single,  but  unfortunately 
weak  hand. 

Rodolph  the  Second  was  not  devoid  of  those 
virtues  which  might  have  gained  him  the  esteem 
of  mankind,  had  the  lot  of  a  private  station  fal¬ 
len  to  him.  His  character  was  mild,  he  loved 
peace  and  the  sciences,  particularly  astronomy, 
natural  history,  chemistry,  and  the  study  of  an¬ 
tiquities.  To  those  he  applied  with  a  passionate 
zeal,  which,  at  the  very  time  when  the  critical 
posture  of  affairs  demanded  all  his  attention,  and 
his  exhausted  finances  the  most  rigid  economy, 
diverted  his  attention  from  state  affairs,  and  in¬ 
volved  him  in  pernicious  expense.  His  taste  for 
astronomy  soon  lost  itself  in  those  astrological 
reveries  to  which  timid  and  melancholy  tempera¬ 
ments  like  his  are  but  too  disposed.  This,  to¬ 
gether  with  a  youth  passed  in  Spain,  opened  his 
ears  to  the  evil  counsels  of  the  Jesuits,  and  the 
influence  of  the  Spanish  court,  by  which  at  last 
he  was  wholly  governed.  Ruled  by  tastes  so  lit¬ 
tle  in  accordance  with  the  dignity  of  his  station, 
and  alarmed  by  ridiculous  prophecies,  he  with¬ 
drew,  after  the  Spanish  custom,  from  the  eyes  of 
his  subjects,  to  bury  himself  amidst  his  gems  and 
antiques,  in  his  Tab  oratory,  while  the  most  fatal 
discords  loosened  all  the  bands  of  the  empire,  and 
the  flames  of  rebellion  began  to  burst  out  round 
the  very  footsteps  of  his  throne.  All  access  to 


his  person  was  denied,  the  most  urgent  matters 
were  neglected.  The  prospect  of  the  rich  inheri¬ 
tance  of  Spain  was  closed  against  him,  while  he 
was  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  to  offer  his  hand 
to  the  Infanta  Isabella.  A  fearful  anarchy  threat¬ 
ened  the  Empire,  because,  though  without  an 
heir  of  his  own  body  himself,  he  could  not  be  per¬ 
suaded  to  allow  the  election  of  a  King  of  the  Ro¬ 
mans.  The  Austrian  States  renounced  their 
allegiance,  Hungary  and  Transylvania  threw  off 
his  supremacy,  and  Bohemia  was  not  slow  in  fol¬ 
lowing  their  example.  The  descendant  of  the 
once  so  formidable  Charles  the  Fifth  was  in  per¬ 
petual  danger,  either  of  losing  one  part  of  his  pos¬ 
sessions  to  the  Turks,  or  another  to  the  Protest¬ 
ants,  and  of  sinking,  beyond  redemption,  under 
the  formidable  coalition  which  a  great  monarch 
of  Europe  had  formed  against  him.  The  events 
which  now  took  place  in  the  interior  of  Germany 
were  such  as  usually  happened  when  either  the 
throne  was  without  an  emperor,  or  the  emperor 
without  a  sense  of  his  imperial  dignity.  Out¬ 
raged  or  abandoned  by  their  head,  the  states  of 
the  empire  were  left  to  help  themselves  ;  and  al¬ 
liances  among  themselves  must  supply  the  defec¬ 
tive  authority  of  the  emperor.  Germany  was 
divided  into  two  leagues,  which  stood  in  arms  ar¬ 
rayed  against  each  other  ;  between  both,  Rodolph, 
the  despised  opponent  of  the  one,  and  the  impo¬ 
tent  protector  of  the  other,  remained  irresolute 
and  useless,  equally  unable  to  destroy  the  former 
or  to  command  the  latter.  What  had  the  em¬ 
pire  to  look  for  from  a  prince  incapable  even  of 
defending  his  hereditary  dominions  against  its  do¬ 
mestic  enemies  ?  To  prevent  the  utter  ruin  of 
the  House  of  Austria,  his  own  family  combined 
against  him  ;  and  a  powerful  party  threw  itself 
into  the  arms  of  his  brother.  Driven  from  his 
hereditary  dominions,  nothing  was  now  left  him 
to  lose  but  the  imperial  dignity  ;  and  he  was  only 
spared  this  last  disgrace  by  a  timely  death. 

At  this  critical  moment,  when  only  a  supple 
policy  united  with  a  vigorous  arm,  could  have 
maintained  the  tranquillity  of  the  empire,  its  evil 
genius  gave  it  a  Rodolph  for  emperor.  At  a  more 
peaceful  period  the  Germanic  Union  would  have 
managed  its  own  interests,  and  Rodolph,  like  so 
many  others  of  his  rank,  might  have  hidden  his 
deficiencies  in  a  mysterious  obscurity.  But  the 
urgent  demand  for  the  qualities  in  which  he  was 
deficient  revealed  his  incapacity.  The  position 
of  Germany  called  for  an  emperor  who,  by  his 
known  energies,  could  give  weight  to  his  resolves ; 
and  the  hereditary  dominions  of  Rodolph,  con¬ 
siderable  as  they  were,  were  at  present  in  a  situa¬ 
tion  to  occasion  the  greatest  embarrassment  to 
the  governors. 

The  Austrian  princes,  it  is  true,  were  Roman 
Catholics,  and  in  addition  to  that,  the  supporters 
of  Popery,  but  their  countries  were  far  from  being 
so.  The  reformed  opinions  had  penetrated  even 
these,  and  favored  by  Ferdinand’s  necessities  and 
Maximilian’s  mildness,  had  met  with  a  rapid  suc¬ 
cess.  The  Austrian  provinces  exhibited  in  minia¬ 
ture  what  Germany  did  on  a  larger  scale.  The 
great  nobles  and  the  Ritter  class  or  knights  were 
chiefly  evangelical,  and  in  the  cities  the  Protest¬ 
ants  had  a  decided  preponderance.  If  they  sue- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


131 


ceeded  in  bringing  a  few  of  their  party  into  the 
country,  they  contrived  imperceptibly  to  fill  all 
places  of  trust  and  the  magistracy  with  their  own 
adherents,  and  to  exclude  the  Catholics.  Against 
the  numerous  order  of  the  nobles  and  knights,  and 
the  deputies  from  the  towms,  the  voice  of  a  few 
prelates  was  powerless  ;  and  the  unseemly  ridi¬ 
cule  and  offensive  contempt  of  the  former  soon 
drove  them  entirely  from  the  provincial  diets. 
Thus  the  whole  of  the  Austrian  Diet  had  imper¬ 
ceptibly  become  Protestant,  and  the  Reformation 
was  making  rapid  strides  toward  its  public  recog¬ 
nition.  The  prince  was  dependent  on  the  states, 
who  had  it  in  their  power  to  grant  or  refuse  sup¬ 
plies.  Accordingly  they  availed  themselves  of 
the  financial  necessities  of  Ferdinand  and  his  son 
to  extort  one  religious  concession  after  another. 
To  these  nobles  and  knights,  Maximilian  at  last 
conceded  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion,  but 
only  within  their  own  territories  and  castles. 
The  intemperate  enthusiasm  of  the  Protestant 
preachers  overstepped  the  boundaries  which  pru¬ 
dence  had  prescribed.  In  defiance  of  the  express 
prohibition,  several  of  them  ventured  to  preach 
publicly,  not  only  in  the  towns,  but  in  Vienna 
itself,  and  the  people  flocked  in  crowds  to  this 
new  doctrine,  the  best  seasoning  of  which  was  per¬ 
sonality  and  abuse.  Thus  continued  food  was 
supplied  to  fanaticism,  and  the  hatred  of  two 
churches,  that  were  such  near  neighbors,  was  fur¬ 
ther  envenomed  by  the  sting  of  an  impure  zeal. 

Among  the  hereditary  dominions  of  the  House 
of  Austria,  Hungary  and  Transylvania  were  the 
most  unstable,  and  the  most  difficult  to  retain. 
The  impossibility  of  holding  these  two  countries 
against  the  neighboring  and  overwhelming  power 
of  the  Turks,  had  already  driven  Ferdinand  to  the 
inglorious  expedient  of  recognizing,  by  an  annual 
tribute,  the  Porte’s  supremacy  over  Transylvania ; 
a  shameful  confession  of  weakness,  and  a  still 
more  dangerous  temptation  to  the  turbulent  no¬ 
bility,  when  they  fancied  they  had  any  reason  to 
complain  of  their  master.  Not  without  condi¬ 
tions  had  the  Hungarians  submitted  to  the  House 
of  Austria.  They  asserted  the  elective  freedom 
of  their  crown,  and  boldly  contended  for  all  those 
prerogatives  of  their  order  which  are  inseparable 
from  this  freedom  of  election.  The  near  neigh¬ 
borhood  of  Turkey,  the  facility  of  changing  mas¬ 
ters  with  impunity,  encouraged  the  magnates  still 
more  in  their  presumption  ;  discontented  with  the 
Austrian  government  they  threw  themselves  into 
the  arms  of  the  Turks ;  dissatisfied  with  these, 
they  returned  again  to  their  German  sovereigns. 
The  frequency  and  rapidity  of  these  transitions 
from  one  government  to  another,  had  communi¬ 
cated  its  influences  also  to  their  mode  of  think¬ 
ing,  and  as  their  country  wavered  between  the 
Turkish  and  Austrian  rule,  so  their  minds  vacil¬ 
lated  between  revolt  and  submission.  The  more 
unfortunate  each  nation  felt  itself  in  being  de¬ 
graded  into  a  province  of  a  foreign  kingdom,  the 
stronger  desire  did  they  feel  to  obey  a  monarch 
chosen  from  amongst  themselves,  and  thus  it  was 
always  easy  for  an  enterprising  noble  to  obtain 
their  support.  The  nearest  Turkish  pasha  was 
always  ready  to  bestow  the  Hungarian  sceptre 
and  crown  on  a  reoei  against  Austria ;  just  as 


ready  was  Austria  to  confirm  to  any  adventurer 
the  possession  of  provinces  which  he  had  wrested 
from  the  Porte,  satisfied  with  preserving  thereby 
the  shadow  of  authority,  and  with  erecting  at  the 
same  time  a  barrier  against  the  Turks.  In  this 
way  several  of  these  magnates,  Bathori,  Boschkai, 
Ragoczi,  and  Bethlem  succeeded  in  establishing 
themselves,  one  after  another,  as  tributary  sove¬ 
reigns  in  Transylvania  and  Hungry  ;  and  they 
maintained  their  ground  by  no  deeper  policy  than 
that  of  occasionally  joining  the  enemy,  in  order 
to  render  themselves  more  formidable  to  the  ir 
own  prince. 

Ferdinand,  Maximilian,  and  Rodolph,  who 
were  all  sovereigns  of  Hungary  and  Transylvania, 
exhausted  their  other  territories  in  endeavoring  to 
defend  these  from  the  hostile  inroads  of  the  Turks, 
and  to  put  down  intestine  rebellion.  In  this 
quarter  destructive  wars  were  succeeded  but  by 
brief  truces,  which  were  scarcely  less  hurtful  :  far 
and  wide  the  land  lay  waste,  while  the  injured 
serf  had  to  complain  equally  of  his  enemy  and  his 
protector.  Into  these  countries  also  the  Refor¬ 
mation  had  penetrated ;  and  protected  by  the 
freedom  of  the  states,  and  under  the  cover  of  the 
internal  disorders,  had  made  a  noticeable  pro¬ 
gress.  Here  too  it  was  incautiously  attacked, 
and  party-spirit  thus  became  yet  more  dangerous 
from  religious  enthusiasm.  Headed  by  a  bold 
rebel,  Boschkai,  the  nobles  of  Hungary  and  Tran¬ 
sylvania  raised  the  standard  of  rebellion.  The 
Hungarian  insurgents  were  upon  the  point  of 
making  common  cause  with  the  discontented  Pro¬ 
testants  in  Austria,  Moravia,  and  Bohemia,  and 
uniting  all  those  countries  in  one  fearful  revolt. 
The  downfall  of  Popery  in  these  lands  would  then 
have  been  inevitable. 

Long  had  the  Austrian  archdukes,  the  brothers 
of  the  Emperor,  beheld  with  silent  indignation  the 
impending  ruin  of  their  house  ;  this  last  event  has¬ 
tened  their  decision.  The  Archduke  Matthias, 
Maximilian’s  second  son,  Viceroy  in  Hungary,  and 
Rodolph’s  presumptive  heir,  now  came  forward  as 
the  stay  of  the  falling  house  of  Hapsburg.  In 
his  youth,  misled  by  a  false  ambition,  this  prince, 
disregarding  the  interests  of  his  family,  had  lis¬ 
tened  to  the  overtures  of  the  Flemish  insurgents, 
who  invited  him  into  the  Netherlands  to  conduct 
the  defense  of  their  liberties  against  the  oppres¬ 
sion  of  his  own  relative,  Philip  the  Second.  Mis¬ 
taking  the  voice  of  an  insulated  faction  for  that 
of  the  entire  nation,  Matthias  obeyed  the  call. 
But  the  event  answered  the  expectations  of  the 
men  of  Brabant  as  little  as  his  own,  and  from  this 
imprudent  enterprise  he  retired  with  little  credit. 

Far  more  honorable  was  his  second  appearance 
in  the  political  world.  Perceiving  that  his  re¬ 
peated  remonstrances  with  the  Emperor  were  un¬ 
availing,  he  assembled  the  archdukes,  his  broth¬ 
ers  and  cousins,  at  Presburg,  aud  consulted  with 
them  on  the  growing  perils  of  their  house,  when 
they  unanimously  assigned  to  him,  as  the  oldest, 
the  duty  of  defending  that  patrimony  which  a 
feeble  brother  was  endangering.  In  his  hands  they 
placed  all  their  powers  and  rights,  and  vested  him 
with  sovereign  authority,  to  act  at  his  discretion 
for  the  common  good.  Matthias  immediately 
I  opened  a  communication  with  the  Porte  and  the 


132 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Hungarian  rebels,  and  through  his  skillful  man¬ 
agement  succeeded  in  saving,  by  a  peace  with  the 
Turks,  the  remainder  of  Hungary,  and  by  a  treaty 
with  the  rebels,  preserved  the  claims  of  Austria 
to  the  lost  provinces.  But  Rodolph,  as  jealous  as 
he  had  hitherto  been  careless  of  his  sovereign 
authority,  refused  to  ratify  this  treaty,  which  he 
regarded  as  a  criminal  encroachment  on  his  sove¬ 
reign  rights.  He  accused  the  Archduke  of  keep¬ 
ing  up  a  secret  understanding  with  the  enemy, 
and  of  cherishing  treasonable  designs  on  the 
crown  of  Hungary. 

The  activity  of  Matthias  was,  in  truth,  any 
thing  but  disinterested  ;  the  conduct  .of  the  Em¬ 
peror  only  accelerated  the  execution  of  his  ambi¬ 
tious  views.  Secure,  from  motives  of  gratitude, 
of  the  devotion  of  the  Hungarians,  for  w'hom  he 
had  so  lately  obtained  the  blessings  of  peace  ;  as¬ 
sured  by  his  agents  of  the  favorable  disposition 
of  the  nobles,  and  certain  of  the  support  of  a  large 
party,  even  in  Austria,  he  now  ventured  to  as¬ 
sume  a  bolder  attitude,  and,  sword  in  hand,  to 
discuss  his  grievances  with  the  Emperor.  The 
Protestants  in  Austria  and  Moravia,  long  ripe  for 
revolt,  and  now  won  over  to  the  Archduke  by  his 
promises  of  toleration,  loudly  and  openly  espoused 
his  cause,  and  their  long-menaced  alliance  wTith 
the  Hungarian  rebels  was  actually  effected.  Al¬ 
most  at  once  a  formidable  conspiracy  was  planned 
and  matured  against  the  Emperor.  Too  late  did 
he  resolve  to  amend  his  past  errors ;  in  vain  did 
he  attempt  to  break  up  this  fatal  alliance.  Al¬ 
ready  the  whole  empire  was  in  arms  ;  Hungary, 
Austria  and  Moravia  had  done  homage  to  Matthias, 
who  was  already  on  his  march  to  Bohemia  to 
seize  the  Emperor  in  his  palace,  and  to  cut  at  once 
the  sinews  of  his  power. 

Bohemia  was  not  a  more  peaceable  possession 
for  Austria  than  Hungary ;  with  this  difference 
only,  that,  in  the  latter,  political  consideration,  in 
the  former,  religious  dissensions,  fomented  dis¬ 
orders.  In  Bohemia,  a  century  before  the  days 
of  Luther,  the  first  spark  of  the  religious  war  had 
been  kindled  :  a  century  after  Luther,  the  first 
flames  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War  burst  out  in  Bo¬ 
hemia.  The  sect  which  owed  its  rise  to  John 
Huss,  still  existed  in  that  country ;  it  agreed  with 
the  Bomish  Church  in  ceremonies  and  doctrines, 
with  the  simple  exception  of  the  administration 
of  the  Communion,  in  which  the  Hussites  commu¬ 
nicated  in  both  kinds.  This  privilege  had  been 
conceded  to  the  followers  of  Huss  by  the  Council 
of  Basle,  in  an  express  treaty,  (the  Bohemian 
Compact ;)  and  though  it  wras  afterward  dis¬ 
avowed  by  the  popes,  they  nevertheless  continued 
to  profit  by  it  under  the  sanction  of  the  govern¬ 
ment.  As  the  use  of  the  cup  formed  the  only  im¬ 
portant  distinction  of  their  body,  they  were  des¬ 
ignated  by  the  name  of  Utraquists ;  and  they 
readily  adopted  an  appellation  which  reminded 
them  of  their  dearly  valued  privilege.  But  under 
this  title  lurked  also  the  far  stricter  sects  of  the 
Bohemian  and  Moravian  Brethren,  who  differed 
from  the  predominant  church  in  more  important 
particulars,  and  bore,  in  fact,  a  greater  resem¬ 
blance  to  the  German  Protestants.  Among  them 
both,  the  German  and  the  Swiss  opinions  on  re¬ 
ligion  made  rapid  progress ;  while  the  name  of 


Utraquists,  under  which  they  managed  to  disguise 
the  change  of  their  principles,  shielded  them  from 
persecution. 

In  truth,  they  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
Utraquists  but  the  name;  essentially,  they  were 
altogether  Protestant.  Confident  in  the  strength 
of  their  party,  and  the  Emperor’s  toleration  under 
Maximilian,  they  had  openly  avowed  their  tenets. 
After  the  example  of  the  Germans,  they  drew  up 
a  Confession  of  their  own,  in  which  Lutheians  as 
well  as  Calvinists  recognized  their  own  doctrines, 
and  they  sought  to  transfer  to  the  new  Confession 
the  privileges  of  the  original  Utraquists.  In  this 
they  were  opposed  by  their  Roman  Catholic 
countrymen,  and  forced  to  rest  content  with  the 
emperor’s  verbal  assurance  of  protection. 

As  long  as  Maximilian  lived,  they  enjoyed  com¬ 
plete  toleration,  even  under  the  new  form  they 
had  taken.  Under  his  successor  the  scene  changed. 
An  imperial  edict  appeared,  which  deprived  the 
Bohemian  Brethren  of  their  religious  freedom. 
Now  these  differed  in  nothing  from  the  other 
Utraquists.  The  sentence,  therefore,  of  their  con¬ 
demnation,  obviously  included  all  the  partisans 
of  the  Bohemian  Confession.  Accordingly,  they 
all  combined  to  oppose  the  imperial  mandate  in 
the  Diet,  but  without  being  able  to  procure  its 
revocation.  The  Emperor  and  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  Estates  took  their  ground  on  the  Compacts 
and  the  Bohemian  Constitution  ;  in  which  nothing 
appeared  in  favor  of  a  religion  which  had  not 
then  obtained  the  voice  of  the  country.  Since 
that  time,  how  completely  had  affairs  changed ! 
What  then  formed  but  an  inconsiderable  opinion, 
had  now  become  the  predominant  religion  of  the 
country.  And  what  was  it  then,  but  a  subterfuge 
to  limit  a  newly  spreading  religion  by  the  terms 
of  obsolete  treaties  ?  The  Bohemian  Protestants 
appealed  to  the  verbal  guarantee  of  Maximilian, 
and  the  religious  freedom  of  the  Germans,  with 
whom  they  argued  they  ought  to  be  on  a  footing 
of  equality.  It  was  in  vain — their  appeal  was  dis¬ 
missed. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  affairs  in  Bohemia, 
when  Matthias,  already  master  of  Hungary,  Aus¬ 
tria,  and  Moravia,  appeared  in  Collin,  to  raise 
the  Bohemian  Estates  also  against  the  Emperor. 
The  embarrassment  of  the  latter  was  now  at  its 
height.  Abandoned  by  all  his  other  subjects,  he 
placed  his  last  hopes  on  the  Bohemians,  who,  it 
might  be  foreseen,  would  take  advantage  of  his 
necessities  to  enforce  their  own  demands.  After 
an  interval  of  many  years,  he  once  more  appeared 
publicly  in  the  Diet  at  Prague  ;  and  to  convince 
the  people  that  he  was  really  still  in  existence, 
orders  were  given  that  all  the  windows  should  be 
opened  in  the  streets  through  which  he  was  to 
pass — proof  enough  how  far  things  had  gone  with 
him.  This  event  justified  his  fears.  The  Estates, 
conscious  of  their  own  power,  refused  to  take  a 
single  step  until  their  privileges  were  confirmed, 
and  religious  toleration  fully  assured  to  them.  It 
was  in  vain  to  have  recourse  now  to  the  old  sys¬ 
tem  of  evasion.  The  Emperor’s  fate  was  in  their 
hands,  and  he  must  yield  to  necessity.  At  pres¬ 
ent,  however,  he  only  granted  their  other  demands 
— religious  matters  he  reserved  for  consideration 
at  the  next  diet. 


2— G.  p.  168 


2— E.  p.  132, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


133 


The  Bohemians  now  took  up  arms  in  defense 
of  the  Emperor,  and  a  bloody  war  between  the 
two  brothers  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out. 
But  Rodoiph,  who  feared  nothing  so  much  as  re¬ 
maining  in  this  slavish  dependence  on  the  Estates, 
waited  not  for  a  warlike  issue,  but  hastened  to 
effect  a  reconciliation  with  his  brother  by  more 
peaceable  means.  By  a  formal  act  of  abdication 
he  resigned  to  Matthias,  what  indeed  he  had  no 
chance  of  wresting  from  him,  Austria  and  the 
kingdom  of  Hungary,  and  acknowledged  him  as  his 
successor  to  the  crown  of  Bohemia. 

Dearly  enough  had  the  Emperor  extricated 
himself  from  one  difficulty,  only  to  get  imme¬ 
diately  involved  in  another.  The  settlement  of 
the  religious  affairs  of  Bohemia  had  been  referred 
to  the  next  Diet,  which  was  held  in  1609.  The 
reformed  Bohemians  demanded  the  free  exercise 
of  their  faith,  as  under  the  former  emperors  ;  a 
Consistory  of  their  own ;  the  cession  of  the  Uni¬ 
versity  of  Prague  ;  and  the  right  of  electing  De¬ 
fenders,  or  Protectors  of  Liberty,  from  their 
own  body.  The  answer  was  the  same  as  before ; 
for  the  timid  Emperor  was  now  .entirely  fettered 
by  the  unreformed  party.  However  often,  and  in 
however  threatening  language  the  Estates  renewed 
their  remonstrances,  the  Emperor  persisted  in  his 
first  declaration  of  granting  nothing  beyond  the 
old  compacts.  The  Diet  broke  up  without  coming 
to  a  decision ;  and  the  Estates,  exasperated  against 
the  Emperor,  arranged  a  general  meeting  at  Prague, 
upon  their  own  authority,  to  right  themselves. 

They  appeared  at  Prague  in  great  force.  In 
defiance  of  the  imperial  prohibition,  they  carried 
on  their  deliberations  almost  under  the  very  eyes 
of  the  Emperor.  The  yielding  compliance  which 
he  began  to  show,  only  proved  how  much  they 
were  feared,  and  increased  their  audacity.  Yet 
on  the  main  point  he  remained  inflexible.  They 
fulfilled  their  threats,  and  at  last  resolved  to  es¬ 
tablish,  by  their  own  power,  the  free  and  universal 
exercise  of  their  religion,  and  to  abandon  the 
Emperor  to  his  necessities  until  he  should  confirm 
this  resolution.  They  even  went  further,  and 
elected  for  themselves  the  Defenders  which  the 
Emperor  had  refused  them.  Ten  were  nominated 
by  each  of  the  three  Estates  ;  they  also  deter¬ 
mined  to  raise,  as  soon  as  possible,  an  armed  force, 
at  the  head  of  which  Count  Thurn,  the  chief  or¬ 
ganizer  of  the  revolt,  should  be  placed  as  general 
defender  of  the  liberties  of  Bohemia.  Their  de¬ 
termination  brought  the  Emperor  to  submission-, 
to  which  he  was  now  counseled  even  by  the 
Spaniards.  Apprehensive  lest  the  exasperated 
Estates  should  throw  themselves  into  the  arms 
of  the  King  of  Hungary,  he  signed  the  memorable 
Letter  of  Majesty  for  Bohemia,  hy  which,  under 
the  successors  of  the  Emperor,  that  people  justi¬ 
fied  their  rebellion. 

The  Bohemian  Confession,  which  the  States  had 
laid  before  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  wras,  by  the 
Letter  of  Majesty,  placed  on  a  footing  of  equality 
with  the  olden  profession.  The  Utraquists,  for 
by  this  title  the  Bohemian  Protestants  continued 
to  designate  themselves,  were  put  in  possession 
of  the  University  of  Prague,  and  allowed  a  Con¬ 
sistory  of  their  own,  entirely  independent  of  the 
arclrepiscopal  see  of  that  city.  All  the  churches 


in  the  cities,  villages,  and  market  towns,  which 
they  held  at  the  date  of  the  letter,  were  secured 
to  them  ;  and  if,  in  addition,  they  wished  to  erect 
others,  it  was  permitted  to  the  nobles,  and  knights 
and  the  free  cities  to  do  so.  This  last  clause  in 
the  Letter  of  Majesty  gave  rise  to  the  unfortunate 
disputes  which  subsequently  rekindled  the  flames 
of  war  in  Europe. 

The  Letter  of  Majesty  erected  the  Protestant 
part  of  Bohemia  into  a  kind  of  republic.  The 
States  had  learned  to  feel  the  power  which  they 
gained  by  perseverance,  unity,  and  harmony  in 
their  measures.  The  Emperor  now  retained  little 
more  than  the  shadow  of  his  sovereign  authority; 
while  by  the  new  dignity  of  the  so-called  defenders 
of  liberty,  a  dangerous  stimulus  was  given  to  the 
spirit  of  revolt.  The  example  and  success  of  Bo¬ 
hemia  afforded  a  tempting  seduction  to  the  other 
hereditary  dominions  of  Austria,  and  all  attempted 
by  similar  means  to  extort  similar  privileges.  The 
spirit  of  liberty  spread  from  one  province  to  an¬ 
other ;  and  as  it  was  chiefly  the  disunion  among 
the  Austrian  princes  that  had  enabled  the  Pro¬ 
testants  so  materially  to  improve  their  advantages, 
they  now  hastened  to  effect  a  reconciliation  be¬ 
tween  the  Emperor  and  the  King  of  Hungary. 

But  the  reconciliation  could  not  be  sincere.  The 
wrong  was  too  great  to  be  forgiven,  and  Rodoiph 
continued  to  nourish  at  heart  an  unextinguishable 
hatred  of  Matthias.  With  grief  and  indignation 
he  brooded  over  the  thought,  that  the  Bohemian 
sceptre  was  finally  to  descend  into  the  hands  of 
his  enemy;  and  the  prospect  was  not  more  con¬ 
soling,  even  if  Matthias  should  die  without  issue. 

In  that  case,  Ferdinand.  Archduke  of  Gratz, 
whom  he  equally  disliked,  was  the  head  of  the 
family.  To  exclude  the  latter  as  well  as  Matthias 
from  the  succession  to  the  throne  of  Bohemia,  he 
fell  upon  the  project  of  diverting  that  inheritance 
to  Ferdinand’s  brother,  the  Archduke  Leopold, 
Bishop  of  Passau,  who  among  all  his  relatives  had 
ever  been  the  dearest  and  most  deserving.  The 
prejudices  of  the  Bohemians  in  favor  of  the  elec¬ 
tive  freedom  of  their  crown,  and  their  attachment 
to  Leopold’s  person,  seemed  to  favor  this  scheme, 
in  which  Rodoiph  consulted  rather  his  own  par¬ 
tiality  and  vindictiveness  than  the  good  of  his 
house.  But  to  carry  out  this  project,  a  military 
force  was  requisite,  and  Rodoiph  actually  assem¬ 
bled  an  army  in  the  bishopric  of  Passau.  The 
object  of  this  force  was  hidden  from  all.  An  in 
road,  however,  which,  for  want  of  pay  it  made 
suddenly  and  without  the  Emperor’s  knowledge 
into  Bohemia,  and  the  outrages  which  it  there 
committed,  stirred  up  the  whole  kingdom  against 
him.  In  vain  he  asserted  his  innocence  to  the 
Bohemian  Estates ;  they  would  not  believe  his 
protestations :  vainly  did  he  attempt  to  restrain 
the  violence  of  his  soldiery  ;  they  disregarded  his 
orders.  Persuaded  that  the  Emperor’s  object  was 
to  annul  the  Letter  of  Majesty,  the  Protectors  of 
Liberty  armed  the  whole  of  Protestant  Bohemia,  • 
and  invited  Matthias  into  the  country.  After 
the  dispersion  of  the  force  he  had  collected  at 
Passau,  the  Emperor  remained  helpless  at  Prague, 
where  he  was  kept  shut  up  like  a  prisoner  in  his 
palace,  and  separated  from  all  his  councilors.  In 
the  mean  time,  Matthias  entered  Prague  amidst 


134 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


universal  rejoicings,  where  Rodolph  was  soon 
aferward  weak  enough  to  acknowledge  him  King 
of  Bohemia.  So  hard,  a  fate  befel  this  Emperor ; 
he  was  compelled,  during  his  life,  to  abdicate  in 
favor  of  his  enemy  that  very  throne,  of  which  he 
had  been  endeavoring  to  deprive  him  after  his 
own  death.  To  complete  his  degradation,  he  was 
obliged,  by  a  personal  act  of  renunciation,  to  re¬ 
lease  his  subjects  in  Bohemia,  Silesia,  and  Lusa- 
tia,  from  their  allegiance,  and  he  did  it  with  a 
broken  heart.  All,  even  those  he  thought  he  had 
most  attached  to  his  person,  had  abandoned  him. 
When  he  had  signed  the  instrument,  he  threw  his 
hat  upon  the  ground,  and  gnawed  }he  pen  which 
had  rendered  him  so  shameful  a  service. 

While  Rodolph  thus  lost  one  hereditary  do¬ 
minion  after  another,  the  imperial  dignity  was 
not  much  better  maintained  by  him.  Each  of  the 
religious  parties  into  which  Germany  was  divided, 
continued  its  efforts  to  advance  itself  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  the  other,  or  to  guard  against  its  attacks. 
The  weaker  the  hand  that  held  the  sceptre,  and 
the  more  the  Protestants  and  Roman  Catholics 
felt  they  were  left  to  themselves,  the  more  vigi¬ 
lant  necessarily  became  their  watchfulness,  and 
the  greater  their  distrust  of  each  other.  It  was 
enough  that  the  Emperor  was  ruled  by  Jesuits, 
and  was  guided  by  Spanish  counsels,  to  excite 
the  apprehension  of  the  Protestants,  and  to  af¬ 
ford  a  pretext  for  hostility.  The  inconsiderate 
zeal  of  the  Jesuits,  which  in  the  pulpit  and  by 
the  press,  disputed  the  validity  of  the  religious 
peace,  increased  this  distrust,  and  caused  them  to 
see  a  dangerous  design  in  the  most  indifferent 
measures  of  the  Roman  Catholics.  Every  step 
taken  in  the  hereditary  dominions  of  the  Emperor, 
for  the  repression  of  the  reformed  religion,  was 
sure  to  draw  the  attention  of  all  the  Protestants 
of  Germany  ;  and  this  powerful  support  which  the 
reformed  subjects  of  Austria  met,  or  expected  to 
meet  with  from  their  religious  confederates  in  the 
rest  of  Germany,  was  no  small  cause  of  their  con¬ 
fidence,  and  of  the  rapid  success  of  Matthias.  It 
was  the  general  belief  of  the  empire,  that  they 
owed  the  long  enjoyment  of  the  religious  peace 
merely  to  the  difficulties  in  which  the  Emperor 
was  placed  by  the  internal  troubles  in  his  do¬ 
minions,  and  consecjuently  they  were  in  no  haste 
to  relieve  him  from  them. 

Almost  all  the  affairs  of  the  diet  were  neglected, 
either  through  the  procrastination  of  the  Emperor, 
or  through  the  fault  of  the  Protestants  Estates, 
who  had  determined  to  make  no  provision  for  the 
common  wants  of  the  empire  till  their  own  griev¬ 
ances  were  removed.  These  grievances  related 
principally  to  the  misgovernment  of  the  emperor ; 
the  violation  of  the  religious  treaty,  and  the  usur¬ 
pation  presumption  of  the  Imperial  Aulic  Coun¬ 
cil,  which  in  the  present  reign  had  begun  to  ex¬ 
tend  its  jurisdiction  at  the  expense  of  the  Impe¬ 
rial  Chamber.  Formerly,  in  all  disputes  between 
the  Estates,  which  could  not  be  settled  by  the 
club  law,  the  Emperors  had  decided  in  the  last 
resort  of  themselves,  if  the  case  were  trifling,  and 
in  conjunction  with  the  princes,  if  it  were  impor¬ 
tant  ;  or  they  determined  them  by  imperial  judges 
who  followed  the  court.  This  superior  jurisdic¬ 
tion  they  had,  in  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century, 


assigned  to  a  regular  and  permanent  tribunal, 
the  Imperial  Chamber  of  Spires,  in  which  the  Es¬ 
tates  of  the  Empire,  that  they  might  not  be  op¬ 
pressed  by  the  arbitrary  appointment  of  the  Em¬ 
peror,  had  reserved  to  themselves  the  right  of 
electing  the  assessors,  and  of  periodically  review¬ 
ing  its  decrees.  By  the  religious  peace,  these 
rights  of  the  Estates,  (called  the  rights  of  presen¬ 
tation  and  visitation,)  were  extended  also  to  the 
Lutherans,  so  that  Protestant  judges  had  a  voice 
in  Protestant  causes,  and  a  seeming  equality  ob¬ 
tained  for  both  religions  in  this  supreme  tribunal. 

But  the  enemies  of  the  Reformation  and  of  the 
freedom  of  the  Estates,  vigilant  to  take  advan¬ 
tage  of  every  incident  that  favored  their  views, 
soon  found  means  to  neutralize  the  beneficial  ef¬ 
fects  of  this  institution.  A  supreme  jurisdiction 
over  the  Imperial  States  was  gradually  and  skill¬ 
fully  usurped  by  a  private  imperial  tribunal,  the 
Aulic  Council  in  Vienna,  a  court  at  first  intended 
merely  to  advise  the  Emperor  in  the  exercise  of 
his  undoubted,  imperial,  and  personal  preroga¬ 
tives  ;  a  court,  whose  members  being  appointed 
and  paid  by  him,  had  no  law  but  the  interest 
of  their  master,  and  no  standard  of  equity  but 
the  advancement  of  the  unreformed  religion  of 
which  they  were  partisans.  Before  the  Aulic 
Council  were  now  brought  several  suits  originat¬ 
ing  between  Estates  differing  in  religion,  and 
which,  therefore,  properly  belonged  to  the  Impe¬ 
rial  Chamber.  It  was  not  surprising  if  the  de¬ 
crees  of  this  tribunal  bore  traces  of  their  origin ; 
if  the  interests  of  the  Roman  Church  and  of  the 
Emperor  were  preferred  to  justice  by  Roman 
Catholic  judges,  and  the  creatures  of  the  Emperor. 
Although  all  the  Estates  of  Germany  seemed  to 
have  equal  cause  for  resisting  so  perilous  an  abuse, 
the  Protestants  alone,  who  most  sensibly  felt  it, 
and  even  these  not  all  at  once  and  in  a  body,  came 
forward  as  the  defenders  of  German  liberty,  which 
the  establishment  of  so  arbitrary  a  tribunal  had 
outraged  in  its  most  sacred  point,  the  adminis¬ 
tration  of  justice.  In  fact,  Germany  would  have 
had  little  cause  to  congratulate  itself  upon  the 
abolition  of  club-law,  and  in  the  institution  of  the 
Imperial  Chamber,  if  an  arbitrary  tribunal  of  the 
Emperor  was  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  latter. 
The  Estates  of  the  German  Empire  would  indeed 
have  benefitted  little  upon  the  days  of  barbarism, 
if  the  Chamber  of  Justice  in  which  they  sat  along 
with  the  Emperor  as  judges,  and  for  which  they 
•had  abandoned  their  original  princely  preroga¬ 
tive,  should  cease  to  be  a  court  of  the  last  resort. 
But  the  strangest  contradictions  were  at  this  date 
to  be  found  in  the  minds  of  men.  The  name  of 
Emperor,  a  remnant  of  Roman  despotism,  waa 
still  associated  with  an  idea  of  autocracy,  which, 
though  it  formed  a  ridiculous  inconsistency  with 
the  privileges  of  the  Estates,  was  nevertheless  ar¬ 
gued  for  by  jurists,  diffused  by  the  partisans  of 
despotism,  and  believed  by  the  ignorant. 

To  these  general  grievances  was  gradually  ad¬ 
ded  a  chain  of  singular  incidents,  which  at  length 
converted  the  anxiety  of  the  Protestants  into 
utter  distrust.  During  the  Spanish  persecutions 
in  the  Netherlands,  several  Protestant  families 
had  taken  refuge  in  Aix-la-Chapel!e,  an  imperial 
city,  and  attached  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith, 


135 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


where  they  settled  and  insensibly  extended  their 
adherents.  Having  succeeded  by  stratagem  in 
introducing  some  of  their  members  into  the  mu¬ 
nicipal  council,  they  demanded  a  church  and  the 
public  exercise  of  their  worship,  and  the  demand 
being  unfavorably  received,  they  succeeded  by 
violence  iu  enforcing  it,  and  also  in  usurping  the 
entire  government  of  the  city.  To  see  so  impor¬ 
tant  a  city  in  Protestant  hands  was  too  heavy  a 
blow  for  the  Emperor  and  the  Homan  Catholics, 
After  all  the  Emperor’s  requests  and  commands 
for  the  restoration  of  the  olden  government  had 
proved  ineffectual,  the  Aulic  Council  proclaimed 
the  city  under  the  ban  of  the  Empire,  which, 
however,  was  not  put  in  force  till  the  following 
reign. 

Of  yet  greater  importance  were  two  other  at¬ 
tempts  of  the  Protestants  to  extend  their  in¬ 
fluence  and  their  power.  The  Elector  Gebhard, 
of  Cologne,  (born  Truchsess*  of  Waldburg,)  con¬ 
ceived  for  the  young  Countess  Agnes,  of  Mans¬ 
field,  Canouess  of  Gerresheim,  a  passion  which 
was  not  unreturned.  As  the  eyes  of  all  Germany 
were  directed  to  this  intercourse,  the  brothers  of 
the  Countess,  two  zealous  Calvinists,  demanded 
satisfaction  for  the  injured  honor  of  their  house, 
which,  as  long  as  the  elector  remained  a  Roman 
Catholic  prelate,  could  not  be  repaired  by  mar¬ 
riage.  They  threatened  the  elector  they  would 
wash  out  this  stain  in  his  blood  and  their  sister’s, 
unless  he  either  abandoned  all  further  connection 
with  the  countess,  or  consented  to  establish  her 
reputation  at  the  altar.  The  elector,  indifferent 
to  all  the  consequences  of  this  step,  listened  to 
nothing  but  the  voice  of  love.  Whether  it  was 
in  consequence  of  his  previous  inclination  to  the 
reformed  doctrines,  or  that  the  charms  of  his 
mistress  alone  effected  this  wonder,  he  renounced 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and  led  the  beautiful 
Agnes  to  the  altar. 

This  event  was  of  the  greatest  importance.  By 
the  letter  of  the  clause  reserving  the  ecclesiasti¬ 
cal  states  from  the  general  operation  of  the  reli¬ 
gious  peace,  the  elector  had,  by  his  apostasy,  for¬ 
feited  all  right  to  the  temporalities  of  his  bishop¬ 
ric  ;  and  if,  in  any  case,  it  was  important  for  the 
Catholics  to  enforce  the  clause,  it  was  so  espe¬ 
cially  iu  the  case  of  electorates.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  relinquishment  of  so  high  a  dignity  was 
a  severe  sacrifice,  and  peculiarly  so  in  the  case  of 
a  tender  husband,  who  had  wished  to  enhance  the 
value  of  his  heart  and  hand  by  the  gift  of  a  prin¬ 
cipality.  Moreover,  the  Reservatum  Ecclesiasti- 
cura  was  a  disputed  article  of  the  treaty  of  Augs¬ 
burg  ;  and  all  the  German  Protestants  were 
aware  of  the  extreme  importance  of  wresting 
this  fourthf  electorate  from  the  opponents  of 
their  faith.  The  example  had  already  been  set  in 
several  of  the  ecclesiastical  benefices  of  Lower 
Germany,  and  attended  with  success.  Several 
canons  of  Cologne  had  also  already  embraced  the 
Protestant  confession,  and  were  on  the  elector’s 
side,  while,  in  the  city  itself,  he  could  depend  upon 
the  support  of  a  numerous  Protestant  party.  All 

*  Grand-master  of  the  kitchen. 

f  Saxony,  Brandenburg,  and  the  Palatinate  were  al- 
feady  Protestant. 


these  considerations,  greatly  strengthened  by  the 
persuasions  of  his  friends  and  relations,  and  the 
promises  of  several  German  courts,  determined 
the  elector  to  retain  his  dominions,  while  he 
changed  his  religion. 

But  it  was  soon  apparent  that  he  had  entered 
upon  a  contest  which  he  could  not  carry  through. 
Even  the  free  toleration  of  the  Protestant  service 
within  the  territories  of  Cologne,  had  already  oc¬ 
casioned  a  violent  opposition  on  the  part  of  the 
canons  and  Roman  Catholic  Estates  of  that  pro¬ 
vince.  The  intervention  of  the  Emperor,  and  a 
papal  ban  from  Rome,  which  anathematized  the 
elector  as  an  apostate,  and  deprived  him  of  all 
his  dignities,  temporal  and  spiritual,  armed  his 
own  subjects  and  chapter  against  him.  The 
elector  assembled  a  military  force  ;  the  chapter 
did  the  same.  To  insure  also  the  aid  of  a  strong 
arm,  they  proceeded  forthwith  to  a  new  election, 
and  chose  the  Bishop  of  Liege,  a  prince  of  Ba¬ 
varia. 

A  civil  war  now  commenced,  which,  from  the 
strong  interest  which  both  religious  parties  in 
Germany  necessarily  felt  in  the  conjuncture,  was 
likely  to  terminate  in  a  general  breaking  up  of  the 
religious  peace.  What  most  made  the  Protes¬ 
tants  indignant,  was  that  the  Pope  should  have 
presumed,  by  a  pretended  apostolic  power,  to  de¬ 
prive  a  prince  of  the  empire  of  his  imperial  digni¬ 
ties.  Even  in  the  golden  days  of  their  spiritual 
domination,  this  prerogative  of  the  Pope  had  been 
disputed  ;  how  much  more  likely  was  it  to  be  ques¬ 
tioned  at  a  period  when  his  authority  was  entirely 
disowned  by  one  party,  while  even  with  the  other 
it  rested  on  a  tottering  foundation.  All  the  Pro¬ 
testant  princes  took  up  the  affair  warmly  against 
the  Emperor;  and  Henry  IY.  of  France,  then 
King  of  Navarre,  left  no  means  of  negotiation 
untried  to  urge  the  German  princes  to  the  vigor¬ 
ous  assertion  of  their  rights.  The  issue  would 
decide  for  ever  the  liberties  of  Germany.  Four 
Protestant  against  three  Roman  Catholic  voices 
in  the  Electoral  College  must  at  once  have  given 
the  preponderance  to  the  former,  and  forever  ex¬ 
cluded  the  House  of  Austria  from  the  imperial 
throne. 

But  the  Elector  Gebhard  had  embraced  the 
Calvinist,  not  the  Lutheran  religion  ;  and  this 
circumstance  alone  was  his  ruin.  The  mutual 
rancor  of  these  two  churches  would  not  permit 
the  Lutheran  Estates  to  regard  the  Elector  as  one 
of  their  party,  and  as  such  to  lend  him  their  effec¬ 
tual  support.  All  indeed  had  encouraged,  and 
promised  him  assistance ;  but  only  one  appanaged 
prince  of  the  Palatine  House,  the  Palsgrave  John 
Cassimir,  a  zealous  Calvinist,  kept  his  word.  Des¬ 
pite  of  the  imperial  prohibition,  he  hastened  with 
his  little  army  into  the  territories  of  Cologne ;  but 
without  being  able  to  effect  any  thing,  because  the 
elector,  who  was  destitute  even  of  the  first  neces¬ 
saries,  left  him  totally  without  help.  So  much 
the  more  rapid  was  the  progress  of  the  newly- 
chosen  elector,  whom  his  Bavarian  relations  and 
the  Spaniards  from  the  Netherlands  supported 
with  the  utmost  vigor.  The  troops  of  Gebhard, 
left  by  their  master  without  pay,  abandoned  one 
place  after  another  to  the  enemy  ;  by  whom  others 
were  compelled  to  surrender.  In  his  W estphalian 


136 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


territories,  Gebhard  held  out  for  some  time  longer, 
till  here,  too,  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  yield  to 
superior  force.  After  several  vain  attempts  in 
Holland  and  England  to  obtain  means  for  his 
restoration,  he  retired  into  the  Chapter  of  Stras- 
burg,  and  died  dean  of  that  cathedral ;  the  first 
sacrifice  to  the  Ecclesiastical  Reservation,  or 
rather  to  the  want  of  harmony  among  the  German 
Protestants. 

To  this  dispute  in  Cologne  was  soon  added  an¬ 
other  in  Strasburg.  Several  Protestant  canons 
of  Cologne,  who  had  been  included  in  the  same 
papal  ban  with  the  elector,  had  taken  refuge 
within  this  bishopric,  where  they  likewise  held 
prebends.  As  the  Roman  Catholic'  canons  of 
Strasburg  hesitated  to  allow  them,  as  being  under 
the  ban,  the  enjoyment  of  their  prebends,  they 
took  violent  possession  of  their  benefices,  and  the 
support  of  a  powerful  Protestant  party  among  the 
citizens  soon  gave  them  the  preponderance  in  the 
chapter.  The  other  canons  thereupon  retired  to 
Alsace-Saverne,  where,  under  the  protection  of 
the  bishop,  they  established  themselves  as  the 
only  lawful  chapter,  and  denounced  that  which 
remained  in  Strasburg  as  illegal.  The  latter,  in 
the  mean  time,  had  so  strengthened  themselves  by 
the  reception  of  several  Protestant  colleagues  of 
high  rank,  that  they  could  venture,  upon  the 
death  of  the  bishop,  to  nominate  a  new  Protestant 
bishop  in  the  person  of  John  George  of  Branden¬ 
burg..  The  Roman  Catholic  canons,  far  from 
allowing  this  election,  nominated  the  Bishop  of 
Metz,  a  prince  of  Lorraine,  to  that  dignity,  who 
announced  his  promotion  by  immediately  com¬ 
mencing  hostilities  against  the  territories  of 
Strasburg. 

That  city  now  took  up  arms  in  defense  of  its 
Protestant  chapter  and  the  Priuce  of  Branden¬ 
burg,  while  the  other  party,  with  the  assistance 
of  the  troops  of  Lorraine,  endeavored  to  possess 
themselves  of  the  temporalities  of  the  chapter. 
A  tedious  war  was  the  consequence,  which,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  was  attended 
with  barbarous  devastations.  In  vain  did  the 
Emperor  interpose  with  his  supreme  authority  to 
terminate  the  dispute  ;  the  ecclesiastical  property 
remained  for  a  long  time  divided  between  the  two 
parties,  till  at  last  the  Protestant  prince,  for  a 
moderate  pecuniary  equivalent,  renounced  his 
claims  ;  and  thus,  in  this  dispute  also,  the  Roman 
Church  came  off  victorious. 

An  occurrence  which,  soon  after  the  adjustment 
of  this  dispute,  took  place  in  Donauwerth,  a  free 
city  of  Suabia,  'was  still  more  critical  for  the 
whole  of  Protestant  Germany.  In  this  once 
Roman  Catholic  city,  the  Protestants,  during  the 
reigns  of  Ferdinand  and  his  son,  had,  in  the  usual 
way.  become  so  completely  predominant,  that  the 
Roman  Catholics  were  obliged  to  content  them¬ 
selves  with  a  church  in  the  Monastery  of  the 
Holy  Cross,  and  for  fear  of  offending  the  Protest¬ 
ants,  were  even  forced  to  suppress  the  greater  part 
of  their  religious  rites.  At  length  a  fanatical 
abbot  of  this  monastery  ventured  to  defy  the 
popular  prejudices,  and  to  arrange  a  public  pro¬ 
fession,  preceded  by  the  cross  and  banners  flying ; 
but  he  was  soon  compelled  to  desist  from  the  at¬ 
tempt.  When,  a  year  afterward,  encouraged  by 


a  favorable  imperial  proclamation,  the  same  abbot 
attempted  to  renew  this  procession,  the  citizens 
proceeded  to  open  violence.  The  inhabitants  shut 
the  gates  against  the  monks  on  their  return, 
trampled  their  colors  under  foot,  and  followed 
them  home  with  clamor  and  abuse.  An  imperial 
citation  was  the  consequence  of  this  act  of  vio¬ 
lence;  and  as  the  exasperated  populace  even 
threatened  to  assault  the  imperial  commissaries, 
and  all  attempts  at  an  amicable  adjustment  were 
frustrated  by  the  fanaticism  of  the  multitude,  the 
city  was  at  last  formally  placed  under  the  ban  of 
the  Empire,  the  execution  of  which  was  intrusted 
to  Maximilian,  Duke  of  Bavaria.  The  citizens, 
formerly  so  insolent,  were  seized  with  terror  at 
the  approach  of  the  Bavarian  army;  pusillan:mity 
now  possessed  them,  though  once  so  full  of  defi¬ 
ance,  and  they  laid  down  their  arms  without  strik¬ 
ing  a  blow.  The  total  abolition  of  the  Protestant 
religion  within  the  walls  of  the  city  was  the  pun¬ 
ishment  of  their  rebellion  ;  it  was  deprived  of  its 
privileges,  and,  from  a  free  city  of  Suabia,  con¬ 
verted  into  a  municipal  town  of  Bavaria. 

Two  circumstances  connected  with  this  proceed¬ 
ing  must  have  strongly  excited  the  attention 
of  the  Protestants,  even  if  the  interests  of  religion 
had  been  less  powerful  on  their  minds.  First  of 
all,  the  sentence  had  been  pronounced  by  the 
Aulic  Council,  an  arbitrary  and  exclusively  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  tribunal,  whose  jurisdiction  besides 
had  been  so  warmly  disputed  by  them  ;  and 
secondly,  its  execution  had  been  entrusted  to  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria,  the  head  of  another  circle. 
These  unconstitutional  steps  seemed  to  be  the 
harbingers  of  further  violent  measures  on  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  side,  the  result,  probably,  of  secret 
conferences  and  dangerous  designs,  which  might, 
perhaps,  end  in  the  entire  subversion  of  their  re¬ 
ligious  liberty. 

In  circumstances  where  the  law  of  force  pre¬ 
vails,  and  security  depends  on  power  alone,  the 
weakest  party  is  naturally  the  most  busy  to  place 
itself  in  a  posture  of  defense.  This  was  now  the 
case  in  Germany.  If  the  Roman  Catholics  really 
meditated  any  evil  against  the  Protestants  in 
Germany,  the  probability  was  that  the  blow  would 
fall  on  the  south  rather  than  the  north,  because, 
in  Lower  Germany,  the  Protestants  were  con¬ 
nected  together  through  a  long  unbroken  tract 
of  country,  and  could  therefore  easily  combine 
for  their  mutual  support  ;  while  those  in  the 
south,  detached  from  each  other,  and  surrounded 
on  all  sides  by  Roman  Catholic  states,  were  ex¬ 
posed  to  every  inroad.  If,  moreover,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  the  Catholics  availed  themselves  of 
the  divisions  amongst  the  Protestants,  and  lev¬ 
eled  their  attack  against  one  of  the  religious  par¬ 
ties,  it  was  the  Calvinists  who,  as  the  weaker,  and 
as  being  besides  excluded  from  the  religious 
treaty,  were  apparently  in  the  greatest  danger, 
and  upon  them  would  probably  fall  the  first 
attack. 

Both  these  circumstances  took  place  in  the  do¬ 
minions  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  which  possessed, 
in  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  a  formidable  neighbor, 
and  which,  by  reason  of  their  defection  to  Calvin¬ 
ism,  received  no  protection  from  the  Religious 
Peace,  and  had  little  hope  of  succor  from  the 


137 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Lutheran  states.  No  country  in  Germany  had 
experienced  so  many  revolutions  in  religion  in  so 
short  a  time  as  the  Palatinate.  In  the  space  of 
sixty  years  this  country,  an  unfortunate  toy  in  the 
hands  of  its  rulers,  had  twice  adopted  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  Luther,  and  twice  relinquished  them  for 
Calvinism.  The  Elector  Frederick  III.  first 
abandoned  the  confession  of  Augsburg,  which  his 
eldest  son  and  successor,  Lewis,  immediately  re¬ 
established.  The  Calvinists  throughout  the  whole 
country  were  deprived  of  their  churches,  their 
preachers,  and  even  their  teachers,  banished  be¬ 
yond  the  frontiers  ;  while  the  prince,  in  his  Lu¬ 
theran  zeal,  prosecuted  them  even  in  his  will,  by 
appointing  none  but  strict  and  orthodox  Luthe¬ 
rans  as  the  guardians  of  his  son,  a  minor.  But 
this  illegal  testament  was  disregarded  by  his  bro¬ 
ther  the  Count  Palatine,  John  Casimir,  who,  by 
the  regulations  of  the  Golden  Bull,  assumed  the 
guardianship  and  administration  of  the  state. 
Calvinistic  teachers  were  given  to  the  Elector 
Frederick  IV.,  then  only  nine  years  of  age,  who 
were  ordered,  if  necessary,  to  drive  the  Lutheran 
heresy  out  of  the  soul  of  their  pupil  with  blows. 
If  such  was  the  treatment  of  the  sovereign,  that 
of  the  subjects  may  be  easily  conceived. 

It  was  under  this  Frederick  that  the  Palatine 
Court  exerted  itself  so  vigorously  to  unite  the 
Protestant  states  of  Germany  in  joint  measures 
against  the  House  of  Austria,  and,  if  possible, 
bring  about  the  formation  of  a  general  confede¬ 
racy.  Besides  that  this  court  had  always  been 
guided  by  the  counsels  of  France,  with  whom 
hatred  of  the  House  of  Austria  was  the  ruling 
principle,  a  regard  for  his  own  safety  urged  him  to 
secure  in  time  the  doubtful  assistance  of  the  Lu¬ 
therans  against  a  near  and  overwhelming  enemy. 
Great  difficulties,  however,  opposed  this  union, 
because  the  Lutherans’  dislike  of  the  Beformed 
was  scarcely  less  than  the  common  aversion  of 
both  to  the  Romanists.  An  attempt  was  first 
made  to  reconcile  the  two  professions,  in  order  to 
facilitate  a  political  union  ;  but  all  these  attempts 
failed,  and  generally  ended  in  both  parties  adher¬ 
ing  the  more  strongly  to  their  respective  opin¬ 
ions.  Nothing  then  remained  but  to  increase  the 
fear  and  the  distrust  of  the  Evangelicals,  and  in 
this  way  to  impress  upon  them  the  necessity  of 
this  alliance.  The  power  of  the  Roman  Catholics 
and  the  magnitude  of  the  danger  were  exagge¬ 
rated,  accidental  incidents  were  ascribed  to  deli¬ 
berate  plans,  innocent  actions  misrepresented  by 
invidious  constructions,  and  the  whole  conduct 
of  the  professors  of  the  olden  religion  was  inter¬ 
preted  as  the  result  of  a  well-weighed  and  syste¬ 
matic  plan,  which,  in  all  probability,  they  were 
very  far  from  having  concerted. 

The  Diet  of  Ratisbon,  to  which  the  Protestants 
had  looked  forward  with  the  hope  of  obtaining 
a  renewal  of  the  Religious  Peace,  had  broken  up 
without  coming  to  a  decision,  and  to  the  former 
grievances  of  the  Protestant  party  was  now 
added  the  late  oppression  of  Donauwerth.  With 
incredible  speed,  the  union,  so  long  attempted, 
was  now  brought  to  bear.  A  conference  took 
place  at  Anhausen,  in  Franconia,  at  which  were 
present  the  Elector  Frederick  IV.,  from  the  Pa¬ 
latinate,  the  Palsgrave  of  Neuburg,  two  Mar¬ 


graves  of  Brandenburg,  the  Margrave  of  Baden, 
and  the  Duke  John  Frederick  of  Wirtemburg,— - 
Lutherans  as  well  as  Calvinists, — who  for  them¬ 
selves  and  their  heirs  entered  into  a  close  confe¬ 
deracy  under  the  title  of  the  Evangelical  Union. 
The  purport  of  this  union  was,  that  the  allied 
princes  should,  in  all  matters  relating  to  religion 
and  their  civil  rights,  support  each  other  with 
arms  and  counsel  against  every  aggressor,  and 
should  all  stand  as  one  man  ;  that  in  case  any 
member  of  the  alliance  should  be  attacked,  he 
should  be  resisted  by  the  rest  with  an  armed 
force  ;  that,  if  necessary,  the  territories,  towns,  and 
castles  of  the  allied  states  should  be  open  to  his 
troops  ;  and  that,  whatever  conquests  were  made, 
should  be  divided  among  all  the  confederates,  in 
proportion  to  the  contingent  furnished  by  each. 

The  direction  of  the  whole  confederacy  in  time 
of  peace  was  conferred  upon  the  Elector  Pala¬ 
tine,  but  with  a  limited  power.  To  meet  the  ne¬ 
cessary  expenses,  subsidies  were  demanded  and  a 
common  fund  established.  Differences  of  reli¬ 
gion  (betwixt  the  Lutherans  and  the  Calvinists) 
were  to  have  no  effect  on  this  alliance,  which  was 
to  subsist  for  ten  years,  every  member  of  the  union 
engaged  at  the  same  time  to  procure  new  members 
to  it.  The  Electorate  of  Brandenburg  adopted 
the  alliance,  that  of  Saxony  rejected  it.  Hesse- 
Cashel  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  declare 
itself,  the  Dukes  of  Brunswick  and  Luneburg 
also  hesitated.  But  the  three  cities  of  the 
Empire,  Strasburg,  Nuremburg,  and  Ulm,were  no 
unimportant  acquisition  for  the  league,  which  was 
in  great  want  of  their  money,  while  their  example, 
besides,  might  be  followed  by  other  imperial 
cities. 

After  the  formation  of  this  alliance,  the  con¬ 
federated  states,  dispirited,  and,  singly,  little 
feared,  adopted  a  bolder  language.  Through 
Prince  Christian  of  Anhalt,  they  laid  their 
common  grievances  and  demands  before  the  Em¬ 
peror  ;  among  which  the  principal  were  the  re¬ 
storation  of  Donauwerth,  the  abolition  of  the  Im¬ 
perial  Court,  the  reformation  of  the  Emperor’s 
own  administration  and  that  of  his  counselors. 
For  these  remonstrances,  they  chose  the  moment 
when  the  Emperor  had  scarcely  recovered  breath 
from  the  troubles  in  his  hereditary  dominions, — 
when  he  had  lost  Hungary  and  Austria  to  Mat¬ 
thias,  and  had  barely  preserved  his  Bohemian 
throne  by  the  concession  of  the  Letter  of  Ma¬ 
jesty,  and  finally,  when  through  the  succession 
of  Juliers  he  was  already  threatened  with  the  dis¬ 
tant  prospect  of  a  new  war.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  this  dilatory  prince  was  more  irresolute  than 
ever  in  his  decision,  and  that  the  confederates  took 
up  arms  before  he  could  bethink  himself. 

The  Roman  Catholics  regarded  this  confeder¬ 
acy  with  a  jealous  eye;  the  Union  viewed  them 
and  the  Emperor  with  the  like  distrust ;  the  Em¬ 
peror  was  equally  suspicious  of  both  ;  and  thus, 
on  all  sides,  alarm  and  animosity  had  reached 
their  climax.  And,  as  if  to  crown  the  whole,  at 
this  critical  conjuncture,  by  the  death  of  the 
Duke  John  William  of  Juliers,  a  highly  dis¬ 
putable  succession  became  vacant  in  the  territo¬ 
ries  of  Juliers  and  Cleves. 

Eight  competitors  laid  claim  to  this  territory, 


188 


HISTORY  OP  THE  THIRTY  YEARS1  WAR. 


the  indivisibility  of  which  had  been  guaranteed  by  ‘ 
solemn  treaties  ;  and  the  Emperor,  who  seemed 
disposed  to  enter  upon  it  as  a  vacant  fief,  might 
be  considered  as  the  ninth.  Four  of  these,  the 
Elector  of  Brandenburg,  the  Count  Palatine  of 
Neuburg,  the  Count  Palatine  of  Deux  Ponts,  and 
the  Margrave  of  Burgau,  an  Austrian  prince, 
claimed  it  as  a  female  fief  in  the  name  of  four  prin¬ 
cesses,  sisters  of  the  late  duke.  Two  others,  the 
Elector  of  Saxony,  of  the  line  of  Albert,  and  the 
Duke  of  Saxony,  of  the  line  of  Ernest,  laid  claim 
to  it  under  a  prior  right  of  reversion  granted  to 
them  by  the  Emperor  Frederick  III.,  and  con¬ 
firmed  to  both  Saxon  houses  by  Maximilian  I. 
The  pretensions  of  some  foreign  princes  were  little 
regarded.  The  best  right  was  perhaps  on  the 
side  of  Brandenburg  and  Neuburg,  and  between 
the  claims  of  these  two  it  was  not  easy  to  decide. 
Both  courts,  as  soon  as  the  succession  was  vacant, 
proceeded  to  take  possession  ;  Brandenburg  be¬ 
ginning,  and  Neuburg  following  the  example. 
Bo'th  commenced  the  dispute  with  the  pen,  and 
would  probably  have  ended  it  with  the  sword  ; 
but  the  interference  of  the  Emperor,  by  proceed¬ 
ing  to  bring  the  cause  before  his  own  cognizance, 
and,  during  the  progress  of  the  suit,  sequestrating 
the  disputed  countries,  soon  brought  the  contend¬ 
ing  parties  to  an  agreement,  in  order  to  avert  the 
common  danger.  They  agreed  to  govern  the 
duchy  conjointly.  In  vain  did  the  Emperor  pro¬ 
hibit  the  Estates  from  doing  homage  to  their  new 
masters ;  in  vain  did  he  send  his  own  relation, 
the  Archduke  Leopold,  Bishop  of  Passau  and 
Strasburg,  into  the  territory  of  Juliers,  in  order, 
by  his  presence  to  strengthen  the  Imperial  party. 
The  whole  country,  with  the  exception  of  Juliers 
itself,  had  submitted  to  the  Protestant  princes, 
and  in  that  capital  the  Imperialists  were  besieged. 

The  dispute  about  the  succession  of  Juliers 
was  an  important  one  to  the  whole  German  em¬ 
pire,  and  also  attracted  the  attention  of  several 
European  courts.  It  was  not  so  much  the  ques¬ 
tion,  who  was  or  was  not  to  possess  the  duchy  of 
Juliers  ; — the  real  question  was,  which  of  the  two 
religious  parties  in  Germany,  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  or  the  Protestant,  was  to  be  strengthened  by 
so  important  an  accession — for  which  of  the  two 
religions  this  territory  was  to  be  lost  or  won.  The 
question  in  short  was,  whether  Austria  was  to  be 
allowed  to  persevere  in  her  usurpations,  and  to 
gratify  her  lust  of  dominion  by  another  robbery  ; 
or  whether  the  liberties  of  Germany,  and  the 
balance  of  power,  were  to  be  maintained  against 
her  encroachments.  The  disputed  succession  of 
Juliers,  therefore,  was  matter  which  interested  all 
who  were  favorable  to  liberty  and  hostile  to  Aus¬ 
tria.  The  Evangelical  Union,  Holland,  England, 
and  particularly  Henry  IY.  of  France,  were 
drawn  into  the  strife. 

This  monarch,  the  flower  of  whose  life  had  been 
spent  in  opposing  the  House  of  Austria  and  Spain, 
and  by  persevering  heroism  alone  had  surmounted 
the  obstacles  which  this  house  had  thrown  between 
him  and  the  French  throne,  had  been  no  idle 
spectator  of  the  troubles  in  Germany.  This  con¬ 
test  of  the  Estates  with  the  Emperor  was  the 
means  of  giving  and  securing  peace  to  France. 
The  Protestants  and  the  Turks  were  the  two  sal¬ 


utary  weights  which  kept  down  the  Austrian  power 
in  the  East  and  West ;  but  it  would,  rise  again  in 
all  its  terrors,  if  once  it  were  allowed  to  remove 
this  pressure.  Henry  the  Fourth  had  before  his 
eyes  for  half  a  life  time,  the  uninterrupted  specta¬ 
cle  of  Austrian  ambition  and  Austrian  lust  of  do¬ 
minion,  which  neither  adversity  nor  poverty  of 
talents,  though  generally  they  check  all  human 
passions,  could  extinguish  in  a  bosom  wherein 
flowed  one  drop  of  the  blood  of  Ferdinand  of  Ar- 
ragon.  Austrian  ambition  had  destroyed  for  a 
century  the  peace  of  Europe,  and  effected  the 
most  violent  changes  in  the  heart  of  its  most  con¬ 
siderable  states.  It  had  deprived  the  fields  of 
husbandmen,  the  work-shops  of  artisans,  to  fill 
the  land  with  enormous  armies,  and  to  cover  the 
commercial  sea  with  hostile  fleets.  It  had  im¬ 
posed  upon  the  princes  of  Europe  the  necessity  of 
fettering-  the  industry  of  their  subjects  by  unheard 
of  imposts  -,  and  of  wasting  in  self-defense  the  best 
strength  of  their  states,  which  was  thus  lost  to  the 
prosperity  of  their  inhabitants.  For  Europe  there 
was  no  peace,  for  its  states  no  welfare,  for  the 
people’s  happiness  no  security  or  permanence,  so 
long  as  this  dangerous  house  was  permitted  to 
disturb  at  pleasure  the  repose  of  the  world. 

Such  considerations  clouded  the  mind  of  Henry 
at  the  close  of  his  glorious  career.  What  had  it 
not  cost  him  to  reduce  to  order  the  troubled 
chaos  into  which  France  had  been  plunged  by  the 
tumult  of  civil  war,  fomented  and  supported  by 
this  very  Austria  !  Every  great  mind  labors  for 
eternity ;  and  what  security  had  Henry  for  the 
endurance  of  that  prosperity  which  he  had  gained 
for  France,  so  long  as  Austria  and  Spain  formed 
a  single  power,  which  did  indeed  lie  exhausted  for 
the  present,  but  which  required  only  one  lucky 
chance  to  be  speedily  re-united,  and  to  spring  up 
again  as  formidable  as  ever.  If  he  would  bequeath 
to  his  successors  a  firmly  established  throne,  and 
a  durable  prosperity  to  his  subjects,  this  dangerous 
power  must  be  for  ever  disarmed.  This  was  the 
source  of  that  irreconcileable  enmity  which  Henry 
had  sworn  to  the  House  of  Austria,  a  hatred  un- 
extinguishable,  ardent,  and  well-founded  as  that 
of  Hannibal  against  the  people  of  Romulus,  but 
ennobled  by  a  purer  origin. 

The  other  European  powers  had  the  same  in¬ 
ducements  to  action  as  Henry,  but  all  of  them  had 
not  that  enlightened  policy,  nor  that  disinterested 
courage  to  act  upon  the  impulse.  All  men,  with¬ 
out  distinction,  are  allured  by  immediate  advan¬ 
tages  ;  great  minds  alone  are  excited  by  distant 
good.  So  long  as  wisdom  in  its  projects  calcu¬ 
lates  upon  wisdom,  Or  relies  upon  its  own  strength, 
it  forms  none  but  chimerical  schemes,  and  runs  % 
risk  of  making  itself  the  laughter  of  the  world  ; 
but  it  is  certain  of  success,  and  may  reckon  upon 
aid  and  admiration  when  it  finds  a  place  in  its  in¬ 
tellectual  plans  for  barbarism,  rapacity,  and  super¬ 
stition,  and  can  render  the  selfish  passions  of 
mankind  the  executors  of  its  purposes. 

In  the  first  point  of  view,  Henry’s  well-known 
project  of  expelling  the  House  of  Austria  frdm 
all  its  possessions,  and  dividing  the  spoil  among 
the  European  powers,  deserves  the  title  of  a  chi¬ 
mera,  which  men  have  so  liberally  bestowed  upon 
it ;  but  did  it  merit  that  appellation  in  the  second  I 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 


139 


It  had  never  entered  into  the  head  of  that  excel¬ 
lent  monarch,  in  the  choice  of  those  who  must  be 
the  instruments  of  his  designs,  to  reckon  on  the 
sufficiency  of  such  motives  as  animated  himself 
and  Sully  to  the  enterprise.  All  the  states  whose 
co-operation  was  necessary,  were  to  be  persuaded 
to  the  work  by  the  strongest  motives  that  can  set 
a  political  power  in  action.  From  the  Protestants 
in  Germany  nothing  more  was  required  than  that 
which,  ou  other  grounds,  had  been  long  their  ob¬ 
ject, — their.throwing  off  the  Austrian  yoke  ;  from 
the  Flemings,  a  similar  revolt  from  the  Spaniards. 
To  the  Pope  and  all  the  Italian  republics  no  in¬ 
ducement  could  be  more  powerful  than  of  the  hope 
of  driving  the  Spaniards  forever  from  their  pe¬ 
ninsula  ;  for  England,  nothing  more  desirable 
than  a  revolution  which  should  free  it  from  its 
bitterest  enemy.  By  this  division  of  the  Austrian 
conquests,  every  power  gained  either  land  of  free¬ 
dom,  new  possessions  or  security  for  the  old  ;  and 
all  gained,  the  balance  of  power  remained  undis¬ 
turbed.  France  might  magnanimously  decline  a 
share  in  the  spoil,  because  by  the  ruin  of  Austria 
it  doubly  profited,  and  was  most  powerful  if  it 
did  not  become  more  powerful.  Finally,  upon 
condition  of  ridding  Europe  of  their  presence,  the 
posterity  of  Hapsburg  were  to  be  allowed  the 
liberty  of  augmenting  her  territories  in  all  the 
other  known  or  yet  undiscovered  portions  of  the 
globe.  But  the  dagger  of  Ravaillac  delivered 
Austria  from  her  danger,  to  postpone  for  some 
centuries  longer  the  tranquillity  of  Europe. 

With  his  view  directed  to  this  project,  Henry 
felt  the  necessity  of  taking  a  prompt  and  active 
part  in  the  important  events  of  the  Evangelical 
Union,  and  the  disputed  succession  of  Juliers. 
His  emissaries  were  busy  in  all  the  courts  of  Ger¬ 
many,  and  the  little  which  they  published  or  al¬ 
lowed  to  escape  of  the  great  political  secrets  of 
their  master,  was  sufficient  to  win  over  minds  in¬ 
flamed  by  so  ardent  a  hatred  to  Austria,  and  by 
so  strong  a  desire  of  aggrandizement.  The  pru¬ 
dent  policy  of  Henry  cemented  the  Union  still 
more  closely,  and  the  powerful  aid  which  he  bound 
himself  to  furnish,  raised  the  courage  of  the  con¬ 
federates  into  the  firmest  confidence.  A  numer¬ 
ous  French  army,  led  by  the  king  in  person,  was 
to  meet  the  troops  of  the  Union  on  the  banks  of 
the  Rhine,  and  to  assist  in  effecting  the  conquest  of 
Juliers  and  Cleves;  then,  in  conjunction  with  the 
Germans,  it  was  to.  march  into  Italy,  (where  Sa¬ 
voy,  Venice,  and  the  Pope  were  even  now  ready 
with  a  powerful  reinforcement,)  and  to  overthrow 
the  Spanish  dominion  in  that  quarter.  This  vic¬ 
torious  army  was  then  to  penetrate  by  Lombardy 
into  the  hereditary  dominions  of  Hapsburg;  and 
tfere,  favored  by  a  general  insurrection  of  the 
Protestants,  destroy  the  Power  of  Austria  in  all 
its  German  territories,  in  Bohemia,  Hungary,  and 
Transylvania.  The  Brabanters  and  Hollanders, 
supported  by  French  auxiliaries,  would  in  the 
mean  time  shake  off  the  Spanish  tyranny  in  the 
Netherlands  ;  and  thus  the  mighty  stream  which, 
only  a  short  time  before,  had  so  fearfully  over¬ 
flowed  its  banks,  threatening  to  overwhelm  in  its 
troubled  waters  the  liberties  of  Europe,  would 
then  roll  silent  and  forgotten  behind  the  Pyre¬ 
nean  mountains. 


At  other  times,  the  French  had  boasted  of  their 
rapidity  of  action,  but  upon  this  occasion  they 
were  outstripped  by  the  Germans.  An  army  of 
the  confederates  entered  Alsace  before  Henry 
made  his  appearance  there,  and  an  Austrian  army, 
which  the  Bishop  of  Strasburg  and  Passau  had 
assembled  in  that  quarter  for  an  expedition  against 
Juliers,  was  dispersed.  Henry  IV.  had  formed 
his  plan  as  a  statesman  and  a  king,  but  he  had 
intrusted  its  execution  to  plunderers.  According 
to  his  design,  no  Roman  Catholic  state  was  to 
have  cause  to  think  this  preparation  aimed  against 
itself,  or  to  make  the  quarrel  of  Austria  its  own. 
Religion  was  in  no  wise  to  be  mixed  up  with  the 
matter.  But  how  could  the  German  princes  for¬ 
get,  their  own  purposes  in  furthering  the  plans  of 
Henry  ?  Actuated  as  they  were  by  the  desire  of 
aggrandizement  and  by  religious  hatred,  was  it  to 
be  supposed  that  they  would  not  gratify,  in  every 
passing  opportunity,  their  ruling  passions  to  the 
utmost  ?  Like  vultures,  they  stooped  upon  the 
territories  of  the  ecclesiastical  princes,  and4  al¬ 
ways  chose  those  rich  countries  for  their  quarters, 
though  to  reach  them  they  must  make  ever  so 
wide  a  detour  from  their  direct  route.  They  le¬ 
vied  contributions  as  in  an  enemy’s  country, 
seized  upon  the  revenues,  and  exacted,  by  vio¬ 
lence,  what  they  could  not  obtain  of  free-will. 
Not  to  leave  the  Roman  Catholics  in  doubt  as  to 
the  true  objects  of  their  expedition,  they  an¬ 
nounced,  openly  and  intelligibly  enough,  the  fate 
that  awaited  the  property  of  the  church.  So 
little  had  Henry  IV.  and  the  German  princes  un¬ 
derstood  each  other  in  their  plan  of  operations, 
so  much  had  the  excellent  king  been  mistaken  in 
his  instruments.  It  is  an  unfailing  maxim,  that, 
if  policy  enjoins  an  act  of  violence,  its  execution 
ought  never  to  be  intrusted  to  the  violent ;  and 
that  he  only  ought  to  be  trusted  with  the  viola¬ 
tion  of  order  by  whom  it  is  held  sacred. 

Both  the  past  conduct  of  the  Union,  which  was 
condemned  even  by  several  of  the  evangelical 
states,  and  the  apprehension  of  even  worse  treat¬ 
ment,  aroused  the  Roman  Catholics  to  something 
beyond  mere  inactive  indignation.  As  to  the 
Emperor,  his  authority  had  sunk  too  low  to  afford 
them  any  security  against  such  an  enemy.  It 
was  their  Union  that  rendered  the  confederates  so 
formidable  and  so  insolent  ;  and  another  union 
must  now  be  opposed  to  them. 

The  Bishop  of  Wurtzburg  formed  the  plan  of 
the  Catholic  Union,  which  was  distinguished  from 
the  evangelical  by  the  title  of  the  League.  The 
objects  agreed  upon  were  nearly  the  same  as 
those  which  constituted  the  groundwork  of  the 
Union.  Bishops  formed  its  principal  members, 
and  at  its  head  was  placed  Maximilian,  Duke  of 
Bavaria.  As  the  only  influential  secular  member 
of  the  confederacy,  he  was  intrusted  with  far 
more  extensive  powers  than  the  Protestants  had 
committed  to  their  chief.  In  addition  to  the 
duke’s  being  the  sole  head  of  the  League’s  mili¬ 
tary  power,  whereby  their  operations  acquired  a 
speed  and  weight  unattainable  by  the  Union,  they 
had  also  the  advantage  that  supplies  flowed  in 
much  more  regularly  from  the  rich  prelates,  than 
the  latter  could  obtain  them  from  the  poor  evan¬ 
gelical  states.  Without  offering  to  the  Emperor, 


140 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


as  the  sovereign  of  a  Roman  Catholic  state,  any 
share  in  their  confederacy,  without  even  commu¬ 
nicating  its  existence  to  him  as  emperor,  the 
League  arose  at  once  formidable  and  threatening, 
with  strength  sufficient  to  crush  the  Protestant 
Union,  and  to  maintain  itself  under  three  empe¬ 
rors.  It  contended,  indeed,  for  Austria,  in  so  far 
as  it  fought  against  the  Protestant  princes ;  but 
Austria  herself  had  soon  cause  to  tremble  before  it. 

The  arms  of  the  Union  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
been  tolerably  successful  in  Juliers  and  in  Alsace. 
Juliers  was  closely  blockaded,  and  the  whole  bish¬ 
opric  of  Strasburg  was  in  their  power.  But  here 
their  splendid  achievements  came  to>an  end.  No 
French  army  appeared  upon  the  Rhine ;  for  he 
who  was  to  be  its  leader,  he  who  was  the  animat¬ 
ing  soul  of  the  whole  enterprise,  Henry  IV.,  was 
no  more  !  Their  supplies  were  on  the  wane  ;  the 
Estates  refused  to  grant  new  subsidies ;  and  the 
confederate  free  cities  were  offended  that  their 
money  should  be  liberally,  but  their  advice  so 
sparingly  called  for.  Especially  were  they  dis¬ 
pleased  at  being  put  to  expense  for  the  expedition 
against  Juliers,  which  had  been  expressly  ex¬ 
cluded  from  the  affairs  of  the  Union — at  the 
united  princes  appropriating  to  themselves  large 
pensions  out  of  the  common  treasure — and,  above 
all,  at  their  refusing  to  give  any  account  of  its 
expenditure. 

The  Union  was  thus  verging  to  its  fall,  at  the 
moment  when  the  League  started  to  oppose  it  in 
the  vigor  of  its  strength.  Want  of  supplies  dis¬ 
abled  the  confederates  from  any  longer  keeping 
the  field.  And  yet  it  was  dangerous  to  lay  down 
their  weapons  in  the  sight  of  an  armed  enemy. 
To  secure  themselves  at  least  on  one  side,  they 
hastened  to  conclude  a  peace  with  their  old  ene¬ 
my,  the  Archduke  Leopold  ;  and  both  parties 
agreed  to  withdraw  their  troops  from  Alsace,  to 
exchange  prisoners,  and  to  bury  all  that  had  been 
done  in  oblivion.  Thus  ended  in  nothing  all 
these  promising  preparations. 

The  same  imperious  tone  with  which  the 
Union,  in  the  confidence  of  its  strength,  had 
menaced  the  Roman  Catholics  of  Germany,  was 
now  retorted  by  the  League  upon  themselves  and 
their  troops.  The  traces  of  their  march  were 
pointed  out  to  them,  and  plainly  branded  with  the 
hard  epithets  they  had  deserved.  The  chapters 
of  Wurtzburg,  Bamberg,  Strasburg,  Mentz, 
Treves,  Cologne,  and  several  others,  had  experi¬ 
enced  their  destructive  presence  ;  to  all  these  the 
damage  done  was  to  be  made  good,  the  free  pas¬ 
sage  by  land  and  by  water  restored  (for  the  Pro¬ 
testants  had  even  seized  on  the  navigation  of  the 
Rhine),  and  every  thing  replaced  on  its  former 
footing.  Above  all,  the  parties  to  the  Union 
were  called  on  to  declare  expressly  and  unequivo¬ 
cally  its  intentions.  It  was  now  their  turn  to 
yield  to  superior  strength.  They  had  not  calcu¬ 
lated  on  so  formidable  an  opponent ;  but  they 
themselves  had  taught  the  Roman  Catholics  the 
secret  of  their  strength.  It  was  humiliating  to 
their  pride  to  sue  for  peace,  but  they  might  think 
themselves  fortunate  in  obtaining  it.  The  one 
party  promised  restitution,  the  other  forgiveness. 
All  laid  down  their  arms.  The  storm  of  war 
once  more  rolled  by,  and  a  temporary  calm  suc¬ 


ceeded.  The  insurrection  in  BohemU  then  broke 
out,  which  deprived  the  Emperor  of  the  last  of 
his  hereditary  dominions,  but  in  this  dispute 
neither  the  Union  nor  the  League  took  any  share. 

At  length  the  Emperor  died  in  1012,  as  little 
regretted  in  his  coffin  as  noticed  on  the  throne. 
Long  afterward,  when  the  miseries  of  succeeding 
reigns  had  made  the  misfortunes  of  his  forgotten, 
a  halo  spread  about  his  memory,  and  so  fearful  a 
night  set  in  upon  Germany,  that,  with  tears  of 
blood,  people  prayed  for  the  return  of  such  an 
emperor. 

Rodolph  never  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
choose  a  successor  in  the  empire,  and  all  awaited 
with  anxiety  the  approaching  vacancy  of  the 
throne  ;  but,  beyond  all  hope,  Matthias  at  once 
ascended  it,  and  without  opposition.  The  Roman 
Catholics  gave  him  their  voices,  because  they 
hoped  the  best  from  his  vigor  and  activity;  the 
Protestants  gave  him  theirs,  because  they  hoped 
every  thing  from  his  weakness.  It  is  not  difficult 
to  reconcile  this  contradiction.  The  one  relied 
on  what  he  had  once  appeared  ;  the  other  judged 
him  by  what  he  seemed  at  present. 

The  moment  of  a  new  accession  is  always  a  day 
of  hope  ;  and  the  first  Diet  of  a  king  in  elective 
monarchies  is  usually  his  severest  trial.  Every 
old  grievance  is  brought  forward,  and  new  ones 
are  sought  out,  that  they  may  be  included  in  the 
expected  reform  ;  quite  a  new  world  is  expected 
to  commence  with  the  new  king.  The  important 
services  which,  in  his  insurrection,  their  religious 
confederates  in  Austria  had  rendered  to  Matthias, 
were  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  Protestant 
free  cities,  and,  above  all,  the  price  which  they 
had  exacted  for  their  services  seemed  now  to 
serve  them  also  as  a  model. 

It  was  bv  the  favor  of  the  Protestant  Estates 

%/ 

in  Austria  and  Moravia  that  Matthias  had  sought 
and  really  found  the  way  to  his  brother’s  throne ; 
but,  hurried  on  by  his  ambitious  views,  he  never 
reflected  that  a  way  was  thus  opened  for  the 
States  to  give  laws  to  their  sovereign.  This  dis- 
coverv  soon  awoke  him  from  the  intoxication  of 
success.  Scarcely  had  he  shown  himself  in  tri¬ 
umph  to  his  Austrian  subjects,  after  his  victorious 
expedition  to  Bohemia,  when  a  humble  petition 
awaited  him  which  was  quite  sufficient  to  poison 
his  whole  triumph.  They  required,  before  doing 
homage,  unlimited  religious  toleration  in  the 
cities  and  market  towns,  perfect  equality  of  rights 
between  Roman  Catholics  and  Protestants,  and  a 
full  and  equal  admissibility  of  the  latter  to  all 
offices  of  state.  In  several  places,  they  of  them¬ 
selves  assumed  these  privileges,  and,  reckoning  on 
a  change  of  administration,  restored  the  Protes¬ 
tant  religion  where  the  late  Emperor  had  sup¬ 
pressed  it.  Matthias,  it  is  true,  had  not  scrupled 
to  make  use  of  the  grievances  of  the  Protestants 
for  his  own  ends  against  the  Emperor  ;  but  it  was 
far  from  being  his  intention  to  relieve  them.  By 
a  firm  and  resolute  tone  he  hoped  to  check,  at 
once,  these  presumptuous  demands.  He  spoke  of 
his  hereditary  title  to  these  territories,  and  would 
hear  of  no  stipulations  before  the  act  of  homage.- 
A  like  unconditional  submission  had  been  ren¬ 
dered  by  their  neighbors,  the  inhabitants  of  Sty 
ria,  to  the  Archduke  Ferdinand,  who,  however, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


141 


had  soon  reason  to  repent  of  it.  Warned  by  this 
example,  the  Austrian  States  persisted  in  their 
refusal ;  and,  to  avoid  being  compelled  by  force 
to  do  homage,  their  deputies  (after  urging  their 
Roman  Catholic  colleagues  to  a  similar  resistance) 
immediately  left  the  capital,  and  began  to  levy 
troops. 

They  took  steps  to  renew  their  old  alliance  with 
Hungary,  drew  the  Protestant  princes  into  their 
interests,  and  set  themselves  seriously  to  work  to 
accomplish  their  object  by  force  of  arms. 

With  the  more  exorbitant  demands  of  the  Hun¬ 
garians,  Matthias  had  not  hesitated  to  comply. 
For  Hungary  was  an  elective  monarchy,  and  the 
republican  constitution  of  the  country  justified  to 
himself  their  demands,  and  to  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  world  his  concessions.  In  Austria,  on  the 
contrary,  his  predecessors  had  exercised  far  higher 
prerogatives,  which  he  could  not  relinquish  at  the 
demand  of  the  Estates  without  incurring  the 
scorn  of  Roman  Catholic  Europe,  the  enmity  of 
Spain  and  Rome,  and  the  contempt  of  his  own 
Roman  Catholic  subjects.  His  exclusively  Ro¬ 
mish  council,  among  which  the  Bishop  of  Vienna, 
Melchio  Kiesel,  had  the  chief  influence,  exhorted 
him  to  see  all  the  churches  extorted  from  him  by 
the  Protestants,  rather  than  to  concede  one  to 
them  as  a  matter  of  right. 

But  by  ill  luck  this  difficulty  occurred  at  a  time 
when  the  Emperor  Rodolph  was  yet  alive,  and  a 
spectator  of  this  scene,  and  who  might  easily  have 
been  tempted  to  employ  against  his  brother  the 
same  weapons  which  the  latter  had  successfully 
directed  against  him — namely,  an  understanding 
with  his  rebellious  subjects.  To  avoid  this,  Mat¬ 
thias  willingly  availed  himself  of  the  offer  made  by 
Moravia,  to  act  as  mediator  between  him  and  the 
Estates  of  Austria.  Representatives  of  both  par¬ 
ties  met  in  Vienna,  when  the  Austrian  deputies 
held  language  which  would  have  excited  surprise 
even  in  the  English  Parliament.  “The  Protes¬ 
tants,”  they  said,  “  are  determined  to  be  not  worse 
treated  in  their  native  country  than  the  handful 
of  Romanists.  By  the  help  of  his  Protestant  no¬ 
bles  had  Matthias  reduced  the  Emperor  to  sub¬ 
mission  ;  where  80  Papists  were  to  be  found,  300 
Protestant  barons  might  be  counted.  The  exam¬ 
ple  of  Rodolph  should  be  a  warning  to  Matthias. 
He  should  take  care  that  he  did  not  lose  the  ter¬ 
restrial,  in  attempting  to  make  conquests  for  the 
celestial.”  As  the  Moravian  States,  instead  of 
using  their  powers  as  mediators  for  the  Emperor’s 
advantage,  finally  adopted  the  cause  of  their  co¬ 
religionists  of  Austria;  as  the  Union  in  Germany 
came  forward  to  afford  them  its  most  active  sup¬ 
port,  and  as  Matthias  dreaded  reprisals  on  the 
part  of  the  Emperor,  he  was  at  length  compelled 
to  make  the  desired  declaration  in  favor  of  the 
Evangelical  Church. 

This  behavior  of  the  Austrian  Estates  toward 
their  Archduke  was  now  imitated  by  the  Pro¬ 
testant  Estates  of  the  Empire  toward  their  Em¬ 
peror,  and  they  promised  themselves  the  same 
favorable  results.  At  the  first  Diet  at  Ratisbon 
in  1613,  when  the  most  pressing  affairs  were  wait¬ 
ing  for  decision— when  a  general  contribution  was 
indispensable  for  a  war  against  Turkey,  and  against 
Bethlem  Gabor  in  Transylvania,  who  by  Turkish 


aid  had  forcibly  usurped  the  sovereignty  of  that 
land,  and  even  threatened  Hungary — they  sur¬ 
prised  him  with  an  entirely  new  demand.  The 
Roman  Catholic  votes  were  still  the  most  numer¬ 
ous  in  the  Diet ;  and  as  every  thing  was  decided 
by  a  plurality  of  voices,  the  Protestant  party,  how¬ 
ever  closely  united,  were  entirely  without  consid¬ 
eration.  The  advantage  of  this  majority  the 
Roman  Catholics  were  now  called  on  to  relinquish ; 
henceforward  no  one  religious  party  was  to  be  per¬ 
mitted  to  dictate  to  the  other  by  means  of  its  in¬ 
variable  superiority.  And  in  truth,  if  the  evan¬ 
gelical  religion  was  really  to  be  represented  in  the 
diet,  it  was  self-evident  that  it  must  not  be  shut 
out  from  the  possibility  of  making  use  of  that  pri¬ 
vilege,  merely  from  the  constitution  of  the  Diet 
itself.  Complaints  of  the  judicial  usurpations  of 
the  Aulic  Council,  and  of  the  oppression  of  the 
Protestants,  accompanied  this  demand,  and  the 
deputies  of  the  Estates  were  instructed  to  take  no 
part  in  any  general  deliberations  till  a  favorable 
answer  should  be  given  on  this  preliminary  point. 

The  Diet  was  torn  asunder  by  this  dangerous 
division,  which  threatened  to  destroy  forever  the 
unity  of  its  deliberations.  Sincerely  as  the  Emperor 
might  have  wished,  after  the  example  of  his  father 
Maximilian,  to  preserve  a  prudent  balance  between 
the  two  religions,  the  present  conduct  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  seemed  to  leave  him  nothing  but  a  critical 
choice  between  the  two.  In  his  present  necessi¬ 
ties  a  general  contribution  from  the  Estates  was 
indispensable  to  him  ;  and  yet  he  could  not  con¬ 
ciliate  the  one  party  without  sacrificing  the  sup¬ 
port  of  the  other.  Insecure  as  he  felt  his  situa¬ 
tion  to  be  in  his  own  hereditary  dominions,  he 
could  not  but  tremble  at  the  idea,  however  re¬ 
mote,  of  an  open  war  with  the  Protestants.  But 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  Roman  Catholic  world, 
which  were  attentively  regarding  his  conduct,  the 
remonstrances  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Estates, 
and  of  the  Courts  of  Rome  and  Spain,  as  little 
permitted  him  to  favor  the  Protestant  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  the  Romish  religion. 

So  critical  a  situation  would  have  paralyzed  a 
greater  mind  than  Matthias ;  and  his  own  pru¬ 
dence  would  scarcely  have  extricated  him  from 
his  dilemma.  But  the  interests  of  the  Roman 
Catholics  were  closely  interwoven  with  the  impe¬ 
rial  authority ;  if  they  suffered  this  to  fall,  the 
ecclesiastical  princes  in  particular  would  be  with¬ 
out  a  bulwark  against  the  attacks  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants.  Now,  then,  that  they  saw  the  Emperor 
wavering,  they  thought  it  high  time  to  reassure 
his  sinking  courage.  They  imparted  to  him  the 
secret  of  their  League,  and  acquainted  him  with 
its  whole  constitution,  resources  and  power.  Little 
comforting  as  such  a  revelation  must  have  been 
to  the  Emperor,  the  prospect  of  so  powerful  a 
support  gave  him  greater  boldness  to  oppose  the 
Protestants.  Their  demands  were  rejected,  and 
the  Diet  broke  up  without  coming  to  a  decision. 
But  Matthias  was  the  victim  of  this  dispute.  The 
Protestants  refused  him  their  supplies,  and  made 
him  alone  suffer  for  the  inflexibility  of  the  Roman 
Catholics. 

The  Turks,  however,  appeared  willing  to  pro¬ 
long  the  cessation  of  hostilities,  and  Bethlem 
Gabor  was  left  in  peaceable  possession  of  Tran- 


142 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


syl  vania.  The  empire  was  now  free  from  foreign 
enemies ;  and  even  at  home,  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  fearful  disputes,  peace  still  reigned.  An 
unexpected  accident  had  given  a  singular  turn  to 
the  dispute  as  to  the  succession  of  Juliers.  This 
duchy  was  still  ruled  conjointly  by  the  Electorate 
House  of  Brandenburg  and  the  Palatine  of 
Neuberg;  and  a  marriage  between  the  Prince  of 
Neuberg  and  a  Princess  of  Brandenburg  was  to 
have  inseparably  united  the  interests  of  the  two 
houses.  But  the  whole  scheme  was  upset  by  a  box 
on  the  ear,  which,  in  a  drunken  brawl,  the  Elector 
of  Brandenburg  unfortunately  inflicted  upon  his 
intended  son-in-law.  From  this  moment  the  good 
understanding  between  the  two  liousbs  was  at  an 
end.  The  Prince  of  Neuberg  embraced  popery. 
The  hand  of  a  Princess  of  Bavaria  rewarded  his 
apostasy,  and  the  strong  support  of  Bavaria  and 
Spain  was  the  natural  result  of  both.  To  secure  to 
the  Palatine  the  exclusive  possession  of  Juliers,  the 
Spanish  troops  from  the  Netherlands  were  marched 
into  the  Palatinate.  To  rid  himself  of  these  guests, 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  called  the  Flemings 
to  his  assistance,  whom  he  sought  to  propitiate  by 
embracing  the  Calvinist  religion.  Both  Spanish 
and  Dutch  armies  appeared,  but,  as  it  seemed, 
only  to  make  conquests  for  themselves. 

The  neigboring  war  of  the  Netherlands  seemed 
now  about  to  be  decided  on  German  ground ;  and 
what  an  inexhaustible  mine  of  combustibles  lay 
here  ready  for  it !  The  Protestants  saw  with  con¬ 
sternation  the  Spaniards  establishing  themselves 
upon  the  Lower  Rhine  ;  with  still  greater  anxiety 
did  the  Roman  Catholics  see  the  Hollanders 
bursting  through  the  frontiers  of  the  empire.  It 
was  in  the  west  that  the  mine  was  expected  to  ex¬ 
plode  which  had  long  been  dug  under  the  whole 
of  Germany.  To  the  west,  apprehension  and  anx¬ 
iety  turned  ;  but  the  spark  which  kindled  the  flame 
came  unexpectedly  from  the  east. 

The  tranquillity  which  Rodolph  II. ’s  Letter  of 
Majesty  had  established  in  Bohemia  lasted  for 
some  time,  under  the  administration  of  Matthias, 
till  the  nomination  of  a  new  heir  to  this  kingdom 
in  the  person  of  Ferdinand  of  Gratz. 

This  prince,  whom  we  shall  afterward  become 
better  acquainted  with  under  the  title  of  Ferdi¬ 
nand  II.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  had,  by  the  vio¬ 
lent  extirpation  of  the  Protestant  religion  within 
his  hereditary  dominions,  announced  himself  as 
an  inexorable  zealot  for  popery,  and  was  conse¬ 
quently  looked  upon  by  the  Roman  Catholic  part 
of  Bohemia  as  the  future  pillar  of  their  church. 
The  declining  health  of  the  Emperor  brought  on 
this  hour  rapidly ;  and,  relying  on  so  powerful  a 
supporter,  the  Bohemian  Papists  began  to  treat 
the  Protestants  with  little  moderation.  The  Pro¬ 
testant  vassals  of  Roman  Catholic  nobles,  in  par¬ 
ticular,  experienced  the  harshest  treatment.  At 
length  several  of  the  former  were  incautious 
enough  to  speak  somewhat  loudly  of  their  hopes, 
and  by  threatening  hints  to  awaken  among  the 
Protestants  a  suspicion  of  their  future  sovereign. 
But  this  mistrust  would  never  have  broken  out 
into  actual  violence,  had  the  Roman  Catholics 
confined  themselves  to  general  expressions,  and 
not  by  attacks  on  individuals  furnished  the  dis¬ 
content  of  the  people  with  enterprising  leaders. 


Henry  Matthias,  Count  Thurn,  not  a  native  of 
Bohemia,  but  proprietor  of  some  estates  in  that 
kingdom,  had,  by  his  zeal  for  the  Protestant 
cause,  and  an  enthusiastic  attachment  to  his 
newly  adopted  country,  gained  the  entire  confi¬ 
dence  of  the  Utraquists,  which  opened  him  the 
way  to  the  most  important  posts.  He  had  fought 
with  great  glory  against  the  Turks,  and  won  by  a 
flattering  address  the  hearts  of  the  multitude. 
Of  a  hot  and  impetuous  disposition,  which  loved 
tumult  because  his  talents  shone  in  it — rash  and 
thoughtless  enough  to  undertake  things  which 
cold  prudence  and  a  calmer  temper  would  not 
have  ventured  upon — unscrupulous  enough,  where 
the  gratification  of  his  passions  was  concerned, 
to  sport  with  the  fate  of  thousands,  and  at  the 
same  time  politic  enough  to  hold  in  leading- 
strings  such  a  people  as  the  Bohemians  then 
were.  He  had  already  taken  an  active  part  in 
the  troubles  under  Rodolph’s  administration  ;  and 
the  Letter  of  Majesty  which  the  States  had  ex¬ 
torted  from  that  Emperor,  was  chiefly  to  be  laid 
to  his  merit.  The  court  had  intrusted  to  him,  as 
burgrave  or  castellan  of  Calstein,  the  custody  of 
the  Bohemian  crown,  and  of  the  national  charter. 
But  the  nation  had  placed  in  his  hands  something 
far  more  important — itself — with  the  office  of  de¬ 
fender  or  protector  of  the  faith.  The  aristocracy 
by  which  the  Emperor  was  ruled,  imprudently  de¬ 
prived  him  of  this  harmless  guardianship  of  the 
dead,  to  leave  him  his  full  influence  over  the  liv¬ 
ing.  They  took  from  him  his  office  of  burgrave, 
or  constable  of  the  castle,  which  had  rendered 
him  dependent  on  the  court,  thereby  opening  his 
eyes  to  the  importance  of  the  other  which  re¬ 
mained,  and  wounded  his  vanity,  which  yet  was 
the  thing  that  made  his  ambition  harmless.  From 
this  moment  he  was  actuated  solely  by  a  desire 
of  revenge  ;  and  the  opportunity  of  gratifying  it 
was  not  long  wanting. 

In  the  Royal  Letter  which  the  Bohemians  had 
extorted  from  Rodolph  II.,  as  well  as  in  the  Ger¬ 
man  religious  treaty,  one  material  article  re¬ 
mained  undetermined.  All  the  privileges  granted 
by  the  latter  to  the  Protestants,  were  conceived 
in  favor  of  the  Estates  or  governing  bodies,  not 
of  the  subjects  ;  for  only  to  those  of  the  ecclesias¬ 
tical  states  had  a  toleration,  and  that  precarious, 
been  conceded.  The  Bohemian  Letter  of  Ma¬ 
jesty,  in  the  same  manner,  spoke  only  of  the  Es¬ 
tates  and  imperial  towns,  the  magistrates  of  which 
had  contrived  to  obtain  equal  privileges  with  the 
former.  These  alone  were  free  to  erect  churches 
and  schools,  and  openly  to  celebrate  their  Pro¬ 
testant  worship  :  in  all  other  towns,  it  was  left 
entirely  to  the  government  to  which  they  be¬ 
longed,  to  determine  the  religion  of  the  inhabi¬ 
tants.  The  Estates  of  the  Empire  had  availed 
themselves  of  this  privilege  in  its  fullest  extent ; 
the  secular  indeed  without  opposition  ;  while  the 
ecclesiastical,  in  whose  case  the  declaration  of 
Ferdinand  had  limited  this  privilege,  disputed, 
not  without  reason,  the  validity  of  that  limitation. 
What  was  a  disputed  point  in  the  religious  treaty, 
was  left  still  more  doubtful  in  the  Letter  of  Ma¬ 
jesty  ;  in  the  former,  the  construction  was  not 
doubtful,  but  it  was  a  question  bow  far  obedience 
might  be  compulsory ;  in  the  latter,  the  interpre- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


143 


tation  was  left  to  the  states.  The  subjects  of  ! 
the  ecclesiastical  Estates  in  Bohemia  thought 
themselves  entitled  to  the  same  rights  which  the 
declaration  of  Ferdinand  secured  to  the  subjects 
of  German  bishops  :  they  considered  themselves 
on  an  equality  with  the  subjects  of  imperial  towns, 
because  they  looked  upon  the  ecclesiastical  pro¬ 
perty  as  part  of  the  royal  demesnes.  In  the  little 
town  of  Klostergrab,  subject  to  the  Archbishop 
of  Prague;  and  in  Braunau,  which  belonged  to 
the  abbot  of  that  monastery,  churches  were 
founded  by  the  Protestants,  and  completed  not¬ 
withstanding  the  opposition  of  their  superiors, 
and  the  disapprobation  of  the  Emperor. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  vigilance  of  the  defenders 
had  somewhat  relaxed,  and  the  court  thought  it 
might  venture  on  a  decisive  step.  By  the  Empe¬ 
ror  s  orders,  the  church  at  Klostergrab  was  pulled 
down  ;  that  at  Braunau  forcibly  shut  up,  and  the 
most  turbulent  of  the  citizens  thrown  into  prison. 
A  general  commotion  among  the  Protestants  was 
the  consequence  of  this  measure;  a  loud  outcry 
was  everywhere  raised  at  this  violation  of  the 
Letter  of  Majesty ;  and  Count  Thurn,  animated 
by  revenge,  and  particularly  called  upon  by  his 
office  of  defender,  showed  himself  not  a  little  busy 
in  inflaming  the  minds  of  the  people.  At  his  in¬ 
stigation  deputies  were  summoned  to  Prague  from 
every  circle  in  the  empire,  to  concert  the  neces¬ 
sary  measures  against  the  common  danger.  It 
was  resolved  to  petition  the  Emperor  to  press  for 
the  liberation  of  the  prisoners.  The  answer  of  the 
Emperor,  already  offensive  to  the  states,  from  its 
being  addressed,  not  to  them,  but  to  his  viceroy, 
denounced  their  conduct  as  illegal  and  rebellious, 
justified  what  had  been  done  at  Klostergrab  and 
Braunau  as  the  result  of  an  imperial  mandate, 
and  contained  some  passages  that  might  be  con¬ 
strued  into  threats. 

Count  Thurn  did  not  fail  to  augment  the  unfa¬ 
vorable  impression  which  this  imperial  edict  made 
upon  the  assembled  Estates.  He  pointed  out  to 
them  the  danger  in  which  all  who  had  signed  the 
petition  were  involved,  and  sought  by  working  on 
their  resentment  and  fears  to  hurry  them  into  vio¬ 
lent  resolutions.  To  have  caused  their  immediate 
revolt  against  the  Emperor,  would  have  been,  as 
yet,  too  bold  a  measure.  It  was  only  step  by 
step  that  he  would  lead  them  on  to  this  unavoid¬ 
able  result.  He  held  it,  therefore,  advisable  first 
to  direct  their  indignation  against  the  Emperor’s 
counselors ;  and  for  that  purpose  circulated  a 
report,  that  the  imperial  proclamation  had  been 
drawn  up  by  the  government  at  Prague,  and  only 
signed  in  Vienna.  Among  the  imperial  delegates, 
the  chief  objects  of  the  popular  hatred,  were  the 
President  of  the  Chamber,  Slawata,  and  Baron 
Martinitz,  who  had  been  elected  in  place  of  Count 
Thurn,  Burgrave  of  Calstein.  Both  had  long  be¬ 
fore  evinced  pretty  openly  their  hostile  feelings 
toward  the  Protestants,  by  alone  refusing  to  be 
present  at  the  sitting  at  which  the  Letter  of  Ma¬ 
jesty  had  been  inserted  in  the  Bohemian  constitu¬ 
tion.  A  threat  was  made  at  the  time  to  make 
them  responsible  for  every  violation  of  the  Letter 
of  Majesty  ;  and  from  this  moment,  whatever  evil 
befell  the  Protestants  was  set  down,  and  not  with¬ 
out  reason,  to  their  account.  Of  all  the  Roman  i 


(  Catholic  nobles,  these  two  had  treated  their  Pro. 
testant  vassals  with  the  greatest  harshness.  They 
were  accused  of  hunting  them  with  dogs  to  the 
mass,  and  of  endeavoring  to  compel  them  to  po¬ 
pery  by  a  denial  of  the  rites  of  baptism,  marriage, 
and  burial.  Against  two  characters  so  unpopu¬ 
lar  the  public  indignation  was  easily  excited,  and 
they  were  marked  out  for  a  sacrifice  to  the  general 
indignation. 

On  the  23d  of  May,  1618,  the  deputies  appeared 
armed,  and  in  great  numbers,  at  the  royal  palace, 
and  forced  their  way  into  the  hall  where  the  Com¬ 
missioners  Sternberg,  Matinitz,  Lobkowitz,  and 
Slawata  were  assembled.  In  a  threatening  tone 
they  demanded  to  know  from  each  of  them, 
whether  he  had  taken  any  part  in,  or  had  con¬ 
sented  to,  the  imperial  proclamation.  Sternberg 
received  them  with  composure,  Martinitz  and  Sla¬ 
wata  with  defiance.  This  decided  their  fate ;  Stern¬ 
berg  and  Lobkowitz,  less  hated,  and  more  feared, 
were  led  by  the  arm  out  of  the  room  ;  Martinitz 
and  Slawata  were  seized,  dragged  to  a  window,  and 
precipitated  from  a  height  of  eighty  feet,  into  the 
castle  trench.  Their  creature,  the  secretary  Fa- 
bricius,  was  thrown  after  them.  This  singular 
mode  of  execution  naturally  excited  the  surprise 
of  civilized  nations.  The  Bohemians  justified  it 
as  a  national  custom,  and  saw  nothing  remark¬ 
able  in  the  whole  affair,  excepting  that  any  one 
should  have  got  up  again  safe  and  sound  after 
such  a  fall.  A  dunghill,  on  which  the  imperial 
commissioners  chanced  to  be  deposited,  had  saved 
them  from  injury. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  this  summary 
mode  of  proceeding  would  much  increase  the 
favor  of  the  parties  with  the  Emperor,  but  this 
was  the  very  position  to  which  Count  Thurn 
wished  to  bring  them.  If,  from  the  fear  of  uncertain 
danger,  they  had  permitted  themselves  such  an 
act  of  violence,  the  certain  expectation  of  punish¬ 
ment,  and  the  now  urgent  necessity  for  their  own 
security,  would  plunge  them  still  deeper  into  guilt. 
By  this  brutal  act  of  self-redress,  no  room  was 
left  for  irresolution  or  repentance,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  a  single  crime  could  be  absolved  only  by  a 
series  of  violences.  As  the  deed  itself  could  not 
be  undone,  nothing  was  left  but  to  disarm  the 
hand  of  punishment.  Thirty  directors  were  ap¬ 
pointed  to  organize  a  regular  insurrection.  They 
seized  upon  all  the  offices  of  state,  and  all  the 
imperial  revenues,  took  into  their  own  service 
the  royal  functionaries  and  the  soldiers,  and  sum¬ 
moned  the  whole  Bohemian  nation  to  avenge  the 
common  cause.  The  Jesuits,  whom  the  common 
hatred  accused  as  the  instigators  of  every  previ¬ 
ous  oppression,  were  banished  the  kingdom,  and 
this  harsh  measure  the  Estates  found  it  necessary 
to  justify  in  a  formal  manifesto.  These  various 
steps  were  taken  for  the  preservation  of  the  royal 
authority  and  the  laws — the  language  of  all  re¬ 
bels  till  fortune  has  decided  in  their  favor. 

The  emotion  which  the  news  of  the  Bohemian 
insurrection  excited  at  the  imperial  court,  was 
much  less  lively  than  such  intelligence  deserved. 
The  Emperor  Matthias  was  no  longer  the  reso¬ 
lute  spirit  that  formerly  sought  out  his  king  and 
master  in  the  very  bosom  of  his  people,  and 
I  hurled  him  from  three  thrones.  The  confidence 


144 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


and  courage  which  had  animated  him  in  a  usur¬ 
pation,  deserted  him  in  a  legitimate  self-defense. 
The  Bohemian  rebels  had  first  taken  up  arms,  and 
the  nature  of  circumstances  drove  him  to  join 
them.  But  he  could  not  hope  to  confine  such  a 
war  to  Bohemia.  In  all  the  territories  under  his 
dominion,  the  Protestants  were  united  by  a  dan¬ 
gerous  sympathy — the  common  danger  of  their 
religion  might  suddenly  combine  them  all  into  a 
formidable  republic.  What  could  he  oppose  to 
juch  an  enemy,  if  the  Protestant  portion  of  his 
subjects  deserted  him  ?  And  would  not  both 
parties  exhaust  themselves  in  so  ruinous  a  civil 
war?  How  much  was  at  stake  if  he  lost;  and  if 
he  won,  whom  else  would  he  destroy  but  his  own 
subjects  ? 

Considerations  such  as  these  inclined  the  Em¬ 
peror  and  his  council  to  concessions  and  pacific 
measures,  but  it  was  in  this  very  spirit  of  conces¬ 
sion  that,  as  others  would  have  it,  lay  the  origin 
of  the  evil.  The  Archduke  Ferdinand  of  Gratz 
congratulated  the  Emperor  upon  an  event,  which 
would  justify  in  the  eyes  of  all  Europe  the 
severest  measures  against  the  Bohemian  Protest¬ 
ants.  “  Disobedience,  lawlessness,  and  insurrec- 
rection,”  he  said,  “  went  always  hand-in-hand  with 
Protestantism.  Every  privilege  which  had  been 
conceded  to  the  Estates  by  himself  and  his  prede¬ 
cessor,  had  had  no  other  effect  than  to  raise  their 
demands.  All  the  measures  of  the  heretics  were 
aimed  against  the  imperial  authority.  Step  by 
step  had  they  advanced  from  defiance  to  defiance 
up  to  this  last  aggression  ;  in  a  short  time  they 
would  assail  all  that  remained  to  be  assailed  in 
the  person  of  the  Emperor.  In  arms  alone  was 
there  any  safety  against  such  an  enemy — peace 
and  subordination  could  be  only  established  upon 
the  ruins  of  their  dangerous  privileges  ;  security 
for  the  Catholic  belief  was  to  be  found  only  in  the 
total  destruction  of  this  sect.  Uncertain  it  was 
true,  might  be  the  event  of  the  war,  but  inevitable 
was  the  ruin  if  it  were  pretermitted.  The  confis¬ 
cation  of  the  lands  of  the  rebels  would  richly 
indemnify  them  for  its  expenses,  while  the  terror 
of  punishment  would  teach  the  other  states  the 
wisdom  of  a  prompt  obedience  in  future.”  Were 
the  Bohemian  Protestants  to  blame,  if  they  armed 
themselves  in  time  against  the  enforcement  of 
such  maxims  ?  The  insurrection  in  Bohemia,  be¬ 
sides,  was  directed  only  against  the  successor  of 
the  Emperor,  not  against  himself,  who  hade  done 
nothing  to  justify  the  alarm  of  the  Protestants. 
To  exclude  this  prince  from  the  Bohemian  throne, 
arms  had  before  been  taken  up  under  Matthias, 
though  as  long  as  this  Emperor  lived,  his  sub¬ 
jects  had  kept  within  the  bounds  of  an  apparent 
submission. 

But  Bohemia  was  in  arms,  and  unarmed,  the 
Emperor  dared  not  even  offer  them  peace.  For 
this  purpose,  Spain  supplied  gold,  and  promised 
to  send  troops  from  Italy  and  the  Netherlands. 
Count  Bucquoi,  a  native  of  the  Netherlands,  was 
named  generalissimo,  because  no  native  could  be 
trusted,  and  Count  Dampierre,  another  foreigner, 
commanded  under  him.  Before  the  army  took 
the  field,  the  Emperor  endeavored  to  bring  about 
an  amicable  arrangement,  by  the  publication  of  a 
manifesto.  In  this  he  assured  the  Bohemians, 


“  that  he  held  sacred  the  Letter  of  Majesty — that 
he  had  not  formed  any  resolutions  inimical  to 
their  religion  or  their  privileges,  and  that  his 
present  preparations  were  forced  upon  him  by 
their  own.  As  soon  as  the  nation  laid  down 
their  arms,  he  also  would  disband  his  army.” 
But  this  gracious  letter  failed  of  its  effects,  be¬ 
cause  the  leaders  of  the  insurrection  contrived  to 
hide  from  the  people  the  Emperor’s  good  inten¬ 
tions.  Instead  of  this  they  circulated  the  most 
alarming  reports  from  the  pulpit,  and  by  pam¬ 
phlets,  and  terrified  the  deluded  populace  with 
threatened  horrors  of  another  Saint  Bartholo¬ 
mew’s  that  existed  only  in  their  imagination.  All 
Bohemia,  with  the  exception  of  three  towns,  Bud- 
weiss,  Krummau,  and  Pilsen,  took  part  in  this 
insurrection.  These  three  towns,  inhabited  prin¬ 
cipally  by  Roman  Catholics,  alone  had  the 
courage,  in  this  general  revolt,  to  hold  out  for  the 
Emperor,  who  promised  them  assistance.  But  it 
could  not  escape  Count  Thurn,  how  dangerous  it 
was  to  leave  in  hostile  hands  three  places  of  such 
importance,  which  would  at  all  times  keep  open 
for  the  imperial  troops  an  entrance  into  the  king¬ 
dom.  With  prompt  determination  he  appeared 
before  Budweiss  and  Krummau,  in  the  hope  of 
terrifying  them  into  a  surrender.  Krummau  sur¬ 
rendered,  but  all  his  attacks  were  steadfastly  re¬ 
pulsed  by  Budweiss. 

And  now,  too,  the  Emperor  began  to  show  more 
earnestness  and  energy.  Bucquoi  and  Dampierre, 
with  two  armies,  fell  upon  the  Bohemian  territo¬ 
ries,  which  they  treated  as  a  hostile  country.  But 
the  imperial  generals  found  the  march  to  Prague 
more  difficult  than  they  had  expected.  Ev.ery 
pass,  every  position  that  was  the  least  tenable, 
must  be  opened  by  the  sword,  and  resistance  in¬ 
creased  at  each  fresh  step  they  took,  for  the  out¬ 
rages  of  their  troops,  chiefly  consisting  of  Hunga¬ 
rians  and  Walloons,  drove  their  friends  to  revolt 
and  their  enemies  to  despair.  But  even  now  that 
his  troops  had  penetrated  into  Bohemia,  the  Em¬ 
peror  continued  to  offer  the  Estates  peace,  and  to 
show  himself  ready  for  an  amicable  adjustment. 
But  the  new  prospects  which  opened  upon  them, 
raised  the  courage  of  the  revolters.  Moravia 
espoused  their  party  ;  and  from  Germanyappeared 
to  them  a  defender  equally  intrepid  and  unex 
pected,  in  the  person  of  Count  Mansfeld. 

The  heads  of  the  Evangelical  Union  had  beer; 
silent  but  not  inactive  spectators  of  the  move¬ 
ments  in  Bohemia.  Both  were  contending  for 
the  same  cause,  and  against  the  same  enemy.  In 
the  fate  of  the  Bohemians,  their  confederates  in 
the  faith  might  read  their  own  ;  and  the  cause  of 
this  people  was  represented  as  of  solemn  common 
concern  to  the  German  League.  True  to  these 
principles,  the  Unionists  supported  the  courage 
of  the  insurgents  by  promises  of  assistance  ;  and 
a  fortunate  accident  now  enabled  them,  beyond 
their  hopes,  to  fulfill  them. 

The  instrument  by  which  the  House  of  Austria 
was  humbled  in  Germany,  was  Peter  Ernest, 
Count  Mansfeld,  the  son  of  a  distinguished  Aus¬ 
trian  officer,  Ernest  von  Mansfeld,  who  for  some 
time  had  commanded  with  repute  the  Spanish  army 
in  the  Netherlands.  His  first  campaign  in  Ju- 
liers  and  Alsace  had  been  made  in  the  service  of 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


145 


this  house,  and  under  the  banner  of  the  Archduke 
Leopold,  against  the  Protestant  religion  and  the 
liberties  of  Germany.  But  insensibly  won  by  the 
principles  of  this  religion,  he  abandoned  a  leader 
whose  selfishness  denied  him  the  reimbursement 
of  the  moneys  expended  in  his  cause,  and  he  trans¬ 
ferred  his  zeal  and  a  victorious  sword  to  the 
Evangelical  Union.  It  happened  just  then  that 
the  I) uke  of  Savoy,  an  ally  of  the  Union,  de¬ 
manded  assistance  in  a  war  against  Spain. 
They  assigned  to  him  their  newly-acquired  ser¬ 
vant,  and  Mansfeld  received  instructions  to  raise 
an  army  of  4,000  men  in  Germany,  in  the  cause 
and  in  the  pay  of  the  duke.  The  army  was  ready 
to  march  at  the -very  moment  when  the  flames  of 
war  burst  out  in  Bohemia,  and  the  duke,  who  at 
the  time  did  not  stand  in  need  of  its  services, 
placed  it  at  the  disposal  of  the  Union.  Nothing 
could  be  more  welcome  to  these  troops  than  the 
prospect  of  aiding  their  confederates  in  Bohemia, 
at  the  cost  of  a  third  party.  Mansfeld  received 
orders  forthwith  to  march  with  these  4,000  men 
into  that  kingdom;  and  a  pretended  Bohemian 
commission  was  given  to  blind  the  public  as  to 
the  true  author  of  this  levy. 

This  Mansfeld  now  appeared  in  Bohemia,  and, 
by  the  occupation  of  Pilsen,  strongly  fortified 
and  favorable  to  the  Emperor,  obtained  a  firm 
footing  in  the  country.  The  courage  of  the  rebels 
was  further  increased  by  succors  which  the  Sile¬ 
sian  States  dispatched  to  their  assistance.  Between 
these  and  the  Imperialists,  several  battles  were 
fought,  far  indeed  from  decisive,  but  only  on  that 
account  the  more  destructive,  which  served  as  the 
prelude  to  a  more  serious  war.  To  check  the 
vigor  of  his  military  operations,  a  negotiation  was 
entered  into  with  the  Emperor,  and  a  disposition 
was  shown  to  accept  the  proffered  mediation  of 
Saxony.  But  before  the  event  could  prove  how 
little  sincerity  there  was  in  these  proposals,  the 
Emperor  was  removed  from  the  scene  by  death. 

What  now  had  Matthias  done  to  justify  the  ex¬ 
pectations  which  he  had  excited  by  the  overthrow 
of  his  predecessor?  Was  it  worth  while  to  as¬ 
cend  a  brother’s  throne  through  guilt,  and  then 
maintain  it  with  so  little  dignity,  and  leave  it  with 
so  little  renown  ?  As  long  as  Matthias  sat  on  the 
throne,  he  had  to  atone  for  the  imprudence  by  which 
he  had  gained  it.  To  enjoy  the  regal  dignity  a 
few  years  sooner,  he  had  shackled  the  free  exer¬ 
cise  of  its  prerogatives.  The  slender  portion  of 
independence  left  him  by  the  growing  power  of 
the  Estates,  was  still  further  lessened  by  the  en¬ 
croachments  of  his  relations.  Sickly  and  child¬ 
less,  he  saw  the  attention  of  the  world  turned  to 
an  ambitious  heir  who  was  impatiently  anticipat¬ 
ing  his  fate ;  and  who,  by  his  interference  with 
the  closing  administration,  was  already  opening 
his  own. 

With  Matthias,  the  reigning  line  of  the  German 
House  of  Austria  was  in  a  manner  extinct  ;  for 
of  all  the  sons  of  Maximilian,  one  only  was  now 
alive,  the  weak  and  childless  Archduke  Albert,  in 
the  Netherlands,  who  had  already  renounced  his 
claims  to  the  inheritance  in  favor  of  the  line  of 
Gratz.  The  Spanish  House  had  also,  in  a  secret 
bond,  resigned  its  pretensions  to  the  Austrian 
possessions  in  behalf  of  the  Archduke  Ferdinand 

.  VOL.  II.— 10 


of  Styria,  in  whom  the  Branch  of  Hapsburg  was 
about  to  put  forth  new  shoots,  and  the  former 
greatness  of  Austria  to  experience  a  revival. 

The  father  of  Ferdinand  was  the  Archduke 
Charles  of  Carniola,  Carinthia,  and  Styria,  the 
youngest  brother  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian  II.  ; 
his  mother  a  princess  of  Bavaria.  Having  lost 
his  father  at  twelve  years  of  age,  he  was  intrusted 
by  the  archduchess  to  the  guardianship  of  her 
brother  William,  Duke  of  Bavaria,  under  whose 
eyes  he  was  instructed  and  educated  by  Jesuits 
at  the  Academy  of  Ingolstadt.  What  principles 
he  was  likely  to  imbibe  by  his  intercourse  with  a 
prince,  who  from  motives  of  devotion  had  abdi¬ 
cated  his  government,  may  be  easily  conceived. 
Care  was  taken  to  point  out  to  him,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  weak  indulgence  of  Maximilian’s  house 
toward  the  adherents  of  the  new  doctrines,  and 
the  consequent  troubles  of  their  dominions  ;  on 
the  other,  the  blessings  of  Bavaria,  and  the  in¬ 
flexible  religious  zeal  of  its  rulers:  between  these 
two  examples  he  was  left  to  choose  for  himself. 

Formed  in  this  school  to  be  a  stout  champion 
of  the  faith,  and  a  prompt  instrument  of  the 
church,  he  left  Bavaria,  after  a  residence  of  five 
years,  to  assume  the  government  of  his  hereditary 
dominions.  The  Estates  of  Carniola,  Carinthia, 
and  Styria,  who,  before  doing  homage,  demanded 
a  guarantee  for  freedom  of  religion,  were  told  that 
religious  liberty  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  al¬ 
legiance.  The  oath  was  put  to  them  without  con¬ 
ditions,  and  unconditionally  taken.  Many  years, 
however,  elapsed,  ere  the  designs  which  had  been 
planned  at  Ingolstadt  were  ripe  for  execution. 
Before  attempting  to  carry  them  into  effect,  lie 
sought  in  person  at  Loretto  the  favor  of  the  Vir¬ 
gin,  and  received  the  apostolic  benediction  in 
Borne  at  the  feet  of  Clement  VIII. 

These  designs  were  nothing  less  than  the  ex¬ 
pulsion  of  Protestantism  from  a  country  where  it 
had  the  advantage  of  numbers,  and  had  been 
legally  recognized  by  a  formal  act  of  toleration, 
granted  by  his  father  to  the  noble  and  knightly 
estates  of  the  land.  A  grant  so  formally  ratified 
could  not  be  revoked  without  danger  ;  but  no  diffi¬ 
culties  could  deter  the  pious  pupil  of  the  Jesuits. 
The  example  of  other  states,  both  Koman  Catho¬ 
lic  and  Protestants,  which  within  their  own  ter¬ 
ritories  had  exercised  unquestioned  a  right  of  re¬ 
formation,  and  the  abuse  which  the  Estates  of 
Styria  made  of  their  religious  liberties,  would 
serve  as  a  justification  of  this  violent  procedure. 
Under  the  shelter  of  an  absurd  positive  law,  those 
of  equity  and  prudence  might,  it  was  thought,  be  • 
safely  despised.  In  the  execution  of  these  un-  ■ 
righteous  designs,  Ferdinand  did,  it  must  be  • 
owned,  display  no  common  courage  and  persever¬ 
ance.  Without  tumult,  and  we  may  add,  without! 
cruelty,  he  suppressed  the  Protestant  service  iu . 
one  town  after  another,  and  in  a  few  years,  to  the 
astonishment  of  Germany,  this  dangerous  work 
was  brought  to  a  successful  end. 

But  while  the  Koman  Catholics  admired  him  as 
a  hero,  and  the  champion  of  the  church,  the  Pro¬ 
testants  began  to  combine  against  him  as  against 
their  most  dangerous  enemy.  And  yet  Matthias's 
intention  to  bequeath  to  him  the  succession,  met 
with  little  or  no  opposition  in  the  elective  states 


146 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


ot  Austria.  Even  the  Bohemians  agreed  to  re¬ 
ceive  him  as  their  future  king,  on  very  favorable 
conditions.  It  was  not  until  afterward,  when  they 
had  experienced  the  pernicious  influence  of  his 
councils  on  the  administration  of  the  Emperor, 
that  their  anxiety  was  first  excited  ;  and  then 
several  projects,  in  his  handwriting,  which  an  un¬ 
lucky  chance  threw  into  their  hands,  as  they 
plainly  evinced  his  disposition  toward  them,  car¬ 
ried  their  apprehension  to  the  utmost  pitch.  In 
particular,  they  were  alarmed  by  a  secret  family 
compact  with  Spain,  by  which,  in  default  of  heirs- 
male  of  his  own  body,  Ferdinand  bequeathed  to 
that  crown  the  kingdom  of  Bohemia,  without  first 
consulting  the  wishes  of  that  nation,!  and  without 
regard  to  its  right  of  free  election.  The  many 
enemies,  too,  which  by  his  reforms  in  Styria  that 
prince  had  provoked  among  the  Protestants,  were 
very  prejudicial  to  his  interests  in  Bohemia  ;  and 
some  Styrian  emigrants,  who  had  taken  refuge 
there,  bringing  with  them  into  their  adopted  coun¬ 
try  hearts  overflowing  with  a  desire  of  revenge, 
were  particularly  active  in  exciting  the  flames  of 
revolt.  Thus  ill-affected  did  Ferdinand  find  the 
Bohemians,  when  he  succeeded  Matthias. 

So  bad  an  understanding  between  the  nation 
and  the  candidate  for  the  throne,  wrould  have 
raised  a  storm  even  in  the  most  peaceable  succes¬ 
sion  ;  how  much  more  so  at  the  present  moment, 
before  the  ardor  of  insurrection  had  cooled ;  when 
the  nation  had  just  recovered  its  dignity,  and  re¬ 
asserted  its  rights  ;  when  they  still  held  arms  in 
their  hands,  and  the  consciousness  of  unity  had 
awakened  an  enthusiastic  reliance  on  their  own 
strength  ;  when  by  past  success,  by  the  promises 
of  foreign  assistance,  and  by  visionary  expecta¬ 
tions  of  the  future,  their  courage  had  been  raised 
to  an  undoubting  confidence.  Disregarding  the 
rights  already  conferred  on  Ferdinand,  the  Estates 
declared  the  throne  vacant,  and  their  right  of 
election  entirely  unfettered.  All  hopes  of  their 
peaceful  submission  were  at  an  end,  and  if  Ferdi¬ 
nand  wished  still  to  wear  the  crown  of  Bohemia, 
he  must  choose  between  purchasing  it  at  the  sac¬ 
rifice  of  all  that  would  make  a  crown  desirable,  or 
winning  it  sword  in  hand. 

But  with  what  means  was  it  to  be  won  ?  Turn 
his  eyes  where  he  would,  the  fire  of  revolt  was 
burning.  Silesia  had  already  joined  the  insur¬ 
gents  in  Bohemia ;  Moravia  was  on  the  point  of 
following  its  example.  In  Upper  and  Lower 
Austria  the  spirit  of  liberty  was  awake,  as  it  had 
been  under  Bodolph,  and  the  Estates  refused  to 
do  homage.  Hungary  was  menaced  with  an  in¬ 
road  by  Prince  Bethlem  Gabor,  on  the  side  of 
Transylvania ;  a  secret  arming  among  the  Turks 
spread  consternation  among  the  provinces  to  the 
eastward ;  and,  to  complete  his  perplexities  in  his 
hereditary  dominions,  the  Protestants  also,  stimu¬ 
lated  by  the  general  example,  were  again  raising 
their  heads.  In  that  quarter,  their  numbers  were 
overwhelming ;  in  most  places  they  had  possession 
of  the  revenues  which  Ferdinand  would  need  for 
the  maintenance  of  the  war.  The  neutral  began 
to  waver,  the  faithful  to  be  discouraged,  the  tur¬ 
bulent  alone  to  be  animated  and  confident.  One 
halt  of  Germany  encouraged  the  rebels,  the  other 
inactively  awaited  the  issi  e ;  Spanish  assistance 


was  still  very  remote.  The  moment  which  had 
brought  him  every  thing,  threatened  also  to  de¬ 
prive  him  of  all. 

And  when  he  now,  yielding  to  the  stern  law  of 
necessity,  made  overtures  to  the  Bohemian  rebels, 
all  his  proposals  for  peace  were  insolently  rejected. 
Count  Thurn,  at  the  head  of  an  army,  entered 
Moravia,  to  bring  this  province,  which  alone  con¬ 
tinued  to  waver,  to  a  decision.  The  appearance 
of  their  friends  is  the  signal  of  revolt  for  the  Mo¬ 
ravian  Protestants.  Br'unn  is  taken,  the  remain¬ 
der  of  the  country  yields  with  free  will,  thioughout 
the  province  government  and  religion  are  changed. 
Swelling  as  it  flows,  the  torrent  of  rebellion  pours 
down  upon  Austria,  where  a  party,  holding  similar 
sentiments,  receives  it  with  a  joyful  concurrence. 
Henceforth,  there  should  be  no  more  distinctions 
of  religion  ;  equality  of  rights  should  be  guaran¬ 
teed  to  all  Christian  churches.  They  hear  that  a 
foreign  force  has  been  invited  into  the  country  to 
oppress  the  Bohemians.  Let  them  be  sought  out, 
and  the  enemies  of  liberty  pursued  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  Not  an  arm  is  raised  in  defense  of  the 
Archduke,  and  the  rebels,  at  length,  encamp  be¬ 
fore  Vienna  to  besiege  their  sovereign. 

Ferdinand  had  sent  his  children  from  Gratz, 
where  they  were  no  longer  safe,  to  the  'Tyrol ;  he 
himself  awaited  the  insurgents  in  his  capital.  A 
handful  of  soldiers  was  all  he  could  oppose  to  the 
enraged  multitude ;  these  few  were  without  pay 
or  provisions,  and  therefore  little  to  be  depended 
on.  Vienna  was  unprepared  for  a  long  siege. 
The  party  of  the  Protestants,  ready  at  any  mo¬ 
ment  to  join  the  Bohemians,  had  the  prepon¬ 
derance  in  the  city;  those  in  the  country  had 
already  begun  to  levy  troops  against  him.  Already, 
in  imagination,  the  Protestant  populace  saw  the 
Emperor  shut  up  in  a  monastery,  his  territories 
divided,  and  his  children  educated  as  Protestants. 
Confiding  in  secret,  and  surrounded  by  public  ene¬ 
mies,  he  saw  the  chasm  every  moment  widening  to 
engulf  his  hopes  and  even  himself.  The  Bohemian 
bullets  were  already  falling  upon  the  imperial 
palace,  when  sixteen  Austrian  barons  forcibly  en¬ 
tered  his  chamber,  and  inveighing  against  him 
with  loud  and  bitter  reproaches,  endeavored  to 
force  him  into  a  confederation  with  the  Bohe¬ 
mians.  One  of  them,  seizing  him  by  the  button 
of  his  doublet,  demanded,  in  a  tone  of  menace, 
“  Ferdinand,  wilt  thou  sign  it?” 

Who  would  not  be  pardoned  had  he  wavered  in 
this  frightful  situation  ?  Yet  Ferdinand  still  re¬ 
membered  the  dignity  of  a  Homan  emperor.  No 
alternative  seemed  left  to  him  but  an  immediate 
flight  or  submission  ;  laymen  urged  him  to  the 
one,  priests  to  the  other.  If  he  abandoned  the 
city,  it  would  fall  into  the  enemy’s  hands;  with 
Vienna,  Austria  was  lost;  with  Austria,  the  im¬ 
perial  throne.  Ferdinand  abandoned  not  his  ca¬ 
pital,  and  as  little  would  he  hear  of  conditions. 

The  Archduke  is  still  engaged  in  altercation 
with  the  deputed  barons,  when  all  at  once  a 
sound  of  trumpets  is  heard  in  the  palace  square. 
Terror  and  astonishment  take  possession  of  all 
present ;  a  fearful  report  pervades  the  palace ; 
one  deputy  after  another  disappears.  Many  of 
the  nobility  and  the  citizens  hastily  take  refuge 
in  the  camp  of  Thurn.  This  suddeu  change  is 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


147 


effected  by  a  regiment  of  Dampierre’s  cuirassiers, 
who  at  that  moment  marched  into  the  city  to  de¬ 
fend  the  Archduke.  A  body  of  infantry  soon  fol¬ 
lowed  ;  reassured  by  their  appearance,  several  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  citizens,  and  even  the  stu¬ 
dents  themselves,  take  up  arms.  A  report  which 
arrived  just  at  the  same  time  from  Bohemia  made 
his  deliverance  complete.  The  Flemish  general, 
Bucquoi,  had  totally  defeated  Count  Mansfeld  at 
Bud weiss,  and  was  marching  upon  Prague.  The 
Bohemians  hastily  broke  up  their  camp  before 
Vienna  to  protect  their  own  capital. 

And  now  also  the  passes  were  free  which  the 
enemy  had  taken  possession  of,  in  order  to  ob¬ 
struct  Ferdinand’s  progress  to  his  coronation  at 
Frankfort.  If  the  accession  to  the  imperial  throne 
was  important  for  the  plans  of  the  King  of  Hun¬ 
gary,  it  was  of  still  greater  consequence  at  the 
present  moment,  when  his  nomination  as  Emperor 
would  afford  the  most  unsuspicious  and  decisive 
proof  of  the  dignity  of  his  person,  and  of  the  jus¬ 
tice  of  his  cause,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  would 
gice  him  a  hope  of  support  from  the  Empire. 
But  the  same  cabal  which  opposed  him  in  his  he¬ 
reditary  dominions,  labored  also  to  counteract  him 
in  his  canvass  for  the  imperial  dignity.  No  Aus¬ 
trian  prince,  they  maintained,  ought  to  ascend  the 
throne;  least  of  all  Ferdinand,  the  bigoted  perse¬ 
cutor  of  their  religion,  the  slave  of  Spain  and  of 
the  Jesuits.  To  prevent  this,  the  crown  had  been 
offered,  even  during  the  lifetime  of  Matthias,  to 
the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  and,  on  his  refusal,  to  the 
Duke  of  Savoy.  As  some  difficulty  was  expe¬ 
rienced  in  settling  with  the  latter  the  conditions 
of  acceptance,  it  was  sought,  at  all  events,  to  de¬ 
lay  the  election  till  some  decisive  blow  in  Austria 
or  Bohemia  should  annihilate  all  the  hopes  of 
Ferdinand,  and  incapacitate  him  from  any  com¬ 
petition  for  this  dignity.  The  members  of  the 
Union  left  no  stone  unturned  to  gain  over  from 
Ferdinand  the  Electorate  of  Saxony,  which  was 
bound  to  Austrian  interests  ;  they  represented  to 
this  court  the  dangers  with  which  the  Protestant 
religion,  and  even  the  constitution  of  the  empire, 
were  threatened  by  the  principles  of  this  prince 
and  his  Spanish  alliance.  By  the  elevation  of 
Ferdinand  to  the  imperial  throne,  Germany,  they 
further  asserted,  would  be  involved  in  the  private 
quarrels  of  this  prince,  and  bring  upon  itself  the 
arms  of  Bohemia.  But  in  spite  of  all  opposing 
influences,  the  day  of  election  was  fixed,  Ferdi¬ 
nand  summoned  to  it  as  lawful  King  of  Bohemia, 
and  his  electoral  vote,  after  a  fruitless  resistance 
on  the  part  of  the  Bohemian  Estates,  acknow¬ 
ledged  to  be  good.  The  votes  of  the  three  eccle¬ 
siastical  electorates  were  for  him,  Saxony  was 
favorable  to  him,  Brandenburg  made  no  oppo¬ 
sition,  and  a  decided  majority  declared  him  Em¬ 
peror  in  1619.  Thus  he  saw  the  most  doubtful 
of  his  crowns  placed  first  of  all  on  his  head ;  but 
a  few  days  after  he  lost  that  which  he  had  reck¬ 
oned  the  most  certain  of  his  possessions.  While 
he  was  thus  elected  Emperor  in  Frankfort,  he 
was  in  Prague  deprived  of  the  Bohemian  throne. 

Almost  all  of  his  German  hereditary  dominions 
had  in  the  mean  time  entered  into  a  formidable 
league  with  the  Bohemians,  whose  insolence  now 
exceeded  all  bounds.  In  a  general  Diet,  the  latter, 


on  the  17th  of  August,  1619,  proclaimed  the  Em¬ 
peror  an  enemy  to  the  Bohemian  religion  and 
liberties,  who  by  his  pernicious  counsels  had  alien¬ 
ated  from  them  the  affections  of  the  late  Empe¬ 
ror,  had  furnished  troops  to  oppress  them,  had 
given  their  country  as  a  prey  to  foreigners,  and 
finally,  in  contravention  of  the  national  rights, 
had  bequeathed  the  crown,  by  a  secret  compact, 
to  Spain  ;  they  therefore  declared  that  he  had 
forfeited  whatever  title  he  might  otherwise  have 
had  to  the  crown,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  a 
new  election.  As  this  sentence  was  pronounced 
by  Protestants,  their  choice  could  not  well  fad 
upon  a  Roman  Catholic  prince,  though,  to  save 
appearances,  some  voices  were  raised  for  Bavaria 
and  Savoy.  But  the  violent  religious  animosities 
which  divided  the  evangelical  and  the  reformed 
parties  among  the  Protestants,  impeded  for  some 
time  the  election  even  of  a  Protestant  king  ;  till 
at  last  the  address  and  activity  of  the  Calvinists 
carried  the  day  from  the  numerical  superiority  of 
the  Lutherans. 

Among  all  the  princes  who  were  competitors 
for  this  dignity,  the  Elector  Palatine  Frederick 
V.  had  the  best  grounded  claims  on  the  confidence 
and  gratitude  of  the  Bohemians  ;  and  among 
them  all,  there  was  no  one  in  whose  case  the 
private  interests  of  particular  Estates,  and  the  at¬ 
tachment  of  the  people  seemed  to  be  justified  by 
so  many  considerations  of  state.  Frederick  V.  was 
of  a  free  and  lively  spirit,  of  great  goodness  of 
heart,  and  regal  liberality.  He  was  the  head  of 
the  Calvinistic  party  in  Germany,  the  leader  of 
the  Union,  whose  resources  were  at  his  disposal,  a 
near  relation  of  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  and  a  son- 
in-law  of  the  King  of  Great  Britain,  who  might 
lend  him  his  powerful  support.  All  these  con¬ 
siderations  were  prominently  and  successfully 
brought  forward  by  the  Calvinists,  and  Frederick 
Y.  was  chosen  king  by  the  Assembly  at  Prague, 
amidst  prayers  and  tears  of  joy. 

The  whole  proceedings  of  the  Diet  at  Prague 
had  been  premeditated,  and  Frederick  himself 
had  taken  too  active  a  share  in  the  matter  to  feel 
at  all  surprised  at  the  offer  made  to  him  by  the 
Bohemians.  But  now  the  immediate  glitter  of 
this  throne  dazzled  him,  and  the  magnitude  both 
of  his  elevation  and  his  delinquency  made  his 
weak  mind  to  tremble.  After  the  usual  manner 
of  pusillanimous  spirits,  he  sought  to  confirm 
himself  in  his  purpose  by  the  opinions  of  others; 
but  these  opinions  had  no  weight  with  him 
when  they  ran  counter  to  his  own  cherished 
wishes.  Saxony  and  Bavaria,  of  whom  he  sought 
advice,  all  his  brother  electors,  all  who  com¬ 
pared  the  magnitude  of  the  design  with  his  capa¬ 
cities  and  resources,  warned  him  of  the  danger 
into  which  he  was  about  to  rush.  Even  King 
James  of  England  preferred  to  see  his  son-in-law 
deprived  of  this  crown,  than  that  the  sacred  ma¬ 
jesty  of  kings  should  be  outraged  by  so  danger¬ 
ous  a  precedent.  But  of  what  avail  was  the 
voice  of  prudence  against  the  seductive  glitter 
of  a  crown  ?  In  the  moment  of  boldest  deter¬ 
mination,  when  they  are  indignantly  rejecting  the 
consecrated  branch  of  a  race  which  had  governed 
them  for  two  centuries,  a  free  people  throws 
itself  into  his  arms.  Confiding  in  his  courage, 


148 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


they  choose  him  as  their  leader  in  the  dangerous 
career  of  glory  and  liberty.  To  him,  as  to  its 
born  champion,  an  oppressed  religion  looks  for 
shelter  and  support  against  its  persecutors. 
Could  he  have  the  weakness  to  listen  to  his  fears, 
and  to  betray  the  cause  of  religion  and  liberty? 
This  religion  proclaims  to  him  its  own  preponder¬ 
ance,  and  the  weakness  of  its  rival, — two-thirds 
of  the  power  of  Austria  are  now  in  arms  against 
Austria  itse.f,  while  a  formidable  conspiracy,  * 
already  formed  in  Transylvania,  would,  by  a 
hostile  attack,  further  distract  even  the  weak 
remnant  of  its-  power.  Could  inducements  such 
as  these  fail  to  awaken  his  ambition,  or  such 
hopes  to  animate  and  inflame  his  resolution  ? 

A  few  moments  of  calm  consideration  would 
have  sufficed  to  show  the  danger  of  the  undertaking, 
and  the  comparative  worthlessness  of  the  prize. 
But  the  temptation  spoke  to  his  feelings ;  the 
warning  only  to  his  reason.  It  was  his  misfortune 
that  his  nearest  and  most  influential  counselors 
espoused  the  side  of  his  passions.  The  aggran¬ 
dizement  of  their  master’s  power  opened  to  the 
ambition  and  avarice  of  his  Palatine  servants  an 
unlimited  field  for  their  gratification  ;  this  antici¬ 
pated  triumph  of  their  church,  kindled  the  ardor 
of  the  Calvinistic  fanatic.  Could  a  mind  so  weak 
as  that  of  Ferdinand  resist  the  delusions  of  his 
counselors,  who  exaggerated  his  resources  and 
his  strength,  as  much  as  they  underrated  those  of 
his  enemies  ;  or  the  exhortations  of  his  preachers, 
who  announced  the  effusions  of  their  fanatical 
zeal  as  the  immediate  inspiration  of  heaven? 
The  dreams  of  astrology  filled  his  mind  with  vi¬ 
sionary  hopes  ;  even  love  conspired,  with  its  irre¬ 
sistible  fascination,  to  complete  the  seduction. 
“Had  you,”  demanded  the  Electress,  “  confidence 
enough  in  yourself  to  accept  the  hand  of  a  king’s 
daughter,  and  have  you  misgivings  about  taking  a 
crown  which  is  voluntarily  offered  you  ?  I  would 
rather  eat  bread  at  thy  kingly  table,  than  feast  at 
thy  electoral  board.” 

Frederick  accepted  the  Bohemian  crown.  The 
coronation  was  celebrated  with  unexampled  pofnp 
at  Prague,  for  the  nation  displayed  all  its  riches 
in  honor  of  its  own  work.  Silesia  and  Moravia, 
the  adjoining  provinces  to  Bohemia,  followed 
their  example,  and  did  homage  to  Frederick.  The 
reformed  faith  was  enthroned  in  all  the  churches 
of  the  kingdom  ;  the  rejoicings  were  unbounded, 
their  attachment  to  .their  new  king  bordered  on 
adoration.  Denmark  and  Sweden,  Holland  and 
Venice,  and  several  of  the  Dutch  states,  acknow¬ 
ledged  him  as  lawful  sovereign,  and  Frederick 
now  prepared  to  maintain  his  new  acquisition. 

His  principal  hopes  rested  on  Prince  Bethlem 
Gabor  of  Transylvania.  This  formidable  enemy 
of  Austria,  and  of  the  Roman  Catholic  church, 
not  content  with  the  principality  which,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  Turks,  he  had  wrested  from  his 
legitimate  prince,  Gabriel  Bathosi,  gladly  seized 
this  opportunity  of  aggrandizing  himself  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  Austria,  which  had  hesitated  to  acknow¬ 
ledge  him  as  sovereign  of  Transylvania.  An  at¬ 
tack  upon  Hungary  and  Austria  was  concerted 
with  the  Bohemian  rebels,  and  both  armies  were 
to  unite  before  the  capital.  Meantime,  Bethlem 
Gabor,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  disguised 


the  true  object  of  his  warlike  prepai  ations.  artfully 
promising  the  Emperor  to  lure  the  Bohemians  into 
the  toils,  by  a  pretended  offer  of  assistance,  and  to 
deliver  up  to  him  alive  the  leaders  of  the  insur¬ 
rection.  All  at  once,  however,  he  appeared  in  a 
hostile  attitude  in  Upper  Hungary.  Before  him 
went  terror,  and  devastation  behind  ;  all  opposi¬ 
tion  yielded,  and'  at  Presburg  he  received  the 
Hungarian  crown.  The  Emperor’s  brother,  who 
governed  in  Vienna,  trembled  for  the  capital. 
He  hastily  summoned  General  Bucquoi  to  his  as¬ 
sistance,  and  the  retreat  of  the  Imperialists  drew 
the  Bohemians,  a  second  time,  before  the  walls  of 
Vienna.  Reinforced  by  twelve  thousand  Tran¬ 
sylvanians,  and  soon  after  joined  by  the  victorious 
army  of  Bethlem  Gabor,  they  again  menaced  the 
capital  with  assault ;  all  the  country  round  Vienna 
was  laid  waste,  the  navigation  of  the  Danube 
closed,  all  supplies  cut  off,  and  the  horrors  of  fa¬ 
mine  were  threatened.  Ferdinand,  hastily  recalled 
to  his  capital  by  this  urgent  danger,  saw  himself 
a  second  time  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  But  want 
of  provisions,  and  the  inclement  weather,  finally 
compelled  the  Bohemians  to  go  into  quarters,  a 
defeat  in  Hungary  recalled  Bethlem  Gabor,  and 
thus  once  more  had  fortune  rescued  the  Emperor. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  scene  was  changed,  and  by 
his  prudence  and  activity  Ferdinand  improved  his 
position  as  rapidly  as  Frederick,  by  indolence  and 
impolicy,  ruined  his.  The  Estates  of  Lower  Aus¬ 
tria  wrere  regained  to  their  allegiance  by  a  confir¬ 
mation  of  their  privileges;  and  the  few  who  still 
held  out  were  declared  guilty  of  Use-maj est'e  and 
high  treason.  During  the  election  of  Frank¬ 
fort,  he  had  contrived,  by  personal  representa¬ 
tions,  to  win  over  to  his  cause  the  ecclesiastical 
electors,  and  also  Maximilian,  Duke  of  Bavaria, 
at  Munich.  The  whole  issue  of  the  war,  the  fate 
of  Frederick  and  the  Emperor,  were  now  depend¬ 
ent  on  the  part  which  the  Union  and  the  League 
should  take  in  the  troubles  of  Bohemia.  It  was 
evidently  of  importance  to  all  the  Protestants  of 
Germany,  that  the  King  of  Bohemia  snould  be 
supported,  while  it  was  equally  the  interest  of  the 
Roman  Catholics  to  prevent  the  ruin  of  the  Em¬ 
peror.  If  the  Protestants  succeeded  in  Bohe¬ 
mia,  all  the  Roman  Catholic  princes  in  Germany 
might  tremble  for  their  possessions  ;  if  they  failed, 
the  Emperor  would  give  laws  to  Protestant  Ger¬ 
many.  Thus  Ferdinand  put  the  League,  Frede¬ 
rick  the  Union,  in  motion.  The  ties  of  relation¬ 
ship  and  a  personal  attachment  to  the  Emperor, 
his  brother-in-law,  with  whom  he  had  been  edu¬ 
cated  at  Ingolstadt,  zeal  for  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion,  which  seemed  to  be  in  the  most  immi¬ 
nent  peril,  and  the  suggestions  of  the  Jesuits, 
combined  with  the  suspicious  movements  of  the 
Union,  moved  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  and  all  the 
princes  of  the  League,  to  make  the  cause  of 
Ferdinand  their  own. 

According  to  the  terms  of  a  treaty  with  the 
Emperor,  which  assured  to  the  Duke  of  Bavaria 
compensation  for  all  the  expenses  of  the  war,  or 
the  losses  he  might  sustain,  Maximilian  took,  with 
full  powers,  the  command  of  the  troops  of  the 
League,  which  were  ordered  to  march  to  the  as¬ 
sistance  of  the  Emperor  against  the  Bohemian 
rebels.  The  leaders  of  the  Union,  instead  of  de- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


149 


laying  by  every  means  this  dangerous  coalition  of 
the  League  with  the  Emperor,  did  every  thing  in 
their  power  to  accelerate  it.  Could  they,  they 
thought,  but  once  drive  the  Roman  Catholic 
League  to  take  an  open  part  in  the  Bohemian 
war,  their  might  reckon  on  similar  measures  from 
all  the  members  and  allies  of  the  Union.  With¬ 
out  some  open  step  taken  by  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics  against  the  Union,  no  effectual  confederacy  of 
the  Protestant  powers  was  to  be  looked  for. 
They  seized,  therefore,  the  present  emergency  of 
the  troubles  in  Bohemia  to  demand  from  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholics  the  abolition  of  their  past  griev¬ 
ances,  and  full  security  for  the  future  exercise  of 
their  religion.  They  addressed  this  demand, 
which  was  moreover  couched  in  threatening  lan¬ 
guage,  to  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  as  the  head  of  the 
Roman  Catholics,  and  they  insisted  on  an  imme¬ 
diate  and  categorical  answer.  Maximilian  might 
decide  for  or  against  them,  still  their  point  was 
gained  ;  his  concession,  if  he  yielded,  would  de¬ 
prive  the  Roman  Catholic  party  of  its  most  pow¬ 
erful  protector ;  his  refusal  would  arm  the  whole 
Protestant  party,  and  render  inevitable  a  war  in 
which  they  hoped  to  be  the  conquerors.  Maxi¬ 
milian,  firmly  attached  to  the  opposite  party  from 
so  many  other  considerations,  took  the  demands 
of  the  Union  as  a  formal  declaration  of  hostili¬ 
ties,  and  quickened  his  preparations.  While  Ba¬ 
varia  and  the  League  were  thus  arming  in  the 
Emperor’s  cause,  negotiations  fora  subsidy  were 
opened  with  the  Spanish  court.  All  the  difficul¬ 
ties  with  which  the  indolent  policy  of  that  minis¬ 
try  met  this  demand  were  happily  surmounted  by 
the  imperial  ambassador  at  Madrid,  Count  Khe- 
venhuller.  In  addition  to  a  subsidy  of  a  million 
of  florins,  which  from  time  to  time  were  doled 
out  by  this  court,  an  attack  upon  the  Lower  Pa¬ 
latinate,  from  the  side  of  the  Spanish  Nether¬ 
lands,  was  at  the  same  time  agreed  upon. 

During  these  attempts  to  draw  all  the  Roman 
Catholic  powers  into  the  League,  the  Protestants 
labored  with  equal  activity  to  cement  their  con¬ 
federacy.  To  this  end,  it  was  important  to  alarm 
the  Elector  of  Saxony  and  the  other  Evangelical 
powers,  and  accordingly  the  Union  were  diligent 
in  propagating  a  rumor  that  the  preparations  of 
the  League  had  for  their  object  to  deprive  them 
of  the  ecclesiastical  foundations  they  had  secu¬ 
larized.  A  written  assurance  to  the  contrary 
calmed  the  fears  of  the  Duke  of  Saxony,  whom 
moreover  private  jealousy  of  the  Palatine,  and 
the  insinuations  of  his  chaplain,  who  was  in  the 
pay  of  Austria,  and  mortification  at  having  been 
passed  over  by  the  Bohemians  in  the  election  to 
the  throne,  strongly  inclined  to  the  side  of  Aus¬ 
tria.  The  fanaticism  of  the  Lutherans  could 
never  forgive  the  reformed  party  for  having 
d.?uwn,  as  they  expressed  it,  so  many  fair  provinces 
into  the  gulf  of  Calvinism,  and  rejecting  the  Ro¬ 
man  Antichrist  only  to  make  way  for  an  Helve¬ 
tian  one. 

While  Ferdinand  used  every  effort  to  improve 
the  unfavorable  situation  of  his  affairs,  Frederick 
was  daily  injuring  his  good  cause.  By  his  close 
and  questionable  connection  with  the  Prince  of 
Transylvania,  the  open  ally  of  the  Porte,  he  gave 
offence  to  weak  minds  and  a  general  rumor  ac¬ 


cused  him  of  furthering  his  own  ambitioi  at  the 
expense  of  Christendom,  and  arming  the  Turks 
against  Germany.  His  inconsiderate  zeal  for  the 
Calvinistic  scheme  irritated  the  Lutherans  of  Bo¬ 
hemia,  his  attack  on  image-worship  incensed  the 
Papists  of  this  kingdom  against  him.  New  and 
oppressive  imposts  alienated  the  affections  of  all 
his  subjects.  The  disappointed  hopes  of  the  Bo¬ 
hemian  nobles  cooled  their  zeal  :  the  absence  of 
foreign  succors  abated  their  confidence.  Instead 
of  devoting  himself  with  untiring  energies  to  the 
affairs  of  his  kingdom,  Frederick  wasted  his  time 
in  amusements ;  instead  of  filling  his  treasury  by 
a  wise  economy,  he  squandered  his  revenues  by  a 
needless  theatrical  pomp,  and  a  misplaced  munifi¬ 
cence.  With  a  light-minded  carelessness,  he  did 
but  gaze  at  himself  in  his  new  dignity,  and  in  the 
ill-timed  desire  to  enjoy  his  crown,  he  forgot  the 
more  pressing  duty  of  securing  it  on  his  head. 

But  greatly  as  men  had  erred  in  their  opinion 
of  him,  Frederick  himself  had  not  less  miscalcu¬ 
lated  his  foreign  resources.  Most  of  the  members 
of  the  Union  considered  the  affairs  of  Bohemia  as 
foreign  to  the  real  object  of  their  confederacy ; 
others,  who  were  devoted  to  him,  were  overawed 
by  fear  of  the  Emperor.  Saxony  and  Hesse 
Darmstadt,  had  already  been  gained  over  by  Fer¬ 
dinand  ;  Lower  Austria,  on  which  side  a  powerful 
diversion  had  been  looked  for,  had  made  its  sub¬ 
mission  to  the  Emperor;  and  Bethlem  Gabor  had 
concluded  a  truce  with  him.  By  its  embassies, 
the  court  of  Vienna  had  induced  Denmark  to  re¬ 
main  inactive,  and  to  occupy  Sweden  in  a  war 
with  the  Poles.  The  republic  of  Holland  had 
•enough  to  do  to  defend  itself  against  the  arms  of 
the  Spaniards  ;  Venice  and  Saxony  remained  in¬ 
active  ;  King  James  of  England  was  overreached 
by  the  artifice  of  Spain.  One  friend  after  another 
withdrew ;  one  hope  vanished  after  another — so 
rapidly  in  a  few  months  was  every  thing  changed. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  leaders  of  the  Union  as¬ 
sembled  an  army; — the  Emperor  and  the  League 
did  the  same.  The  troops  of  the  latter  were 
assembled  under  the  banners  of  Maximilian  at 
Donauwerth,  those  of  the  Union  at  Ulm,  under 
the  Margrave  at  Anspach.  The  decisive  moment 
seemed  at  length  to  have  arrived  which  was  to 
end  these  long  dissensions  by  a  vigorous  blow, 
and  irrevocably  to  settle  the  relation  of  the  two 
churches  in  Germany.  Anxiously  ou  the  stretch 
was  the  expectation  of  both  parties.  How  great 
then  was  their  astonishment  when  suddenly  the 
intelligence  of  peace  arrived,  and  both  armies 
separated  without  striking  a  blow! 

The  intervention  of  France  effected  this  peace, 
which  was  equally  acceptable  to  both  parties. 
The  French  cabinet,  no  longer  swayed  by  the 
counsels  of  Henry  the  Great,  and  whose  maxims 
of  state  were,  perhaps  not  applicable  to  the  pre¬ 
sent  condition  of  that  kingdom,  was  now  far  less 
alarmed  at  the  preponderance  of  Austria,  than  of 
the  increase  which  would  accrue  to  the  strength 
of  the  Calvinists,  if  the  Palatine  house  should  be 
able  to  retain  the  throne  of  Bohemia.  Involved 
at  the  time  in  a  dangerous  conflict  with  its  own 
Calvinistic  subjects,  it  was  of  the  utmost  impor¬ 
tance  to  France  that  the  Protestant  faction  in 
Bohemia  should  be  suppressed  before  the  Hugue* 


150 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


nots  could  copy  their  dangerous  example.  In 
order  therefore  to  facilitate  the  Emperor’s  opera¬ 
tions  against  the  Bohemians,  she  offered  her  me¬ 
diation  to  the  Union  and  the  League,  and  effected 
this  unexpected  treaty,  of  which  the  main  article 
was,  That  the  Union  should  abandon  all  inter¬ 
ference  in  the  affairs  of  Bohemia,  and  confine  the 
aid  which  they  might  afford  to  Frederick  the 
Fifih,  to  his  Palatine  territories.”  To  this  dis¬ 
graceful  treaty,  the  Union  were  moved  by  the 
firmness  of  Maximilian,  and  the  fear  of  being- 
pressed  at  once  by  the  troops  of  the  League,  and 
a  new  imperial  army  which  was  on  its  march  from 
the  Netherlands.  . 

The  whole  force  of  Bavaria  and  the  League  was 
now  at  the  disposal  of  the  Emperor  to  be  em¬ 
ployed  against  the  Bohemians,  who  by  the  pacifi¬ 
cation  of  Ulm  were  abandoned  to  their  fate.  With 
a  rapid  movement,  and  before  a  rumor  of  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  at  Ulm  could  reach  there,  Maximilian 
appeaivd  in  Upper  Austria,  when  the  Estates, 
surprised  and  unprepared  for  an  enemy,  purchased 
the  Emperor’s  pardon  by  an  immediate  and  un¬ 
conditional  submission.  In  Lower  Austria,  the 
duke  formed  a  junction  with  the  troops  from  the 
Low  Countries  under  Bucquoi,  and  without  loss 
of  time  the  united  Imperial  and  Bavarian  forces, 
amounting  to  fifty  thousand  men,  entered  Bohe¬ 
mia.  All  the  Bohemian  troops,  which  were  dis¬ 
persed  over  Lower  Austria  and  Moravia,  were 
driven  before  them  :  every  town  which  attempted 
resistance  was  quickly  taken  by  storm  ;  others, 
terrified  by  the  report  of  the  punishment  inflicted 
on  these,  voluntarily  opened  their  gates  ;  nothing 
in  short  interrupted  the  impetuous  career  of 
Maximilian.  The  Bohemian  army,  commanded 
by  the  brave  Prince  Christian  of  Anhalt,  re¬ 
treated  to  the  neighborhood  of  Prague  ;  where, 
under  the  walls  of  the  city,  Maximilian  offered 
him  battle. 

The  wretched  condition  in  which  he  hoped  to 
surprise  the  insurgents,  justified  the  rapidity  of 
the  duke’s  movements,  and  secured  him  the  vic¬ 
tory.  Frederick’s  army  did  not  amount  to  thirty 
thousand  men.  Eight  thousand  of  these  were 
furnished  by  the  Prince  of  Anhalt;  ten  thousand 
were  Hungarians,  whom  Bethlem  Gabor  had  dis¬ 
patched  to  his  assistance.  An  inroad  of  the 
Elector  of  Saxony  upon  Lusatia,  had  cut  off  all 
succors  from  that  country,  and  from  Silesia;  the 
pacification  of  Austria  put  an  end  to  all  his  ex-> 
pectations  from  that  quarter;  Bethlem  Gabor, 
his  most  powerful  ally,  remained  inactive  in  Tran¬ 
sylvania;  the  Union  had  betrayed  his  cause  to 
the  Emperor.  Nothing  remained  to  him  but  his 
Bohemians;  and  they  were  without  good-will  to 
his  cause,  and  without  unity  and  courage.  The 
Bohemian  magnates  were  indignant  that  German 
generals  should  be  put  over  their  heads;  Count 
Mansfeld  remained  in  Pilsen,  at  a  distance  from 
the  camp,  to  avoid  the  mortification  of  serving- 
under  Anhalt  and  Hohenlohe.  The  soldiers,  in 
want  of  necessaries,  became  dispirited  ;  and  the 
little  discipline  that  was  observed,  gave  occasion 
to  bitter  complaints  from  the  peasantry.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Frederick  made  his  appearance  in 
the  camp,  in  the  hope  of  reviving  the  courage  of 


the  soldiers  by  his  presence,  and  of  kindling  the 
emulation  of  the  nobles  by  his  example. 

The  Bohemians  had  begun  to  entrench  them, 
selves  on  the  White  Mountain  near  Prague,  when 
they  w-ere  attacked  by  the  Imperial  and  Bavarian 
armies,  on  the  Bth  November,  1620.  In  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  the  action,  some  advantages  were 
gained  by  the  cavalry  of  the  Prince  of  Anhalt ; 
but  the  superior  numbers  of  the  enemy  soon  neu¬ 
tralized  them.  The  charge  of  the  Bavarians  and 
Walloons  was  irresistible.  The  Hungarian  cav¬ 
alry  was  the  first  to  retreat.  The  Bohemian  in¬ 
fantry  soon  followed  their  example ;  and  the  Ger¬ 
mans  were  at  last  carried  along  with  them  in  the 
general  flight.  Ten  cannons,  composing  the  whole 
of  Frederick’s  artillery,  were  taken  by  the  enemy  ; 
four  thousand  Bohemians  fell  in  the  flight  and  on 
the  field  ;  while  of  the  Imperialists  and  soldiers 
of  the  League,  only  a  few  hundred  were  killed. 
In  less  than  an  hour  this  decisive  action  was  over. 

Frederick  was  seated  at  table  in  Prague,  while 
his  army  was  thus  cut  to  pieces.  It  is  probable 
that  he  had  not  expected  the  attack  on  this  day, 
since  he  had  ordered  an  entertainment  for  it.  A 
messenger  summoned  him  from  table,  to  show 
him  from  the  walls  the  whole  frightful  scene.  He 
requested  a  cessation  of  hostilities  for  twenty-four 
hours,  for  deliberation ;  but  eight  was  all  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria  would  allow  him.  Frederick 
availed  himself  of  these  to  fly  by  night  from  the 
capital,  with  his  wife,  and  the  chief  officers  of  his 
army.  This  flight  was  so  hurried,  that  the  Prince 
of  Anhalt  left  behind  him  his  most  private  pa¬ 
pers,  and  Frederick  his  crown.  “  I  know  now 
what  I  am,”  said  this  unfortunate  prince  to  those 
who  endeavored  to  comfort  him;  “  there  are  vir¬ 
tues  which  misfortune  only  can  teach  us,  and  it  is 
in  adversity  alone  that  princes  learn  to  know 
themselves.” 

Prague  was  not  irretrievably  lost  when  Fred¬ 
erick’s  pusillanimity  abandoned  it.  The  light 
troops  of  Mansfeld  were  still  in  Pilsen,  and  were 
not  engaged  in  the  action.  Bethlem  Gabor 
might  at  any  moment  have  assumed  an  offensive 
attitude,  and  drawn  off  the  Emperor’s  ‘army  to 
the  Hungarian  frontier.  The  defeated  Bohemi¬ 
ans  might  rally.  Sickness,  famine,  and  the  in¬ 
clement  weather,  might  wear  out  the  enemy  ;  but 
all  these  hopes  disappeared  before  the  immediate 
alarm.  Frederick  dreaded  the  fickleness  of  the 
Bohemians,  who  might  probably  yield  to  the 
temptation  to  purchase,  by  the  surrender  of  his 
person,  the  pardon  of  the  Emperor. 

Thurn,  and  those  of  this  party  who  were  in  the 
same  condemnation  with  him,  found  it  equally  in¬ 
expedient  to  await  their  destiny  within  the  walls 
of  Prague.  They  retired  toward  Moravia,  with 
a  view  of  seeking  refuge  in  Transylvania.  Fred¬ 
erick  fled  to  Breslau,  where,  however,  he  only  re¬ 
mained  a  short  time.  He  removed  from  thence 
to  the  court  of  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  and 
finally  took  shelter  in  Holland. 

The  battle  of  Prague  had  decided  the  fate  of 
Bohemia.  Prague  surrendered  the  next  day  to 
the  victors  ;  the  other  towns  followed  the  exam¬ 
ple  of  the  capital.  The  Estates  did  homage  with¬ 
out  conditions,  and  the  same  was  done  by  those 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


151 


of  Silesia  and  Moravia.  The  Emperor  allowed 
three  months  to  elapse,  before  instituting  any  in¬ 
quiry  into  the  past.  Reassured  by  this  apparent 
clemency,  many  who,  at  first,  had  fled  in  terror 
appeared  again  in  the  capital.  All  at  once,  how¬ 
ever,  the  storm  burst  forth ;  forty-eight  of  the 
most  active  among  the  insurgents  were  arrested 
on  the  same  day  and  hour,  and  tried  by  an  extra¬ 
ordinary  commission,  composed  of  native  Bo¬ 
hemians  and  Austrians.  Of  these,  twenty-seven, 
and  of  the  common  people  an  immense  number, 
expired  on  the  scaffold.  The  absenting  offenders 
were  summoned  to  appear  to  their  trial,  and  fail¬ 
ing  to  do  so,  condemned  to  death,  as  traitors  and 
offenders  against  his  Catholic  Majesty,  their  es¬ 
tates  confiscated,  and  their  names  affixed  to  the 
gallows.  The  property  also  of  the  rebels  who  had 
fallen  in  the  field  was  seized.  This  tyranny  might 
have  been  borne,  as  it  affected  individuals  only, 
and  while  the  ruin  of  one  enriched  another;  but 
more  intolerable  was  the  oppression  which  ex¬ 
tended  to  the  whole  kingdom,  without  exception. 
All  the  Protestant  preachers  were  banished  from 
the  country  ;  the  Bohemians  first,  and  afterward 
those  of  Germany.  TheLetter  of  Majesty,  Ferdi¬ 
nand  tore  with  his  own  hand,  and  burned  the  seal. 
Seven  years  after  the  battle  of  Prague,  the  tolera¬ 
tion  of  the  Protestant  religion  within  the  king¬ 
dom  was  entirely  revoked.  But  the  violence 
which  the  Emperor  allowed  himself  against  the 
religious  privileges  of  his  subjects,  he  carefully 
abstained  from  exercising  against  their  political 
constitution  ;  and  while  he  deprived  them  of  the 
liberty  of  thought,  he  magnanimously  left  them 
the  prerogative  of  taxing  themselves. 

The  victory  of  the  White  Mountain  put  Ferdi¬ 
nand  in  possession  of  all  his  dominions.  It  even 
invested,  him  with  greater  authority  over  them 
than  his  predecessors  enjoyed,  since  their  allegi¬ 
ance  had  been  unconditionally  pledged  to  him, 
and  no  Letter  of  Majesty  now  existed  to  limit  his 
sovereignty.  All  his  wishes  were  now  gratified, to  a 
degree  surpassing  his  most  sanguine  expectations. 

It  was  now  in  his  power  to  dismiss  his  allies, 
and  disband  his  army.  If  he  was  just,  there  was 
an  end  of  the  war — if  he  was  both  magnanimous 
and  just,  punishment  was  also  at  an  end.  The 
fate  of  Germany  was  in  his  hands  ;  the  happiness 
and  misery  of  millions  depended  on  the  resolution 
he  should  take.  Never  was  so  great  a  decision 
resting  on  a  single  mind  ;  never  did  the  blindness 
of  one  man  produce  so  much  ruin. 


BOOK  II. 

The  resolution  which  Ferdinand  now  adopted, 
gave  to  the  war  a  new  direction,  a  new  scene,  and 
new  actors.  From  a  rebellion  in  Bohemia,  and 
the  chastisement  of  rebels,  a  war  extended  first  to 
Germany,  and  afterward  to  Europe.  It  is,  there¬ 
fore,  necessary  to  take  a  general  survey  of  the 
state  of  affairs  both  in  Germany  and  the  rest  of 
Europe. 

Unequally  as  the  territory  of  Germany  and  the 
privileges  of  its  members  were  divided  among  the 
Roman  Catholics  and  the  Protestants,  neither 


party  could  hope  to  maintain  itself  against  the  en¬ 
croachments  of  its  adversary  otherwise  than  by  a 
prudent  use  of  its  peculiar  advantages,  and  by  a 
politic  union  among  themselves.  If  the  Roman 
Catholics  were  the  more  numerous  party,  and 
more  favored  by  the  constitution  of  the  empire, 
the  Protestants,  on  the  other  hand,  had  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  possessing  a  more  compact  and  popu¬ 
lous  line  of  territories,  valiant  princes,  a  warlike 
nobility,  numerous  armies,  flourishing  free  towns, 
the  command  of  the  sea,  and  even  at  the  worst, 
certainty  of  support  from  Roman  Catholic  states. 
If  the  Catholics  could  arm  Spain  and  Italy  in  their 
favor,  the  republics  of  Venice,  Holland,  and  Eng¬ 
land,  opened  their  treasures  to  the  Protestants, 
while  the  states  of  the  North,  and  the  formidable 
power  of  Turkey,  stood  ready  to  afford  them 
prompt  assistance.  Brandenburg,  Saxony,  and 
the  Palatinate,  opposed  three  Protestant  to  three 
Ecclesiastical  votes  in  the  Electoral  College ; 
while  to  the  Elector  of  Bohemia,  as  to  the  Arch¬ 
duke  of  Austria  the  possession  of  the  Imperial 
dignity  was  an  important  check,  if  the  Protestants 
properly  availed  themselves  of  it.  The  sword  of 
the  Union  might  keep  within  its  sheath  the  sword 
of  the  League;  or  if  matters  actually  came  to 
a  war,  might  make  the  issue  of  it  doubtful.  But, 
unfortunately,  private  interests  dissolved  the  band 
of  union  which  should  have  held  together  the  po¬ 
litical  members  of  the  empire.  This  critical  con¬ 
juncture  found  none  but  second-rate  actors  on  the 
political  stage,  and  the  decisive  moment  was  neg¬ 
lected  because  the  courageous  were  deficient  in 
power,  and  the  powerful  in  sagacity,  courage  and 
resolution. 

The  Elector  of  Saxony  was  placed  at  the  head 
of  the  German  Protestants,  by  the  services  of  his 
ancestor  Maurice,  by  the  extent  of  his  territories, 
and  by  the  influence  of  his  electoral  vote.  Upon 
the  resolution  he  might  adopt,  the  fate  of  the 
contending  parties  seemed  to  depend  ;  and  John 
George  was  not  insensible  to  the  advantages 
which  this  important  situation  procured  him. 
Equally  valuable  as  an  ally,  both  to  the  Emperor 
and  to  the  Protestant  Union,  he  cautiously 
avoided  committing  himself  to  either  party ; 
neither  trusting  himself  by  any  irrevocable  decla¬ 
ration  entirely  to  the  gratitude  of  the  Emperor, 
nor  renouncing  the  advantages  which  were  to  be 
gained  from  his  fears.  Uninfected  by  the  conta¬ 
gion  of  religious  and  romantic  enthusiasm  which 
hurried  sovereign  after  sovereign  to  risk  both 
crown  and  life  on  the  hazard  of  war,  John  George 
aspired  to  the  more  solid  renown  of  improving 
and  advancing  the  interests  of  his  territories. 
His  cotemporaries  accused  him  of  forsaking  the 
Protestant  cause  in  the  very  midst  of  the  storm  ; 
of  preferring  the  aggrandizement  of  his  house  to 
the  emancipation  of  his  country  ;  of  exposing  the 
whole  Evangelical  or  Lutheran  church  of  Ger¬ 
many  to  ruin,  rather  than  raise  an  arm  in  defense 
of  the  Reformed  or  Calvinists  ;  or  injuring  the 
common  cause  by  his  suspicious  friendship  more 
seriously  than  the  open  enmity  of  its  avowed  op¬ 
ponents.  But  it  would  have  been  well  if  his  ac¬ 
cusers  had  imitated  the  wise  policy  of  the  Elector. 
If,  despite  of  the  prudent  policy,  the  Saxons,  like 
all  others,  groaned  at  the  cruelties  which  marked 


152 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


the  Emperor’s  progress  ;  if  all  Germany  was  a 
witness  how  Ferdinand  deceived  his  confederates 
and  trifled  with  his  engagements ;  if  even  the 
Elector  himself  at  last  perceived  this — the  more 
shame  to  the  Emperor  who  could  so  basely  betray 
such  implicit  confidence. 

If  an  excessive  reliance  on  the  Emperor,  and 
the  hope  of  enlarging  his  territories,  tied  the 
hands  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  the  weak  George 
William,  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  was  still  more 
shamefully  fettered  by  fear  of  Austria,  and  of 
the  loss  of  his  dominion.  What  was  made  a 
reproach  against  these  princes  would  have  pre¬ 
served  to  the  Elector  Palatine  his  fame  and  his 
kingdom.  A  rash  confidence  in'  his  untried 
strength,  the  influence  of  French  counsels,  and 
the  temptation  of  a  crown,  had  seduced  that  un¬ 
fortunate  prince  into  an  enterprise  for  which  he 
had  neither  adequate  genius  nor  political  capa¬ 
city.  The  partition  of  his  territories  among  dis¬ 
cordant  princes,  enfeebled  the  Palatinate,  which, 
united,  might  have  made  a  longer  resistance. 

This  partition  of  territory  was  equally  injurious 
to  the  House  of  Hesse,  in  which,  between  Darm¬ 
stadt  and  Cassel,  religious  dissensions  had  occa¬ 
sioned  a  fatal  division.  The  line  of  Darmstadt, 
adhering  to  the  Confession  of  Augsburg,  had 
placed  itself  under  the  Emperor’s  protection,  who 
favored  it  at  the  expense  of  the  Calvinists  of 
Cassel.  While  his  religious  confederates  were 
shedding  their  blood  for  their  faith  and  their  liber¬ 
ties,  the  Landgrave  of  Darmstadt  was  won  over 
by  the  Emperor’s  gold.  But  William  of  Cassel, 
every  way  worthy  of  his  ancestor  who,  a  century 
before,  had  defended  the  freedom  of  Germany 
against  the  formidable  Charles  V.,  espoused  the 
cause  of  danger  and  of  honor.  Superior  to  that 
pusillanimity  which  made  far  more  powerful 
princes  bow  before  Ferdinand’s  might,  the  Lan- 
grave  William  was  the  first  to  join  the  hero  of 
Sweden,  and  to  set  an  example  to  the  princes  of 
Germany  which  all  had  hesitated  to  begin.  The 
boldness  of  his  resolve  was  equaled  by  the  stead¬ 
fastness  of  his  perseverance  and  the  valor  of  his 
exploits.  He  placed  himself  with  unshrinking 
resolution  before  his  bleeding  country,  and  boldly 
confronted  the  fearful  enemy,  whose  hands  were 
still  reeking  from  the  carnage  of  Magdeburg. 

The  Landgrave  William  deserves  to  descend  to 
immortality  with  the  heroic  race  of  Ernest.  Thy 
day  of  vengeance  was  long  delayed,  unfortunate 
John  Frederick  !  Noble  !  never-to-be-forgotten 
prince  !  Slowly  but  brightly  it  broke.  Thy  times 
returned,  and  thy  heroic  spirit  descended  on  thy 
grandson.  An  intrepid  race  of  princes  issues 
from  the  Thuringian  forests,  to  shame,  by  immor¬ 
tal  deeds,  the  unjust  sentence  which  robbed  thee 
of  the  electoral  crown — to  avenge  thy  offended 
shade  by  heaps  of  bloody  sacrifice.  The  sentence 
of  the  conqueror  could  deprive  thee  of  thy  terri¬ 
tories,  but  not  that  spirit  of  patriotism  which 
staked  them,  nor  that  chivalrous  courage  which, 
a  century  afterward,  was  destined  to  shake  the 
throne  of  thy  descendant.  Thy  vengeance  and  that 
of  Germany  whetted  the  sacred  sword,  and  one 
heroic  hand  after  the  other  wielded  the  irresistible 
steel.  As  men,  they  achieved  what  as  sovereigns 
they  dared  not  undertake;  they  met  in  a  glorious 


cause  as  the  valiant  soldiers  of  liberty.  Too 
weak  in  territory  to  attack  the  enemy  with  their 
own  forces,  they  directed  foreign  artillery  against 
them,  and  led  foreign  banners  to  victory. 

The  liberties  of  Germany,  abandoned  by  the 
more  powerful  states,  who,  however,  enjoyed  most 
of  the  prosperity  accruing  from  them,  were  de¬ 
fended  by  a  few  princes  for  whom  they  were  al¬ 
most  without  value.  The  possession  of  territories 
and  dignities  deadened  courage;  the  want  of 
both  made  heroes.  While  Saxony,  Brandenburg, 
and  the  rest  drew  back  in  terror,  Anhalt,  Mans- 
feld,  the  Prince  of  Weimar  and  others  were  shed¬ 
ding  their  blood  in  the  field.  The  Dukes  of 
Pomerania,  Mecklenburg,  Luneburg,  and  Wir- 
temberg,  and  the  free  cities  of  Upper  Germany, 
to  whom  the  name  of  Emperor  was  of  course  a 
formidable  one,  anxiously  avoided  a  contest  with 
such  an  opponent,  and  crouched  murmuring  be¬ 
neath  his  mighty  arm. 

Austria  and  Homan  Catholic  Germany  pos¬ 
sessed  in  Maximilian  of  Bavaria  a  champion  as 
prudent  as  he  was  powerful.  Adhering  through¬ 
out  the  war  to  one  fixed  plan,  never  divided  be¬ 
tween  his  religion  and  his  political  interests  ;  not 
the  slavish  dependent  of  Austria,  who  was  labor¬ 
ing  for  his  advancement,  and  trembled  before  her 
powerful  protector,  Maximilian  earned  the  territo¬ 
ries  and  dignities  that  rewarded  his  exertions. 
The  other  Homan  Catholic  states,  which  were 
chiefly  ecclesiastical,  too  un warlike  to  resist  the 
multitudes  whom  the  prosperity  of  their  territo¬ 
ries  allured,  become  the  victims  of  the  war  one 
after  another,  and  were  contented  to  persecute  in 
the  cabinet  and  in  the  pulpit,  the  enemy  whom 
they  could  not  openly  oppose  in  the  field.  All 
of  them,  slaves  either  to  Austria  or  Bavaria, 
sunk  into  insignificance  by  the  side  of  Maximi¬ 
lian  ;  in  his  hand  alone  their  united  power  could 
be  rendered  available. 

The  formidable  monarchy  which  Charles  V. 
and  his  son  had  unnaturally  constructed  of  the 
Netherlands,  Milan,  and  the  two  Sicilies,  and 
their  distant  possessions  in  the  East  and  West 
Indies,  was  under  Philip  III.  and  Philip  IV. 
fast  verging  to  decay.  Swollen  to  a  sudden  great¬ 
ness  by  unfruitful  gold,  this  power  was  now  sinking 
under  a  visible  decline  ;  neglecting,  as  it  did,  agri¬ 
culture,  the  natural  support  of  states.  The  con¬ 
quests  in  the  West  Indies  had  reduced  Spain 
itself  to  poverty,  while  they  enriched  the  markets 
of  Europe  ;  the  bankers  of  Antwerp,  Venice,  and 
Genoa,  were  making  profit  on  the  gold  which 
was  still  buried  in  the  mines  of  Peru.  For  the  sake 
of  India,  Spain  had  been  depopulated,  while  the 
treasures  drawn  from  thence  were  wasted  in  the 
reconquest  of  Holland,  in  the  chimerical  project 
of  changing  the  succession  to  the  crown  of  France, 
and  in  an  unfortunate  attack  upon  England.  But 
the  pride  of  the  court  survived  its  greatness,  as  the 
hate  of  its  enemies  had  outlived  its  power.  Dis¬ 
trust  of  the  Protestants  had  suggested  to  the 
ministry  of  Philip  III.  the  dangerous  policy  of 
his  father;  and  the  reliance  of  the  Homan  Catho¬ 
lics  of  Germany  on  the  Spanish  assistance,  was  as 
firm  as  their  belief  in  the  wonder-working  bones 
of  the  martyrs.  Eternal  splendor  concealed  the 
inward  wounds  at  which  the  life-blood  of  this 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


153 


monarchy  was  oozing-;  and  the  belief  of  its 
strength  survived,  because  it  still  maintained  the 
lofty  tone  of  its  golden  days.  Slaves  in  their  pal¬ 
aces,  and  strangers  even  upon  their  own  thrones, 
the  Spanish  nominal  kings  still  gave  laws  to  their 
German  relations ;  though  it  is  very  doubtful  if 
the  support  they  afforded  was  worth  the  depend¬ 
ence  by  which  the  emperors  purchased  it.  The 
fate  of  Europe  was  decided  behind  the  Pyrenees 
by  ignorant  monks  or  vindictive  favorites.  Yet, 
even  in  its  debasement,  a  power  must  always  be 
formidable,  which  yields  to  none  in  extent ; 
which,  from  custom,  if  not  from  the  steadfastness 
of  its  views,  adhered  faithfully  to  one  system  of 
policy;  which  possessed  well-disciplined  armies 
and  consummate  generals ;  which,  where  the 
sword  failed,  did  not  scruple  to  employ  the  dag¬ 
ger;  and  converted  even  its  ambassadors  into 
incendiaries  and  assassins.  What  it  had  lost  in 
three  quarters  of  the  globe,  it  now  sought  to  re¬ 
gain  to  the  eastward,  and  all  Europe  was  at  its 
mercy,  if  it  could  succeed  in  its  long  cherished 
design  of  uniting  with  the  hereditary  dominions 
of  Austria  all  that  lay  between  the  Alps  and  the 
Adriatic. 

To  the  great  alarm  of  the  native  states,  this 
formidable  power  had  gained  a  footing  in  Italy, 
where  its  continual  encroachments  made  the 
neighboring  sovereigns  to  tremble  for  their  own 
possessions.  The  Pope  himself  was  in  the  most 
dangerous  situation  ;  hemmed  in  on  both  sides 
by  the  Spanish  viceroys,  of  Naples  on  the  one 
side,  and  that  of  Milan  upon  the  other.  Venice 
was  confined  between  the  Austrian  Tyrol  and 
the  Spanish  territories  in  Milan.  Savoy  was  sur¬ 
rounded  by  the  latter,  and  by  France.  Hence  the 
wavering  and  equivocal  policy,  which  from  the 
time  of  Charles  V.  had  been  pursued  by  the 
Italian  states.  The  characters  which  the  Popes 
held  caused  them  perpetually  to  vacillate  between 
two  contradictory  systems  of  policy.  If  the  suc¬ 
cessors  of  St.  Peter  found  in  the  Spanish  princes 
their  most  obedient  disciples,  and  the  most  stead¬ 
fast  supporters  of  the  Papal  See,  yet  the  princes 
of  the  States  of  the  Church  had  in  these  monarchs 
their  most  dangerous  neighbors,  and  most  formid¬ 
able  opponents.  If,  in  the  one  capacity,  their  dear¬ 
est  wish  was  the  destruction  of  the  Protestants 
and  the  triumph  of  Austria,  in  the  other,  they  had 
reason  to  bless  the  arms  of  the  Protestants,  which 
disabled  a  dangerous  enemy.  The  one  or  the 
other  sentiment  prevailed,  according  as  the  love 
of  temporal  dominion,  or  zeal  for  spiritual  su¬ 
premacy,  predominated  in  the  mind  of  the  Pope. 
But  the  policy  of  Rome  was,  on  the  whole,  di¬ 
rected  to  immediate  dangers  ;  and  it  is  well 
known  how  far  more  powerful  is  the  apprehen¬ 
sion  of  losing  a  present  good,  than  anxiety  to  re¬ 
cover  a  long  lost  possession.  And  thus  it- be¬ 
comes  intelligible  how  the  Pope  should  first  com¬ 
bine  with  Austria  for  the  destruction  of  heresy, 
and  then  conspire  with  these  very  heretics 
for  the  destruction  of  Austria.  Strangely 
blended  are  the  threads  of  human  affairs  !  What 
would  have  become  of  the  Reformation,  and  of 
the  liberties  of  Germany,  if  the  Bishop  of  Rome 
and  the  Prince  of  Rome  had  had  but  one  inter¬ 
est  ! 


France  had  lost  with  its  great  Henry  all  its  im¬ 
portance  and  all  its  weight  in  the  political  balance 
of  Europe.  A  turbulent  minority  had  destroyed  all 
the  benefits  of  the  able  administration  of  Henry. 
Incapable  ministers,  the  creatures  of  court  in¬ 
trigue,  squandered  in  a  few  years  the  treasures 
which  Sully’s  economy  and  Henry’s  frugality  had 
amassed.  Scarce  able  to  maintain  their  ground 
against  internal  factions,  they  were  compelled  to 
resign  to  other  hands  the  helm  of  European  affairs. 
The  same  civil  war  which  armed  Germany  against 
itself,  excited  a  similar  commotion  in  France  ;  and 
Louis  XIII.  attained  majority  only  to  wage  war 
with  his  mother  and  his  Protestant  subjects. 
This  party,  which  had  been  kept  quiet  by  Henry’s 
enlightened  policy,  now  seized  the  opportunity  to 
take  up  arms,  and,  under  the  command  of  some 
adventurous  leaders,  began  to  form  themselves  into  a 
party  within  the  state,  and  to  fix  on  the  strong  and 
powerful  town  of  Rochelle  as  the  capital  of  their 
intended  kingdom.  Too  little  of  a  statesman  to  sup¬ 
press,  by  a  prudent  toleration,  this  civil  commotion 
in  its  birth,  and  too  little  master  of  the  resources 
of  his  kingdom  to  direct  them  with  energy,  Louis 
XIII.  was  reduced  to  the  degradation  of  pur¬ 
chasing  the  submission  of  the  rebels  by  large 
sums  of  money.  Though  policy  might  incline 
him  in  one  point  of  view,  to  assist  the  Bohemian 
insurgents  against  Austria,  the  son  of  Henry  the 
Fourth  was  now  compelled  to  be  an  inactive 
spectator  of  their  destruction,  happy  enough  if 
the  Calvinists  in  his  own  dominions  did  not  un¬ 
seasonably  bethink  them  of  their  confederates 
beyond  the  Rhine.  A  great  mind  at  the  helm  of 
state  would  have  reduced  the  Protestants  in  France 
to  obedience,  while  it  fought  for  the  independence 
of  their  German  brethren.  But  Henry  IV.  was 
no  more,  and  Richelieu  had  not  yet  revived  his 
system  of  policy. 

While  the  glory  of  France  was  thus  upon  the 
wane,  the  emancipated  republic  of  Holland  was 
completing  the  fabric  of  its  greatness.  The  en¬ 
thusiastic  courage  had  not  yet  died  away  which, 
enkindled  by  the  House  of  Orange,  had  converted 
this  mercantile  people  into  a  nation  of  heroes, 
and  had  enabled  them  to  maintain  their  indepen¬ 
dence  in  a  bloody  war  against  the  Spanish  mon¬ 
archy.  Aware  how  much  they  owed  their  own 
liberty  to  foreign  support,  these  republicans  were 
ready  to  assist  their  German  brethren  in  a  simi¬ 
lar  cause,  and  the  more  so  as  both  were  opposed 
to  the  same  enemy,  and  the  liberty  of  Germany 
was  the  best  warrant  for  that  of  Holland.  But  a 
republic  which  had  still  to  battle  for  its  very  exist¬ 
ence,  which,  with  all  its  wonderful  exertions,  was 
scarce  a  match  for  the  formidable  enemy  within 
its  own  territories,  could  not  be  expected  to  with¬ 
draw  its  troops  from  the  necessary  work  of  self- 
defense  to  employ  them  with  a  magnanimous 
policy  in  protecting  foreign  states. 

England,  too,  though  now  united  with  Scotland, 
no  longer  possessed,  under  the  weak  James,  that 
influence  in  the  affairs  of  Europe  which  the  gov¬ 
erning  mind  of  Elizabeth  had  procured  for  it. 
Convinced  that  the  welfare  of  her  dominions  de¬ 
pended  on  the  security  of  the  Protestants,  this 
politic  princess  had  never  swerved  from  the  prin¬ 
ciple  of  promoting  every  enterprise  which  bad 


154 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


for  its  object  the  diminution  of  the  Austrian 
power.  Her  successor  was  no  less  devoid  of  ca¬ 
pacity  to  comprehend,  than  of  vigor  to  execute 
her  views.  While  the  economical  Elizabeth  spared 
not  her  treasures  to  support  the  Flemings  against 
Spain,  and  Henry  IY.  against  the  League,  James 
abandoned  his  daughter,  his  son-in-law,  and  his 
grandchild,  to  the  fury  of  his  enemies.  While  lie 
exhausted  his  learning  to  establish  the  divine 
right  of  kings,  he  allowed  his  own  dignity  to  sink  ' 
into  the  dust :  while  he  exerted  his  rhetoric  to 
prove  the  absolute  authority  of  kings,  he  reminded 
the  people  of  theirs  ;  and  by  a  useless  profusion, 
sacrificed  the  best  privilege  of  royalty^ — the  power 
of  dispensing  with  his  parliament,  and  thus  de¬ 
priving  liberty  of  its  organ.  An  innate  horror  at 
the  sight  of  a  naked  sword  averted  him  from  the 
most  just  of  wars;  while  his  favorite  Buckingham 
practiced  on  his  weakness,  and  his  own  compla¬ 
cent  vanity  rendered  him  an  easy  dupe  of  Spanish 
artifice.  While  his  son-in-law  was  ruined,  and 
the  inheritance  of  his  grandson  given  to  others, 
this  weak  prince  was  imbibing,  with  satisfaction, 
the  incense  which  was  offered  to  him  by  Austria 
and  Spain.  To  divert  his  attention  from  the 
German  war,  he  was  amused  with  the  proposal 
of  a  Spanish  marriage  for  his  son,  and  the  ridicu¬ 
lous  parent  encouraged  the  romantic  youth  in  the 
foolish  project  of  paying  his  addresses  in  person 
to  the  Spanish  princess.  But  his  son  lost  his 
bride,  as  his  son-in-law  lost  the  crown  of  Bohemia 
and  the  Palatine  Electorate ;  and  death  alone 
saved  him  from  the  danger  of  closing  his  pacific 
reign  by  a  war  at  home,  which  he  never  had  cour- ! 
age  to  maintain,  even  at  a  distance. 

The  domestic  disturbances  which  his  misgov- 
ernment  had  gradually  excited,  burst  forth  under 
his  unfortunate  son,  and  forced  him,  after  some 
unimportant  attempts,  to  renounce  all  further 
participation  in  the  German  war,  in  order  to  stem 
within  his  own  kingdom  the  rage  of  faction. 

Two  illustrious  monarchs,  far  unequal  in  per¬ 
sonal  reputation,  but  equal  in  power  and  desire 
of  fame,  made  the  North  at  this  time  to  be  re¬ 
spected.  Under  the  long  and  active  reign  of 
Christian  IY.,  Denmark  had  risen  into  importance. 
The  personal  qualifications  of  this  prince,  an  ex¬ 
cellent  navy,  a  formidable  army,  well-ordered 
finances,  and  prudent  alliances,  had  combined  to 
give  her  prosperity  at  home  and  influence  abroad. 
Gustavus  Yasa  had  rescued  Sweden  from  vassal- 
age,  reformed  it  by  wise  laws,  and  had  introduced, 
for  the  first  time,  this  newly-organized  state  into 
the  field  of  European  politics.  What  this  great 
prince  had  merely  sketched  in  rude  outline,  was 
filled  up  by  Gustavus  Adolphus,  his  still  greater 
grandson. 

These  two  kingdoms,  once  unnaturally  united 
and  enfeebled  by  their  union,  had  been  violently 
separated  at  the  time  of  the  Deformation,  and 
this  separation  was  the  epoch  of  their  prosperity. 
Injurious  as  this  compulsory  union  had  proved  to 
both  kingdoms,  equally  necessary  to  each  apart 
were  neighborly  friendship  and  harmony.  On 
both  the  evangelical  church  leaned  ;  both  had  the 
same  seas  to  protect ;  a  common  interest  ought  to 
unite  them  against  the  same  enemy.  But  the 
hatred  which  had  dissolved  the  union  of  these 


monarchies  continued  long  after  their  separation 
to  divide  the  two  nations.  The  Danish  kings 
could  not  abandon  their  pretensions  to  the  Swed¬ 
ish  crown,  nor  the  Swedes  banish  the  remembrance 
of  Danish  oppression.  The  contiguous  bounda¬ 
ries  of  the  two  kingdoms  furnished  constantly 
materials  of  natural  quarrels,  while  the  watchful 
jealousy  of  both  kings,  and  the  unavoidable  col¬ 
lision  of  their  commercial  interests  in  the  North 
Seas,  were  an  inexhaustible  source  of  dispute. 

Among  the  means  of  which  Gustavus  Yasa, 
the  founder  of  the  Swedish  monarchy,  availed 
himself  to  strengthen  his  new  edifice,  the  Refor¬ 
mation  had  been  one  of  the  principal.  A  funda¬ 
mental  law  of  the  kingdom  excluded  the  adherents 
of  popery  from  all  offices  of  the  state,  and  pro¬ 
hibited  every  future  sovereign  of  Sweden  from 
altering  the  religious  constitution  of  the  kingdom. 
But  the  second  son  and  second  successor  of  Gus¬ 
tavus  had  relapsed  into  popery,  and  his  son  Sigis- 
mund,  also  king  of  Poland,  had  been  guilty  of 
measures  which  menaced  both  the  constitution 
and  the  established  church.  Headed  by  Charles, 
Duke  of  Sudermania,  the  third  son  of  Gustavus, 
the  Estates  made  a  courageous  resistance,  which 
terminated,  at  last,  in  an  open  civil  war  between 
the  uncle  and  nephew,  and  between  the  king  and 
the  people.  Duke  Charles,  administrator  of  the 
kingdom  during  the  absence  of  the  king,  had 
availed  himself  of  Sigismund’s  long  residence  in 
Poland,  and  the  just  displeasure  of  the  states,  to 
ingratiate  himself  with  the  nation,  and  gradually 
to  prepare  his  way  to  the  throne.  His  views  were 
I  not  a  little  forwarded  by  Sigismund’s  imprudence. 
A  general  Diet  ventured  to  abolish,  in  favor  of  the 
Protector,  the  rule  of  primogeniture  which  Gus¬ 
tavus  had  established  in  the  succession,  and 
placed  the  Duke  of  Sudermania  on  the  throne, 
from  which  Sigismund  and  his  whole  posterity 
were  solemnly  excluded.  The  son  of  the  new 
king  (who  reigned  under  the  name  of  Charles  IX.) 
was  Gustavus  Adolphus,  whom,  as  the  son  of  a 
usurper,  the  adherents  of  Sigismund  refused  to 
recognize.  But  if  the  obligations  between  mo¬ 
narchy  and  subjects  are  reciprocal,  and  states  are 
not  to  be  transmitted,  like  a  lifeless  heirloom, 
from  hand  to  hand,  a  nation  acting  with  unanim¬ 
ity  must  have  the  power  of  renouncing  their  alle¬ 
giance  to  a  sovereign  who  has  violated  his  obliga¬ 
tions  to  them,  and  of  filling  his  place  by  a  worthier 
object. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  had  not  completed  his 
seventeenth  year,  when  the  Swedish  throne  be¬ 
came  vacant  by  the  death  of  his  father.  But  the 
early  maturity  of  his  genius  enabled  the  Estates 
to  abridge  in  his  favor  the  legal  period  of  minority. 
With  a  glorious  conquest  over  himself  he  com¬ 
menced  a  reign  which  was  to  have  victory  'or  it.3 
constant  attendant,  a  career  which  was  to  begin 
and  end  in  success.  The  young  Countess  of 
Brahe,  the  daughter  of  a  subject,  had  gained  his 
early  affections,  and  he  had  resolved  to  share  with 
her  the  Swedish  throne.  But,  constrained  by 
time  and  circumstances,  he  made  his  attachment 
yield  to  the  higher  duties  of  a  king,  and  heroism' 
again  took  exclusive  possession  of  a  heart  which 
was  not  destined  by  nature  to  confine  itself  within 
the  limits  of  quiet  domestic  happiness. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


155 


Christian  IV.  of  Denmark,  who  had  ascended 
the  throne  before  the  birth  of  Gustavus,  in  an  in¬ 
road  upon  Sweden,  had  gained  some  considerable 
advantages  over  the  father  of  that  hero.  Gusta¬ 
vus  Adolphus  hastened  to  put  an  end  to  this  de¬ 
structive  war,  and  by  prudent  sacrifices  obtained 
a  peace,  in  order  to  turn  his  arms  against  the 
Czar  of  Muscovy.  The  questionable  fame  of  a 
conqueror  never  tempted  him  to  spend  the  blood 
of  his  subjects  in  unjust  wars;  but  he  never 
shrunk  from  a  just  one.  His  arms  were  success¬ 
ful  against  Russia,  and  Sweden  was  augmented 
by  several  important  provinces  on  the  east. 

In  the  mean  time,  Sigismund  of  Poland  retained 
against  the  son  the  same  sentiments  of  hostility 
which  the  father  had  provoked,  and  left  no  artifice 
untried  to  shake  the  allegiance  of  his  subjects,  to 
cool  the  ardor  of  his  friends,  and  to  embitter  his 
enemies.  Neither  the  great  qualities  of  his  rival, 
nor  the  repeated  proofs  of  devotion  which  Sweden 
gave  to  her  loved  monarch,  could  extinguish  in 
this  infatuated  prince  the  foolish  hope  of  regain¬ 
ing  his  lost  throne.  All  Gustavus’s  overtures 
were  haughtily  rejected.  Unwillingly  was  this 
really  peaceful  king  involved  in  a  tedious  war 
with  Poland,  in  which  the  whole  of  Livonia  and 
Polish  Prussia  were  successively  conquered. 
Though  constantly  victorious,  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  was  always  the  first  to  hold  out  the  hand  of 
peace. 

This  contest  between  Sweden  and  Poland  falls 
somewhere  about  the  beginning  of  the  Thirty 
Years’  War  in  Germany,  with  which  it  is  in  some 
measure  connected.  It  was  enough  that  Sigis¬ 
mund,  himself  a  Roman  Catholic,  was  disputing 
the  Swedish  crown  with  a  Protestant  prince,  to 
assure  him  the  active  support  of  Spain  and  Aus¬ 
tria  ;  while  a  double  relationship  to  the  Emperor 
gave  him  a  still  stronger  claim  to  his  protection. 
It  was  his  reliance  on  this  powerful  assistance 
that  chiefly  encouraged  the  King  of  Poland  to 
continue  the  war,  which  had  hitherto  turned  out 
so  unfavorably  for  him,  and  the  courts  of  Madrid 
and  Vienna  failed  not  to  encourage  him  by  high- 
sounding  promises.  While  Sigismund  lost  one 
place  after  another  in  Livonra,  Courland,  and 
Prussia,  he  saw  his  ally  in  Germany  advancing 
from  conquest  after  conquest  to  unlimited  power. 
No  wonder  then  if  his  aversion  to  peace  kept  pace 
with  his  losses.  The  vehemence  with  which  he 
nourished  his  chimerical  hopes  blinded  him  to  the 
artful  policy  of  his  confederates,  who  at  his  ex¬ 
pense  were  keeping  the  Swedish  hero  employed, 
in  order  to  overturn,  without  opposition,  the  liber¬ 
ties  of  Germany,  and  then  to  seize  on  the  ex¬ 
hausted  North  as  an  easy  conquest.  One  circum¬ 
stance  which  had  not’  been  calculated  on — the 
heroism  of  Gustavus— — overthrew  this  deceit¬ 
ful  policy.  An  eight  years’  war  in  Poland,  so  far 
from  exhausting  the  power  of  Sweden,  had  only 
served  to  mature  the  military  genius  of  Gustavus, 
to  inure  the  Swedish  army  to  warfare,  and  insen¬ 
sibly  to  perfect  that  system  of  tactics  by  which 
they  were  afterward  to  perform  such  wonders  in 
Germany. 

After  this  necessary  digression  on  the  existing 
circumstances  of  Europe,  I  now  resume  the 
thread  of  my  history. 


Ferdinand  had  regained  his  dominions,  but  had 
not  indemnified  himself  for  the  expenses  of  re¬ 
covering  them.  A  sum  of  forty  millions  of  flo¬ 
rins,  which  the  confiscations  in  Bohemia  and  Mo¬ 
ravia  had  produced,  would  have  sufficed  to  reim¬ 
burse  both  himself  and  his  allies  ;  but  the  Jesuits 
and  his  favorites  soon  squandered  this  sum,  large 
as  it  was.  Maximilian.  Duke  of  Bavaria,  to  whose 
victorious  arm,  principally,  the  Emperor  owed 
the  recovery  of  his  dominions;  who,  in  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  religion  and  the  Emperor,  had  sacrificed 
his  near  relation,  had  the  strongest  claims  on  his 
gratitude;  and  moreover,  in  a  treaty  which,  before 
the  war,  the  duke  had  concluded  with  the  Empe¬ 
ror,  he  had  expressly  stipulated  for  the  reim¬ 
bursement  of  all  expenses.  Ferdinand  felt  the 
full  weight  of  the  obligation  imposed  upon  him  by 
this  treaty  and  by  these  services,  but  he  was  not 
disposed  to  discharge  it  at  his  own  cost.  His 
purpose  was  to  bestow  a  brilliant  reward  upon 
the  duke,  but  without  detriment  to  himself.  How 
could  this  be  done  better  than  at  the  expense  of 
the  unfortunate  prince  who,  by  his  revolt,  had 
given  the  Emperor  a  right  to  punish  him,  and 
whose  offenses  might  be  painted  in  colors  strong 
enough  to  justify  the  most  violent  measures  under 
the  appearance  of  law.  That,  then,  Maximilian 
may  be  rewarded,  Frederick  must  be  further  per¬ 
secuted  and  totally  ruined;  and  to  defray  the  ex¬ 
penses  of  the  old  war,  a  new  one  must  be  com¬ 
menced. 

But  a  still  stronger  motive  combined  to  enforce 
the  first.  Hitherto  Ferdinand  had  been  contend¬ 
ing  for  existence  alone;  he  had  been  fulfilling  no 
other  duty  than  that  of  self-defense.  But  now, 
when  victory  gave  him  freedom  to  act,  a  higher 
duty  occurred  to  him,  and  he  remembered  the 
vow  which  he  had  made  at  Loretto  and  at  Rome, 
to  his  generalissima,  the  Holy  Virgin,  to  extend 
her  worship  even  at  the  risk  of  his  crown  and  life. 
With  this  object,  the  oppression  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  was  inseparably  connected.  More  favorable 
circumstances  for  its  accomplishment  could  not 
offer  than  those  which  presented  themselves  at 
the  close  of  the  Bohemian  war.  Neither  the 
power,  nor  a  pretext  of  right,  were  now  wanting 
to  enable  him  to  place  the  Palatinate  in  the  hands 
of  the  Catholics,  and  the  importance  of  this 
change  to  the  Catholic  interests  in  Germany 
would  be  incalculable.  Thus,  in  rewarding  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria  with  the  spoils  of  his  relation, 
he  at  once  gratified  his  meanest  passions  and  ful¬ 
filled  his  most  exalted  duties  ;  he  crushed  an  en¬ 
emy  whom  he  hated,  and  spared  his  avarice  a 
painful  sacrifice,  while  he  believed  he  was  winnirg 
a  heavenly  crown. 

In  the  Emperor’s  cabinet,  the  ruin  of  Frederick 
had  been  resolved  upon  long  before  fortune  had 
decided  against  him  ;  but  it  was  only  after  this 
event  that  they  ventured  to  direct  against  him 
the  thunders  of  arbitrary  power.  A  decree  of  the 
Emperor,  destitute  of  all  the  formalities  required 
on  such  occasions  by  the  laws  of  the  Empire,  pro¬ 
nounced  the  Elector,  and  three  other  princes  who 
had  borne  arms  for  him  at  Silesia  and  Bohemia, 
as  offenders  against  the  imperial  majesty,  and  dis¬ 
turbers  of  the  public  peace,  under  the  ban  of  the 
empire,  and  deprived  them  of  their  titles  and  ter- 


156 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


ritories.  The  execution  of  this  sentence  against 
Frederick,  namely  the  seizure  of  his  lands,  was, 
in  further  contempt  of  law,  committed  to  Spain 
as  Sovereign  of  the  circle  of  Burgundy,  to  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria  and  the  League.  Had  the  Evan¬ 
gelical  Union  been  worthy  of  the  name  it  bore, 
and  of  the  cause  which  it  pretended  to  defend,  in¬ 
superable  obstacles  might  have  prevented  the  exe¬ 
cution  of  the  sentence  ;  but  it  was  hopeless  for  a 
power  which  was  far  from  a  match  even  for  the 
Spanish  troops  in  the  Lower  Palatinate,  to  con¬ 
tend  against  the  united  strength  of  the  Emperor, 
Bavaria,  and  the  League.  The  sentence  of  pro¬ 
scription  pronounced  upon  the  Elector  soon  de¬ 
tached  the  free  cities  from  the  Union  ;  and  the 
princes  quickly  followed  their  example.  Fortu¬ 
nate  in  preserving  their  own  dominions,  they 
abandoned  the  Elector,  their  former  chief,  to  the 
Emperor’s  mercy,  renounced  the  Union,  and  vowed 
never  to  revive  it  again. 

But  while  thus  ingloriously  the  German  princes 
deserted  the  unfortunate  Frederick,  and  while  Bo¬ 
hemia,  Silesia,  and  Moravia  submitted  to  the 
Emperor,  a  single  man,  a  soldier  of  fortune, 
whose  only  treasure  was  his  sword,  Ernest  Count 
Mansfeld,  dared,  in  the  Bohemian  town  of  Pilsen, 
to  defy  the  whole  power  of  Austria.  Left  without 
assistance  after  the  battle  of  Prague  by  the  Elec¬ 
tor,  to  whose  service  he  had  devoted  himself,  and 
even  uncertain  whether  Frederick  would  thank 
him  for  his  perseverance,  he  alone  for  some  time 
held  out  against  the  imperialists,  till  the  garrison, 
■mutinying  for  want  of  pay,  sold  the  town  to  the 
Emperor.  Undismayed  by  this  reverse,  he  imme¬ 
diately  commenced  new  levies  on  the  Upper  Pa¬ 
latinate,  and  enlisted  the  disbanded  troops  of  the 
Union.  A  new  army  of  20,000  men  was  soon  as¬ 
sembled  undpr  his  banners,  the  more  formidable 
to  the  provinces  which  might  be  the  objects  of  its 
attack,  because  it  must  subsist  by  plunder.  Un¬ 
certain  where  the  swarm  might  light,  the  neigh¬ 
boring  bishops  trembled  for  their  rich  possessions, 
which  offered  a  tempting  pray  to  its  ravages. 
But,  pressed  by  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  who  now 
entered  the  Upper  Palatinate,  Mansfeld  was  com¬ 
pelled  to  retire.  Eluding,  by  a  successful  strata¬ 
gem,  the  Bavarian  general,  Tilly,  who  was  in 
pursuit  of  him,  he  suddenly  appeared  in  the  Lower 
Palatinate,  and  there  wreaked  upon  the  bishop¬ 
rics  of  the  Rhine  the  severities  he  had  designed 
for  those  of  Franconia.  While  the  imperial  and 
Bavarian  allies  thus  overran  Bohemia,  the  Span¬ 
ish  general,  Spinola,  had  penetrated  with  a  nume¬ 
rous  army  from  the  Netherlands  into  the  Lower 
Palatinate,  which,  however,  the  pacification  of 
Ulm  permitted  the  Union  to  defend.  But  their 
measures  were  so  badly  concerted,  that  one  place 
after  another  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Spaniards  ; 
and  at  last,  when  the  Union  broke  up,  the  greater 
part  of  the  country  was  in  the  possession  of 
Spain.  The  Spanish  general,  Corduba,  who  com¬ 
manded  these  troops  after  the  recall  of  Spinola, 
hastily  raised  the  siege  of  Frankenthal,  when 
Mansfeld  entered  the  Lower  Palatinate.  But  in¬ 
stead  of  driving  the  Spaniards  out  of  this  pro¬ 
vince,  he  hastened  across  the  Rhine  to  secure  for  his 
needy  troops  shelter  and  subsistence  in  Alsace.  The 
open  countries  on  which  this  swarm  of  marauders 


threw  themselves  were  converted  into  frightful  de¬ 
serts,  and  only  by  enormous  contributions  could 
the  cities  purchase  an  exemption  from  plunder. 
Reinforced  by  this  expedition,  Mansfeld  again 
appeared  on  the  Rhine  to  cover  the  Lower  Pala¬ 
tinate. 

So  long  as  such  an  arm  fought  for  him,  the 
cause  of  the  Elector  Frederick  was  not  irretrieva¬ 
bly  lost.  New  prospects  began  to  open,  and 
misfortune  raised  up  friends  who  had  been  silent 
during  his  prosperity.  King  James  of  England, 
who  had  looked  on  with  indifference  while  his  son- 
in-law  lost  the  Bohemian  crown,  was  aroused 
from  his  insensibility  when  the  very  existence  of 
his  daughter  and  grandson  was  at  stake,  and  the 
victorious  enemy  ventured  an  attack  upon  the 
Electorate.  Late  enough,  he  at  last  opened  his 
treasures,  and  hastened  to  afford  supplies  of  mo¬ 
ney  and  troops,  first  to  the  Union,  which  at  that 
time  was  defending  the  Lower  Palatinate,  and  af¬ 
terward,  when  they  retired,  to  Count  Mansfeld. 
By  this  means  his  near  relation,  Christian,  King 
'of  Denmark,  was  induced  to  afford  his  active  sup¬ 
port.  At  the  same  time,  the  approaching  expira¬ 
tion  of  the  truce  between  Spain  and  Holland  de¬ 
prived  the  Emperor  of  all  the  supplies  which 
otherwise  he  might  expect  from  the  side  of  the 
Netherlands,  More  important  still  was  the  as¬ 
sistance  which  the  Palatinate  received  from  Tran¬ 
sylvania  and  Hungary.  The  cessation  of  hostili¬ 
ties  between  Gabor  and  the  Emperor  was  scarcely 
at  an  end,  when  this  old  and  formidable  enemy  of 
Austria  overran  Hungary  anew,  and  caused  him¬ 
self  to  be  crowned  king  in  Presburg.  So  rapid 
was  his  progress  that,  to  protect  Austria  and 
Hungary,  Bucquoi  was  obliged  to  evacuate  Bo¬ 
hemia.  This  brave  general  met  his  death  at  the 
siege  of  Neuhausel,  as,  shortly  before,  the  no  less 
valiant  Dampierre *  had  fallen  before  Presburg. 
Gabor’s  march  into  the  A  ustrian  territory  was  ir¬ 
resistible  ;  the  old  Count  Thurn,  and  several  other 
distinguished  Bohemians,  had  united  their  hatred 
and  their  strength  with  this  irreconcilable  enemy 
of  Austria.  A  vigorous  attack  on  the  side  of 
Germany,  while  Gabor  pressed  the  Emperor  on 
that  of  Hungary,  might  have  retrieved  the  for¬ 
tunes  of  Frederick  ;  but,  unfortuately,  the  Bohe¬ 
mians  and  Germans  had  always  laid  down  their 
arms  when  Gabor  took  the  field  ;  and  the  latter 
was  always  exhausted  at  the  very  moment  that 
the  former  began  to  recover  their  vigor. 

Meanwhile  Frederick  had  not  delayed  to  join 
his  protector  Mansfeld.  In  disguise  he  entered 
the  Lower  Palatinate,  of  which  the  possession 
was  at  that  time  disputed  between  Mansfeld  and 
the  Bavarian  general,  Tilly,  the  Upper  Palatinate 
having  been  long  conquered.  A  ray  of  hope  shone 
upon  him  as,  from  the  wreck  of  the  Union,  new 
friends  came  forward.  A  former  member  of  the 
Union,  George  Frederick,  Margrave  of  Baden, 
had  for  some  time  been  engaged  in  assembling  a 
military  force,  which  soon  amounted  to  a  consi¬ 
derable  army.  Its  destination  was  kept  a  secret 
till  he  suddenl}7  took  the  field  and  joined  Mans¬ 
feld.  Before  commencing  the  war,  he  resigned 
his  Margraviate  to  his  son,  in  the  hope  of  eluding, 
by  this  precaution,  the  Emperor’s  revenge,  if  his 
enterprise  should  be  unsuccessful.  His  neighbor, 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


157 


the  Duke  of  Wirtemberg,  likewise  began  to  aug-  ( 
nient  his  military  force.  The  courage  of  the  Pa¬ 
latine  revived,  and  belabored  assiduously  to  renew 
the  Protestant  Union.  It  was  now  time  for  Tilly 
to  consult  for  his  own  safety,  and  he  hastily  sum¬ 
moned  the  Spanish  troops,  under  Corduba,  to  his 
assistance.  But  while  the  enemy  was  uniting  his 
strength,  Mansfeld  and  the  Margrave  separated, 
and  the  latter  was  defeated  by  the  Bavarian  gene¬ 
ral  near  Wimpfen  (1622). 

To  defend  a  king  whom  his  nearest  relation 
persecuted,  and  who  was  deserted  even  by  his 
own  father-in-law,  there  had  come  forward  an  ad¬ 
venturer  without  money,  and  whose  very  legiti¬ 
macy  was  questioned.  A  sovereign  had  resigned 
possessions  over  which  he  reigned  in  peace,  to 
hazard  the  uncertain  fortune  of  war  in  behalf  of  a 
stranger.  And  now  another  soldier  of  fortune, 
poor  in  territorial  possessions,  but  rich  in  illustri¬ 
ous  ancestry,  undertook  the  defense  of  a  cause 
which  the  former  despaired  of.  Christian,  Duke 
of  Brunswick,  administrator  of  Halberstadt, 
seemed  to  have  learned  from  Count  Mansfeld  the 
secret  of  keeping  in  the  field  an  army  of  twenty 
thousand  men  without  money.  Impelled  by  youth¬ 
ful  presumption,  and  influenced  partly  by  the  wish 
of  establishing  his  reputation  at  the  expense  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood,  whom  he  cordially 
detested,  and  partly  by  a  thirst  for  plunder,  he 
assembled  a  considerable  army  in  Lower  Saxony, 
under  the  pretext  of  espousing  the  defense  of 
Frederick,  and  of  the  liberties  of  Germany. 

“  God’s  Friend,  Priest’s  Foe,”  was  the  motto  he 
•  chose  for  his  coinage,  which  was  struck  out  of 
church  plate  ;  and  his  conduct  belied  one-half  at 
least  of  the  device. 

The  progress  of  these  banditti  was,  as  usual, 
marked  by  the  most  frightful  devastation.  En¬ 
riched  by  the  spoils  of  the  chapters  of  Lower 
Saxony  and  Westphalia,  they  gathered  strength 
to  plunder  the  bishoprics  upon  the  Upper  Rhine. 
Driven  from  thence,  both  by  friends  aud  foes,  the 
Administrator  approached  the  town  of  Hoechst 
on  the  Maine,  which  he  crossed  after  a  murderous 
action  with  Tilly,  who  disputed  with  him  the  pas¬ 
sage  of  the  river.  With  the  loss  of  half  his  army 
he  reached  the  opposite  bank,  where  he  quickly 
collected  his  shattered  troops,  and  formed  a  junc¬ 
tion  with  Mansfeld.  Pursued  by 'filly,  this  united 
host  threw  itself  again  into  Alsace,  to  repeat 
their  former  ravages.  While  the  Elector  Frede¬ 
rick  followed,  almost  like  a  fugitive  mendicant, 
surrounded  by  a  posse  which  acknowledged  him 
as  its  lord,  and  dignified  itself  with  his  name,  his 
friends  were  busily  endeavoring  to  effect  a  recon¬ 
ciliation  between  him  and  the  Emperor.  Ferdi¬ 
nand  took  care  not  to  deprive  them  of  all  hope  of 
seeing  the  Palatine  restored  to  his  dominion. 
Full  of  artifice  and  dissimulation,  he  pretended  to 
be  willing  to  enter  into  a  negotiation,  hoping 
thereby  to  cool  their  ardor  in  the  field,  and  to 
prevent  them  from  driving  matters  to  extremity. 
James  I.,  ever  the  dupe  of  Austrian  cunning,  con¬ 
tributed  not  a  little,  by  his  foolish  intermeddling, 
to  promote  the  Emperor’s  schemes.  Ferdinand 
insisted  that  Frederick,  if  he  would  appeal  to  his 
clemency,  should,  first  of  all,  lay  down  his  arms, 
and  James  considered  this  demand  extremely  rea- 


(  sonable.  At  his  instigation,  the  Elector  dismissed 
his  only  real  defenders.  Count  Mansfeld  and  the 
Administrator,  and  in  Holland  awaited  his  own 
fate  from  the  mercy  of  the  Emperor. 

Mansfeld  and  Duke  Christian  were  now  at  a 
loss  for  some  new  name  ;  the  cause  of  the  Elector 
had  not  set  them  in  motion,  so  his  dismissal  could 
not  disarm  them.  War  was  their  object ;  it  was 
all  the  same  to  them  in  whose  cause  or  name  it 
was  waged.  After  some  vain  attempts  on  the 
part  of  Mansfeld  to  be  received  into  the  Empe¬ 
ror’s  service,  both  marched  into  Lorraine,  where 
the  excesses  of  their  troops  spread  terror  even  to 
the  heart  of  France.  Here  they  long  waited  in 
vain  for  a  master  willing  to  purchase  their  ser¬ 
vices  ;  till  the  Dutch,  pressed  by  the  Spanish 
General  Spinola,  offered  to  take  them  into  pay. 
After  a  bloody  fight  at  Fleurus'  with  the  Span¬ 
iards,  who  attempted  to  intercept  them,  they 
reached  Holland,  where  their  appearance  com¬ 
pelled  the  Spanish  general  forthwith  to  raise  the 
siege  of  Bergen-op-Zoom.  But  even  Holland  was 
soon  weary  of  these  unwelcome  guests,  and  availed 
herself  of  the  first  moment  to  get  rid  of  their  dan¬ 
gerous  assistance.  Mansfeld  allowed  his  troops 
to  recruit  themselves  for  new  enterprises  in  the 
fertile  province  of  East  Friezeland.  Duke  Chris¬ 
tian,  passionately  enamored  of  the  Electress  Pa¬ 
latine,  with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted  in 
Holland,  and  more  disposed  for  war  than  ever, 
led  back  his  army  into  Lower  Saxony,  bearing 
that  princess’s  glove  in  his  hat,  and  on  his  stan¬ 
dard  the  motto,  “  All  for  God  and  Her.”  Nei¬ 
ther  of  these  adventurers  had  as  yet  run  their 
career  in  this  war. 

All  the  imperial  territories  were  now  free  from 
the  enemy;  the  Union  was  dissolved  ;  the  Mar¬ 
grave  of  Baden,  Duke  Christian,  and  Mansfeld, 
driven  from  the  field,  and  the  Palatinate  overrun 
by  the  executive  troops  of  the  empire.  Manheim 
and  Heidelberg  were  in  possession  of  Bavaria,  and 
Frankenthal  was  shortly  afterward  ceded  to  the 
Spaniards.  The  Palatine,  in  a  distant  corner  of 
Holland,  awaited  the  disgraceful  permission  to 
appease,  by  abject  submission,  the  vengeance  of 
the  Emperor;  and  an  Electoral  Diet  was  at  last 
summoned  to  decide  his  fate.  That  fate,  however, 
had  been  long  before  decided  at  the  court  of  the 
Emperor  ;  though  now,  for  the  first  time,  were 
circumstances  favorable  for  giving  publicity  to 
the  decision.  After  his  past  measures  toward  the 
Elector,  Ferdinand  believed  that  a  sincere  recon¬ 
ciliation  was  not  to  be  hoped  for.  The  violent 
course  he  had  once  begun,  must  be  completed 
successfully,  or  recoil  upon  himself.  What  was 
already  lost  was  irrecoverable  ;  Frederick  could 
never  hope  to  regain  his  dominions  ;  and  a  prince 
without  territory  and  without  subjects  had  little 
chance  of  retaining  the  electoral  crown.  Deeply 
as  the  Palatine  had  offended  against  the  House 
of  Austria,  the  services  of  the  Duke  of  Bavaria 
were  no  less  meritorious.  If  the  House  of  Aus¬ 
tria  and  the  Roman  Catholic  church  had  much  to 
dread  from  the  resentment  and  religious  rancor  of 
the  Palatine  family,  they  had  as  much  to  hope 
from  the  gratitude  and  religious  zeal  of  the  Bava¬ 
rian.  Lastly,  by  the  cession  of  the  Palatine  El* 
ectorate  to  Bavaria,  the  Roman  Catholic  reli- 


158 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


gion  would  obtain  a  decisive  preponderance  in  the 
Electoral  College,  and  secure  a  permanent  triumph 
in  Germany. 

The  last  circumstance  was  sufficient  to  win  the. 
support  of  the  three  Ecclesiastical  Electors  to 
this  innovation  ;  and  among  the  Protestants  the 
vote  of  Saxony  was  alone  of  any  importance. 
But  could  John  George  be  expected  to  dispute 
with  the  Emperor  a  right,  without  which  he  would 
expose  to  question  his  own  title  to  the  electoral 
dignity?  To  a  prince  whom  descent,  dignity, 
and  political  power  placed  at  the  head  of  the  Pro¬ 
test-ant  church  in  Germany,  nothing,  it  is  true, 
ought  to  be  more  sacred  than  the  defense  of  the 
rights  of  that  church  against  all  the  encroach¬ 
ments  of  the  Roman  Catholics.  But  the  question 
here  was  not  whether  the  interests  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  were  to  be  supported  against  the  Roman  Cath¬ 
olics,  but  which  of  two  religions  equally  detested, 
the  Calvinist ic  and  the  Popish,  was  to  triumph 
over  the  other  ;  to  which  of  the  two  enemies, 
equally  dangerous,  the  Palatinate  was  to  be  as¬ 
signed  ;  and  in  this  clashing  of  opposite  duties,  it 
was  natural  that  private  hate  and  private  gain 
should  determine  the  event.  'Hie  born  protector 
of  the  liberties  of  Germany,  and  of  the  Protestant 
religion,  encouraged  the  Emperor  to  dispose  of 
the  Palatinate  by  his  imperial  prerogative  ;  and  to 
apprehend  no  resistance  on  the  part  of  Saxony  to 
his  measures  on  the  mere  ground  of  form.  If  the 
Elector  was  afterward  disposed  to  retract  this 
consent,  Ferdinand  himself,  by  driving  the  Evan¬ 
gelical  preachers  from  Bohemia,  was  the  cause  of 
this  change  of  opinion  ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Elector,  the  transference  of  the  Palatine  Elect¬ 
orate  to  Bavaria  ceased  to  be  illegal,  as  soon  as 
Ferdinand  was  prevailed  upon  to  cede  Lusatia  to 
Saxony,  in  consideration  of  six  millions  of  dollars, 
as  the  expenses  of  the  war, 

Thus,  in  defiance  of  all  Protestant  Germany, 
and  in  mockery  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  the 
empire,  which,  at  his  election,  he  had  sworn  to 
maintain,  Ferdinand  at  Ratisbon  solemnly  in¬ 
vested  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  with  the  Palatinate, 
without  prejudice,  as  the  form  ran,  to  the  rights 
which  the  relations  or  descendants  of  Frederick 
might  afterward  establish.  That  unfortunate 
prince  thus  saw  himself  irrevocably  driven  from 
his  possessions,  without  having  been  even  heard 
before  the  tribunal  which  condemned  him — a  privi¬ 
lege  which  the  law  allows  to  the  meanest  subject, 
and  even  to  the  most  atrocious  criminal. 

This  violent  step  at  last  opened  the  eyes  of  the 
King  of  England  ;  and  as  the  negotiations  for  the 
marriage  of  his  son  with  the  Infanta  of  Spain 
were  now  broken  off,  James  began  seriously  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  his  son-in-law.  A  change  in 
the  French  ministry  had  placed  Cardinal  Riche¬ 
lieu  at  the  head  of  affairs,  and  this  fallen  kingdom 
soon  began  to  feel  that  a  great  mind  was  at  the 
helm  of  state.  The  attempts  of  the  Spanish  Vi¬ 
ceroy  in  Milan  to  gain  possession  of  the  Valtel- 
line,  and  thus  to  form  a  junction  with  the  Austrian 
hereditary  dominions,  revived  the  olden  dread  of 
this  power,  and  with  it  the  policy  of  Henry  the 
Great.  The  marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales 
with  Henrietta  of  France,  established  a  close 
union  between  the  two  crowns ;  and  to  this  alli¬ 


ance,  Holland,  Denmark,  and  some  of  the  Italian 
states  presently  acceded.  Its  object  was  to  ex¬ 
pel,  by  force  of  arms,  Spain  from  the  Valtelline, 
and  to  compel  Austria  to  reinstate  Frederick  ;  but 
only  the  first  of  these  designs  was  prosecuted  with 
vigor.  James  I.  died,  and  Charles  I.,  involved  in 
disputes  with  his  Parliament,  could  not  bestow 
attention  on  the  affairs  of  Germany.  Savoy  and 
Venice  withheld  their  assistance;  and  the  French 
minister  thought  it  necessary  to  subdue  the  Hu¬ 
guenots  at  home,  before  he  supported  the  German 
Protestants  against  the  Emperor.  Great  as  were 
the  hopes  which  had  been  formed  from  this  alli¬ 
ance,  they  were  yet  equaled  by  the  disappoint¬ 
ment  of  the  event. 

Mansfeld,  deprived  of  all  support,  remained  in¬ 
active  on  the  Lower  Rhine  ;  and  Duke  Christian 
of  Brunswick,  after  an  unsuccessful  campaign,  was 
a  second  time  driven  out  of  Germany.  A  fresh 
irruption  of  Bethlem  Gabor  into  Moravia,  frus¬ 
trated  by  the  want  of  support  from  the  Germans, 
terminated,  like  all  the  rest,  in  a  formal  peace  with 
the  Emperor.  The  Union  was  no  more;  no  Pro¬ 
testant  prince  was  in  arms;  and  on  the  frontiers 
of  Lower  Germany,  the  Bavarian  General  Tilly, 
at  the  head  of  a  victorious  army,  encamped  in  the 
Protestant  territory.  The  movements  of  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick  had  drawn  him  into  this  quarter, 
and  even  into  the  circle  of  Lower  Saxony,  when 
he  made  himself  master  of  the  Administrator’s 
magazines  at  Lippstadt.  The  necessity  of  ob¬ 
serving  this  enemy,  and  preventing  him  from  new 
inroads,  was  the  pretext  assigned  for  continuing 
Tilly’s  stay  in  the  country.  But,  in  truth,  both 
Mansfeld  and  Duke  Christian  had,  from  want  of 
money,  disbanded  their  armies,  and  Count  Tilly 
had  no  enemy  to  dread.  Why,  then,  still  burden 
the  country  with  his  presence? 

It  is  difficult,  amidst  the  uproar  of  contending 
parties,  to  distinguish  the  voice  of  truth  ;  but  cer¬ 
tainly  it  was  matter  for  alarm  that  the  League  did 
not  laydown  its  arms.  The  premature  rejoicings 
of  the  Roman  Catholics,  too,  were  calculated  to 
increase  apprehension.  The  Emperor  and  the 
League  stood  armed  and  victorious  in  Germany 
without  a  power  to  oppose  them,  should  they  ven¬ 
ture  to  attack  the  Protestant  states  and  to  annul 
the  religious  treaty.  Had  Ferdinand  been  in  re¬ 
ality  far  from  disposed  to  abuse  his  conquests,  still 
the  defenseless  position  of  the  Protestants  was 
most  likely  to  suggest  the  temptation.  Obsolete 
conventions  could  not  bind  a  prince  who  thought 
that  he  owed  all  to  religion,  and  believed  that  a 
religious  creed  would  sanctify  any  deed,  however 
violent*  Upper  Germany  was  already  overpow¬ 
ered.  Lower  Germany  alone  could  check  his 
despotic  authority.  Here  the  Protestants  still 
predominated  ;  the  church  had  been  forcibly  de¬ 
prived  of  most  of  its  endowments  ;  and  the  present 
appeared  a  favorable  moment  for  recovering  these 
lost  possessions.  A  great  part  of  the  strength 
of  the  Lower  German  princes  consisted  in  these 
Chapters,  and  the  plea  of  restoring  its  own  to  the 
church,  afforded  an  excellent  pretext  for  weaken¬ 
ing  these  princes. 

Unpardonable  would  have  been  their  negligence, 
had  they  remained  inactive  in  this  danger.  The 
remembrance  of  the  ravages  which  Tilly’s  army 


159 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


had  committed  in  Lower  Saxony  was  too  recent 
not  to  arouse  the  Estates  to  measures  of  defense. 
With  all  haste,  the  circle  of  Lower  Saxony  began 
to  arm  itself.  Extraordinary  contributions  were 
levied,  troops  collected,  and  magazines  filled.  Ne¬ 
gotiations  for  subsidies  were  set  on  foot  with  Ve¬ 
nice,  Holland,  and  England.  They  deliberated, 
too,  what  power  should  be  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  confederacy.  The  kings  of  the  Sound  and 
the  Baltic,  the  natural  allies  of  this  circle,  would 
not  see  with  indifference  the  Emperor  treating  it 
as  a  conqueror,  and  establishing  himself  as  their 
neighbor  on  the  shores  of  the  North  Sea.  The 
twofold  interests  of  religion  and  policy  urged  them 
to  put  a  stop  to  his  progress  in  Lower  Germany. 
Christian  IV.  of  Denmark,  as  Duke  of  Holstein, 
was  himself  a  prince  of  this  circle,  and  by  con¬ 
siderations  equally  powerful,  Gustavus  Adolphus 
of  Sweden  was  induced  to  join  the  confederacy. 

These  two  kings  vied  with  each  other  for  the 
honor  of  defending  Lower  Saxony,  and  of  oppos¬ 
ing  the  formidable  power  of  Austria.  Each 
offered  to  raise  a  well  disciplined  army,  and  to 
lead  it  in  person.  His  victorious  campaigns 
against  Moscow  and  Poland  gave  weight  to  the 
promises  of  the  King  of  Sweden.  The  shores  of 
the  Baltic  were  full  of  the  name  of  Gustavus. 
But  the  fame  of  his  rival  excited  the  envy  of  the 
Danish  monarch  ;  and  the  more  success  he  pro¬ 
mised  himself  in  this  campaign,  the  less  disposed 
was  he  to  show  any  favor  to  his  envied  neighbor. 
Both  laid  their  conditions  and  plans  before  the 
English  ministry,  and  Christian  IV.  finally  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  outbidding  his  rival.  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus,  for  his  own  security,  had  demanded  the 
cession  of  some  places  of  strength  in  Germany, 
where  he  himself  had  no  territories,  to  afford,  in 
case  of  need,  a  place  of  refuge  for  his -troops. 
Christian  IV.  possessed  Holstein  and  Jutland, 
through  which,  in  the  event  of  a  defeat,  he  could 
always  secure  a  retreat. 

Eager  to  get  the  start  of  his  competitor,  the 
King  of  Denmark  hastened  to  take  the  field. 
Appointed  generalissimo  of  the  circle  of  Lower 
Saxony,  he  soon  had  an  army  of  sixty  thousand 
men  in  motion  ;  the  administrator  of  Magdeburg, 
and  the  Dukes  of  Brunswick  and  Mecklenburg, 
entered  into  an  alliance  with  him.  Encouraged 
by  the  hope  of  assistance  from  England,  and  the 
possession  of  so  large  a  force,  he  flattered  himself 
lie  should  be  able  to  terminate  the  war  in  a  single 
campaign. 

At  Vienna,  it  was  officially  notified  that  the 
only  object  of  these  preparations  was  the  protec¬ 
tion  of  the  circle,  and  the  maintenance  of  peace. 
But  the  negotiations  with  Holland,  England,  arid 
even  France,  the  extraordinary  exertions  of  the 
circle,  and  the  raising  of  so  formidable  an  army, 
seemed  to  have  something  more  in  view  than  de¬ 
fensive  operations,  and  to  contemplate  nothing 
less  than  the  complete  restoration  of  the  Elector 
Palatine,  and  the  humiliation  of  the  dreaded  power 
of  Austria. 

After  negotiations,  exhortations,  commands, 
and  threats  had  in  vain  been  employed  by  the 
Emperor  in  order  to  induce  the  King  of  Denmark 
and  the  circle  of  Lower  Saxony  to  lay  down  their 
arms,  hostilities  commenced,  and  Lower  Germany 


became  the  theatre  of  war.  Count  Tilly,  march¬ 
ing  along  the  left  bank  of  the  Weser,  made  him¬ 
self  master  of  all  the  passes  as  far  as  Minden. 
After  an  unsuccessful  attack  on  Nieuburg,  he 
crossed  the  river  and  overran  the  principality  of 
Calemberg,  in  which  he  quartered  his  troops. 
The  king  conducted  his  operations  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  river,  and  spread  his  forces  over  the 
territories  of  Brunswick,  but  having  weakened  his 
main  body  by  too  powerful  detachments,  he  could 
not  engage  in  any enterpriseof  importance.  Aware 
of  his  opponent’s  superiority,  he  avoided  a  deci¬ 
sive  action  as  anxiously  as  the  general  of  the 
League  sought  it. 

With  the  exception  of  the  troops  from  the  Span¬ 
ish  Netherlands,  which  had  poured  into  the 
Lower  Palatinate,  the  Emperor  had  hitherto 
made  use  only  of  the  arms  of  Bavaria  and  the 
League  in  Germany.  Maximilian  conducted  the 
war  as  executor  of  the  ban  of  the  empire,  and 
Tilly,  who  commanded  the  army  of  execution, 
was  in  the  Bavarian  service.  The  Emperor  owed 
superiority  in  the  field  to  Bavaria  and  the  League, 
and  his  fortunes  were  in  their  hands.  This  de¬ 
pendence  on  their  good-will,  but  ill  accorded  with 
the  grand  schemes,  which  the  brilliant  commence¬ 
ment  of  the  war  had  led  the  imperial  cabinet  to 
form. 

However  active  the  League  had  shown  itself  in 
the  Emperor’s  defense,  while  thereby  it  secured 
its  own  welfare,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  it 
would  enter  as  readily  into  his  views  of  conquest. 
Or,  if  they  still  continued  to  lend  their  armies  for 
that  purpose,  it  was  too  much  to  be  feared  that 
they  would  share  with  the  Emperor  nothing  but 
general  odium,  while  they  appropriated  to  them¬ 
selves  all  advantages.  A  strong  army  under  his 
own  orders  could  alone  free  him  from  this  debas¬ 
ing  dependence  upon  Bavaria,  and  restore  to  him 
his  former  pre-eminence  in  Germany.  But  the 
war  had  already  exhausted  the  imperial  dominions, 
and  they  were  unequal  to  the  expense  of  such  an 
armament.  In  these  circumstances,  nothing  could 
be  more  welcome  to  the  Emperor  than  the  pro¬ 
posal  with  which  one  of  his  officers  surprised  him. 

This  was  Count  Wallenstein,  an  experienced 
officer,  and  the  richest  nobleman  in  Bohemia. 
From  his  earliest  youth  he  had  been  in  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  the  House  of  Austria,  and  several  cam¬ 
paigns  against  the  Turks,  Venetians,  Bohemians, 
Hungarians,  and  Transylvanians  had  established 
his  reputation.  He  was  present  as  colonel  at  the 
battle  of  Prague,  and  afterward,  as  major-general, 
had  defeated  a  Hungarian  force  in  Moravia.  The 
Emperor’s  gratitude  was  equal  to  his  services,  and 
a  large  share  of  the  confiscated  estates  of  the  Bo¬ 
hemian  insurgents  was  their  reward.  Possessed 
of  immense  property,  excited  by  ambitious  views, 
confident  in  his  own  good  fortune,  and  still  more 
encouraged  by  the  existing  state  of  circumstances, 
he  offered,  at  his  own  expence  and  that  of  his 
friends,  to  raise  and  clothe  an  army  for  the  Em¬ 
peror,  and  even  undertook  the  cost  of  maintaining 
it,  if  he  were  allowed  to  augment  it  to  fifty  thou¬ 
sand  men.  The  project  was  universally  ridiculed 
as  the  chimerical  offspring  of  a  visionary  brain  ; 
but  the  offer  was  highly  valuable,  if  its  promises 
should  be  but  partially  fulfilled.  Certain  circles 


160 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


in  Bohemia  were  assigned  to  him  as  depots,  with 
authority  to  appoint  his  own  officers.  In  a  few 
months  he  had  twenty  thousand  men  under  arms, 
with  which,  quitting  the  Austrian  territories,  he 
soon  afterward  appeared  on  the  frontiers  of 
Lower  Saxony  with  thirty  thousand.  The  Empe¬ 
ror  had  lent  this  armament  nothing  but  his  name. 
The  reputation  of  the  general,  the  prospect  of 
rapid  promotion,  and  the  hope  of  plunder,  at¬ 
tracted  to  his  standard  adventurers  from  all  quar¬ 
ters  of  Germany  ;  and  even  sovereign  princes, 
stimulated  by  the  desire  of  glory  or  of  gain,  offered 
to  raise  regiments  for  the  service  of  Austria. 

Now,  therefore,  for  the  first  time  in  this  war, 
an  imperial  army  appeared  in  Germlany ;  which 
was  menacing  to  the  Protestants,  and  scarcely 
more  acceptable  to  the  Roman  Catholics.  Wal¬ 
lenstein  had  orders  to  unite  his  army  with  the 
troops  of  the  League,  and  in  conjunction  with  the 
Bavarian  general  to  attack  the  King  of  Denmark. 
But  long  jealous  of  Tilly’s  fame,  he  showed  no 
disposition  to  share  with  him  the  laurels  of  the 
campaign,  or  in  the  splendor  of  his  rival’s  achieve¬ 
ments  to  dim  the  lustre  of  his  own.  His  plan  of 
operations  was  to  support  the  latter,  but  to  act 
entirely  independent  of  him.  As  he  had  not  re¬ 
sources,  like  Tilly,  for  supplying  the  wants  of  his 
army,  he  was  obliged  to  march  his  troops  into 
fertile  countries  which  had  not  as  yet  suffered  from 
war.  Disobeying,  therefore,  the  order  to  form  a 
junction  with  the  general  of  the  League,  he 
marched  into  the  territories  of  Halberstadt  and 
Magdeburg,  and  at  Dessau  made  himself  master 
of  the  Elbe.  All  the  lands  on  either  bank  of  this 
river  were  at  his  command,  and  from  them  he 
could  either  attack  the  King  of  Denmark  in  the 
rear,  or,  if  prudent,  enter  the  territories  of  that 
prince. 

Christian  IY.  was  fully  aware  of  the  danger  of 
his  situation  between  two  such  powerful  armies, 
lie  had  already  been  joined  by  the  Administrator 
of  Halberstadt,  who  had  lately  returned  from 
Holland;  he  now  also  acknowledged  Mansfeld, 
whom  previously  he  had  refused  to  recognize,  and 
supported  him  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  Mans¬ 
feld  amply  repaid  this  service.  He  alone  kept  at 
bay  the  army  of  Wallenstein  upon  the  Elbe,  and 
prevented  its  junction  with  that  of  Tilly,  and  a 
combined  attack  on  the  King  of  Denmark.  Not¬ 
withstanding  the  enemy’s  superiority,  this  intrepid 
general  even  approached  the  bridge  of  Dessau, 
and  ventured  to  intrench  himself  in  presence  of 
the  imperial  lines.  But  attacked  in  the  rear  by 
the  whole  force  of  the  Imperialists,  he  was  obliged 
to  yield  to  superior  numbers,  and  to  abandon  his 
post  with  the  loss  of  three  thousand  killed.  After 
this  defeat,  Mansfeld  withdrew  into  Brandenburg, 
where  he  soon  recruited  and  reinforced  his  army; 
and  suddenly  turned  into  Silesia,  with  the  view  of 
marching  from  thence  into  Hungary;  and,  in  con¬ 
junction  with  Bethlem  Gabor,  carrying  the  war 
into  the  heart  of  Austria.  As  the  Austrian  do¬ 
minions  in  that  quarter  were  entirely  defenseless, 
Wallenstein  received  immediate  orders  to  leave 
the  King  of  Denmark,  and,  if  possible,  to  inter¬ 
cept  Mansfeld’s  progress  through  Silesia. 

The  diversion  which  this  movement  had  made 
ia  the  army  of  Wallenstein,  enabled  the  king  to 


detach  a  part  of  his  force  into  Westphalia,  t<! 
seize  the  bishoprics  of  Munster  and  Osnaburg. 
To  check  this  movement,  Tilly  suddenly  moved 
from  the  Weser;  but  the  operations  of  Duke 
Christian,  who  threatened  the  territories  of  the 
League  with  an  inroad  in  the  direction  of  Hesse, 
and  to  remove  thither  the  seat  of  war,  recalled 
him  as  rapidly  from  Westphalia.  In  order  to 
keep  open  his  communication  with  these  provinces, 
and  to  prevent  the  junction  of  the  enemy  with  the 
Landgrave  of  Hesse,  Tilly  hastily  seized  all  the 
tenable  posts  on  the  Werha  and  Fulda,  and  took 
up  a  strong  position  in  Minden,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Hessian  Mountains,  and  at  the  confluence  of  these 
rivers  with  the  Weser.  He  soon  made  himself 
master  of  Gottingen,  the  key  of  Brunswick  and 
Hesse,  and  was  meditating  a  similar  attack  upon 
Nordheim,  when  the  king  advanced  upon  him  with 
his  whole  army.  After  throwing  into  this  place 
the  necessary  supplies  for  a  long  siege,  the  latter 
attempted  to  open  a  new  passage  through  Eichs- 
feld  and  Thuringia,  into  the  territories  of  the 
League.  He  had  already  reached  Duderstadt, 
when  Tilly,  by  forced  marches,  came  up  with  him. 
As  the  army  of  Tilly,  which  had  been  reinforced 
by  some  of  Wallenstein’s  regiments,  was  superior 
in  numbers  to  his  own,  the  king,  to  avoid  a  battle, 
retreated  toward  Brunswick.  But  Tilly  inces¬ 
santly  harassed  his  retreat,  and  after  three  days’ 
skirmishing,  he  was  at  length  obliged  to  await  the 
enemy  near  the  village  of  Lutter  in  Barenberg. 
The  Danes  began  the  attack  with  great  bravery, 
and  thrice  did  their  intrepid  monarch  lead  them 
in  person  against  the  enemy:  but  at  length  the 
superior  numbers  and  discipline  of  the  Imperial¬ 
ists  prevailed,  and  the  general  of  the  League  ob¬ 
tained  a  complete  victory.  The  Danes  lost  sixty 
standards,  and  their  whole  artillery,  baggage,  and 
ammunition.  Several  officers  of  distinction,  and 
about  four  thousand  men  were  killed  on  the  field 
of  battle ;  and  several  companies  of  foot,  in  the 
flight,  who  had  thrown  themselves  into  the  town- 
house  of  Lutter,  laid  down  their  arms  and  surren¬ 
dered  to  the  conqueror. 

The  king  fled  with  his  cavalry,  and  soon  col¬ 
lected  the  wreck  of  his  army  which  had  survived 
this  serious  defeat.  Tilly  pursued  his  victory, 
made  himself  master  of  the  Weser  and  Brunswick, 
and  forced  the  king  to  retire  into  Bremen.  Ren¬ 
dered  more  cautious  by  defeat,  the  latter  now  stood 
upon  the  defensive  ;  and  determined  at  all  events 
to  prevent  the  enemy  from  crossing  the  Elbe.  But 
while  he  threw  garrisons  into  every  tenable  place, 
he  reduced  his  own  diminished  army  to  inactivity ; 
and  one  after  another  his  scattered  troops  were 
either  defeated  or  dispersed.  The  forces  of  the 
League,  in  command  of  the  Weser,  spread  them¬ 
selves  along  the  Elbe  and  Havel,  and  everywhere 
drove  the  Danes  before  them.  Tilly  himself  cross¬ 
ing  the  Elbe  penetrated  with  his  victorious  army 
into  Brandenburg,  while  Wallenstein  entered  Hol¬ 
stein  to  remove  the  seat  of  war  to  the  king’s  own 
dominions. 

This  general  had  just  returned  from  Hungary, 
whither  he  had  pursued  Mansfeld,  without  being 
able  to  obstruct  his  march,  or  prevent  his  junction 
with  Bethlem  Gabor.  Constantly  persecuted  by 
fortune,  but  always  superior  to  his  fate,  Mansfeld 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


161 


had  made  his  way  against  countless  difficulties, 
through  Silesia  and  Hungary  to  Transylvania, 
where,  after  all,  he  was  not  very  welcome.  Rely¬ 
ing  upon  the  assistance  of  England,  and  a  power¬ 
ful  diversion  in  Lower  Saxony,  Gabor  had  again 
broken  the  truce  with  the  Emperor.  But  in  place 
of  the  expected  diversion  in  his  favor,  Mansfeld 
had  drawn  upon  himself  the  whole  strength  of 
Wallenstein,  and  instead  of  bringing,  required, 
pecuniary  assistance.  The  want  of  concert  in  the 
Protestant  counsels  cooled  Gabor’s  ardor;  and 
he  hastened,  as  usual,  to  avert  the  coming  storm 
by  a  speedy  peace.  Firmly  determined,  however, 
to  break  it,  with  the  first  ray  of  hope,  he  directed 
Mansfeld  in  the  mean  time  to  apply  for  assistance 
to  Venice. 

Cut  off  from  Germany,  and  unable  to  support 
the  weak  remnant  of  his  troops  in  Hungary, 
Mansfeld  sold  his  artillery  and  baggage  train,  and 
disbanded  his  soldiers.  With  a  few  followers,  he 
proceeded  through  Bosnia  and  Dalmatia,  toward 
Venice.  New  schemes  swelled  his  bosom;  but 
his  career  was  ended.  Fate,  which  had  so  rest¬ 
lessly  sported  with  him  throughout,  now  prepared 
for  him  a  peaceful  grave  in  Dalmatia.  Death 
overtook  him  in  the  vicinity  of  Zara  in  1626,  and 
a  short  time  before  him  died  the  faithful  com¬ 
panion  of  his  fortunes,  Christian,  Duke  of  Bruns¬ 
wick — two  men  worthy  of  immortality,  had  they 
but  been  as  superior  to  their  times  as  they  were 
to  their  adversities. 

The  King  of  Denmark,  with  his  whole  army, 
was  unable  to  cope  with  Tilly  alone ;  much  less, 
therefore,  with  a  shattered  force  could  he  hold  his 
ground  against  the  two  imperial  generals.  The 
Danes  retired  from  all  their  posts  on  the  Weser, 
the  Elbe,  and  the  Havel,  and  the  army  of  Wallen¬ 
stein  poured  like  a  torrent  into  Brandenburg, 
Mecklenburg,  Holstein,  and  Silesia.  That  gene¬ 
ral,  too  proud  to  act  in  conjunction  with  another, 
had  dispatched  Tilly  across  the  Elbe,  to  watch, 
as  he  gave  out,  the  motions  of  the  Dutch  in  that 
quarter;  but  in  reality  that  he  might  terminate 
the  war  against  the  king,  and  reap  for  himself  the 
fruits  of  Tilly’s  conquests.  Christian  had  now 
lost  all  his  fortresses  in  the  German  States,  with 
the  exception  of  Gluckstadt ;  his  armies  were  de¬ 
feated  or  dispersed  ;  no  assistance  came  from  Ger¬ 
many  ;  from  England,  little  consolation  ;  while  his 
confederates  in  Lower  Saxony  were  at  the  mercy 
of  the  conqueror.  The  Landgrave  of  Hesse  Cas- 
sel  had  been  forced  by  Tilly,  soon  after  the  battle 
of  Lutter,  to  renounce  the  Danish  alliance.  Wal¬ 
lenstein’s  formidable  appearance  before  Berlin  re¬ 
duced  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  to  submission, 
and  compelled  him  to  recognize,  as  legitimate, 
Maximilian’s  title  to  the  Palatine  Electorate.  The 
greater  part  of  Mecklenburg  was  now  overrun 
by  imperial  troops ;  and  both  dukes,  as  adherents 
rl  the  King  of  Denmark,  placed  under  the  ban 
of  the  empire,  and  driven  from  their  dominions. 
The  defense  of  the  German  liberties  against  illegal 
encroachments,  was  punished  as  a  crime  deserv¬ 
ing  the  loss  of  all  dignities  and  territories  ;  and 
yet  this  was  but  the  prelude  to  the  still  more  cry¬ 
ing  enormities  which  shortly  followed. 

The  secret  how  Wallenstein  had  purposed  to 
fulfill  his  extravagant  designs  was  now  manifest. 

VOL.  II.— 11 


He  had  learned  the  lesson  from  Count  Mansfeld  ; 
but  the  scholar  surpassed  his  master.  On  the 
principle  that  war  must  support  war,  Mansfeld 
and  the  Duke  of  Brunswick  had  subsisted  their 
troops  by  contributions  levied  indiscriminately  on 
friend  and  enemy  ;  but  this  predatory  life  was  at¬ 
tended  with  all  the  inconvenience  and  insecurity 
which  accompany  robbery.  Like  fugitive  ban¬ 
ditti,  they  were  obliged  to  steal  through  exasper¬ 
ated  and  vigilant  enemies  ;  to  roam  from  one  end 
of  Germany  to  another ;  to  watch  their  opportu¬ 
nity  with  anxiety ,  and  to  abandon  the  most  fer¬ 
tile  territories  whenever  they  were  defended  by  a 
superior  army.  If  Mansfeld  and  Duke  Christian 
had  done  such  great  things  in  the  face  of  these 
difficulties,  what  might  not  be  expected  if  the  ob¬ 
stacles  were  removed  ;  when  the  army  raised  was 
numerous  enough  to  overawe  in  itself  the  most 
powerful  states  of  the  empire  ;  when  the  name  of 
the  Emperor  insured  impunity  to  every  outrage  ; 
and  when,  under  the  highest  authority,  and  at  the 
head  of  an  overwhelming  force,  the  same  system 
of  warfare  was  pursued,  which  these  two  adventu¬ 
rers  had  hitherto  adopted  at  their  own  risk,  and 
with  only  an  untrained  multitude? 

Wallenstein  had  all  this  in  view  when  he  made 
his  bold  offer  to  the  Emperor,  which  now  seemed 
extravagant  to  no  one.  The  more  his  army  was 
augmented,  the  less  cause  was  there  to  fear  for  its 
subsistence,  because  it  could  irresistibly  bear  down 
upon  the  refractory  states ;  the  more  violent  its 
outrages,  the  more  probable  was  impunity.  To¬ 
ward  hostile  states  it  had  the  plea  of  right  ;  to¬ 
ward  the  favorably  disposed  it  could  allege  ne¬ 
cessity.  The  inequality,  too,  with  which  it  dealt 
out  its  oppressions,  prevented  any  dangerous 
union  among  the  states  ;  while  the  exhaustion  of 
their  territories  deprived  them  of  the  power  of 
vengeance.  Thus  the  whole  of  Germany  became 
a  kind  of  magazine  for  the  imperial  army,  and 
the  Emperor  was  enabled  to  deal  with  the  other 
states  as  absolutely  as  with  his  own  hereditary 
dominions.  Universal  was  the  clamor  for  redress 
before  the  imperial  throne  ;  but  there  was  nothing 
to  fear  from  the  revenge  of  the  injured  princes, 
so  long  as  they  appealed  for  justice.  The  general 
discontent  was  directed  equally  against  the  Em¬ 
peror,  who  had  lent  his  name  to  these  barbarities, 
and  the  general  who  exceeded  his  power,  and 
openly  abused  the  authority  of  his  master.  They 
applied  to  the  Emperor  for  protection  against  the 
outrages  of  his  general  ;  but  Wallenstein  had  no 
sooner  felt  himself  absolute  in  the  army,  than  he 
threw  off  his  obedience  to  his  sovereign. 

The  exhaustion  of  the  enemy  made  a  speedy 
peace  probable;  yet  Wallenstein  continued  to 
augment  the  imperial  armies  until  they  were  at 
least  one  hundred  thousand  men  strong.  Number¬ 
less  commissions  to  colonelcies  and  inferior  com¬ 
mands,  the  regal  pomp  of  the  commander-in-chief,' 
immoderate  largesses  to  his  favorites,  (for  he  never 
gave  less  than  a  thousand  florins,)  enormous  sums 
lavished  in  corrupting  the  court  of  Vienna — all 
this  had  been  effected  without  burdening  the  Em¬ 
peror.  These  immense  sums  were  raised  by  the 
contributions  levied  from  the  lower  German  pro¬ 
vinces,  where  no  distinction  was  made  between 
friend  and  foe  ;  and  the  territories  of  all  princes 


162 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


were  subjected  to  the  same  system  of  marching 
and  quartering,  of  extortion  and  outrage.  If 
credit  is  to  be  given  to  an  extravagant  cotempo¬ 
rary  statement,  Wallenstein,  during  his  seven 
years  command,  had  exacted  not  less  than  sixty 
thousand  millions  of  dollars  from  one  half  of  Ger¬ 
many.  The  greater  his  extortions,  the  greater 
the  rewards  of  his  soldiers,  and  the  greater  the 
concourse  to  his  standard,  for  the  world  always 
follows  fortune.  His  armies  flourished  while  all 
the  states  through  which  they  passed  withered. 
What  cared  he  for  the  detestation  of  the  people, 
and  the  complaints  of  princes?  His  army  adored 
him,  and  the  guilt  itself  enabled  him  to  bid  de¬ 
fiance  to  its  consequences. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  Ferdinand,  were  we  to 
lay  all  these  irregularities  to  his  charge.  Had  he 
foreseen  that  he  was  abandoning  the  German 
States  to  the  mercy  of  his  general,  he  would  have 
been  sensible  how  dangerous  to  himself  so  abso¬ 
lute  a  general  would  prove.  The  closer  the  con¬ 
nection  became  between  the  army,  and  the  leader 
from  whom  flowed  favor  and  fortune,  the  more  the 
ties  which  united  both  to  the  Emperor  were  re¬ 
laxed.  Every  thing,  it  is  true,  was  done  in  the 
name  of  the  latter;  but  Wallenstein  only  availed 
himself  of  the  supreme  majesty  of  the  Emperor 
to  crush  the  authority  of  other  states.  His  object 
was  to  depress  the  princes  of  the  empire,  to  de¬ 
stroy  all  gradation  of  rank  between  them  and  the 
Emperor,  and  to  elevate  the  power  of  the  latter 
above  all  competition.  If  the  Emperor  were 
absolute  in  Germany,  who  then  would  be  equal  to 
the  man  intrusted  with  the  execution  of  his  will? 
The  height  to  which  Wallenstein  had  raised  the 
imperial  authority  astonished  even  the  Emperor 
himself ;  but  as  the  greatness  of  the  master  was 
entirely  the  work  of  the  servant,  the  creation  of 
Wallenstein  would  necessarily  sink  again  into 
nothing  upon  the  withdrawal  of  its  creative  hand. 
Not  without  an  object,  therefore,  did  Wallenstein 
labor  to  poison  the  minds  of  the  German  princes 
against  the  Emperor.  The  more  violent  their 
hatred  of  Ferdinand,  the  more  indispensable  to 
the  Emperor  would  become  the  man  who  alone 
could  render  their  ill-will  powerless.  His  design 
unquestionably  was,  that  his  sovereign  should 
stand  in  fear  of  no  one  in  all  Germany — besides 
himself,  the  source  and  engine  of  this  despotic 
power. 

As  a  step  toward  this  end,  Wallenstein  now 
demanded  the  cession  of  Mecklenburg,  to  be  held 
in  pledge  till  the  repayment  of  his  advances  for 
the  war.  Ferdinand  had  already  created  him 
Duke  of  Friedland,  apparently  with  the  view  of 
exalting  his  own  general  over  Bavaria ;  but  an 
ordinary  recompense  would  not  satisfy  Wallen¬ 
stein’s  ambition.  In  vain  was  this  new  demand, 
which  could  be  granted  only  at  the  expense  of 
two  princes  of  the  empire,  actively  resisted  in  the 
Imperial  Council ;  in  vain  did  the  Spaniards,  who 
had  long  been  offended  by  his  pride,  oppose  his 
elevation.  The  powerful  support  which  Wallen¬ 
stein  had  purchased  from  the  imperial  councilors 
prevailed,  and  Ferdinand  was  determined,  at  what¬ 
ever  cost,  to  secure  the  devotion  of  so  indispensa¬ 
ble  a  minister.  For  a  slight  offense,  one  of  the 
oldest  German  houses  was  expelled  from  their 


hereditary  dominions,  that  a  creature  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  might  be  enriched  by  their  spoils  (1628). 

Wallenstein  now  began  to  assume  the  title  of 
generalissimo  of  the  Emperor  by  sea  and  land, 
Wismar  was  taken,  and  a  firm  footing  gained  on 
the  Baltic.  Ships  were  required  from  Poland  and 
t  he  Hans  towns  to  carry  the  war  to  the  other  side 
of  the  Baltic ;  to  pursue  the  Danes  into  the  heart 
of  their  own  country,  and  to  compel  them  to  a 
peace  which  might  prepare  the  way  to  more  im¬ 
portant  conquests.  The  communication  between 
the  Lower  German  States  and  the  Northern 
powers  would  be  broken,  could  the  Emperor  place 
himself  between  them,  and  encompass  Germany, 
from  the  Adriatic  to  the  Sound,  (the  intervening 
kingdom  of  Poland  being  already  dependent  on 
him,)  with  an  unbroken  line  of  territory.  If  such 
was  the  Emperor’s  plan,  Wallenstein  had  a  pe¬ 
culiar  interest  in  its  execution.  These  possessions 
on  the  Baltic  should,  he  intended,  form  the  first 
foundation  of  a  power,  which  had  long  been  the 
object  of  his  ambition,  and  which  should  enable 
him  to  throw  off  his  dependence  on  the  Emperor. 

To  effect  this  object,  it  was  of  extreme  im¬ 
portance  to  gaiu  possession  of  Stralsund,  a  town 
on  the  Baltic.  Its  excellent  harbor,  and  the 
short  passage  from  it  to  the  Swedish  and  Danish 
coasts,  peculiarly  fitted  it  for  a  naval  station  in  a 
war  with  these  powers.  This  town,  the  sixth  of 
the  Hanseatic  League,  enjoyed  great  privileges 
under  the  Duke  of  Pomerania,  and  totally  inde¬ 
pendent  of  Denmark,  had  taken  no  share  in  the 
war.  But  neither  its  neutrality  nor  its  privileges 
could  protect  it  against  the  encroachments  of 
Wallenstein  when  he  had  once  cast  a  longing 
look  upon  it. 

The  request  he  made*  that  Stralsund  should 
receive  an  imperial  garrison,  had  been  firmly  and 
honorably  rejected  by  the  magistracy,  who  also 
refused  his  cunningly  demanded  permission  to 
march  his  troops  through  the  town.  Wallenstein, 
therefore,  now  proposed  to  besiege  it. 

The  independence  of  Stralsund,  as  securing  the 
free  navigation  of  the  Baltic,  was  equally  im¬ 
portant  to  the  two  northern  kings.  A  common 
danger  overcame  at  last  the  private  jealousies 
which  had  long  divided  these  princes.  In  a  treaty 
concluded  at  Copenhagen  in  1628,  they  bound 
themselves  to  assist  Stralsund  with  their  combined 
force,  and  to  oppose  in  common  every  foreign 
power  which  should  appear  in  the  Baltic  with 
hostile  views.  Christian  IY.  also  threw  a  suffi¬ 
cient  garrison  into  Stralsund,  and  by  his  per¬ 
sonal  presence  animated  the  courage  of  the  citi¬ 
zens.  Some  ships  of  war  which  Sigismund,  King 
of  Poland,  had  sent  to  the  assistance  of  the  impe¬ 
rial  general,  were  sunk  by  the  Danish  fleet ;  and 
as  Lubeck  refused  him  the  use  of  its  shipping, 
this  imperial  generalissimo  of  the  sea  had  not 
even  ships  enough  to  blockade  this  single  harbor. 

Nothing  could  appear  more  adventurous  than 
attempt  the  conquest  of  a  strongly  fortified  sea¬ 
port  without  first  blockading  its  harbor.  Wallen¬ 
stein,  however,  who  as  yet  had  never  experienced 
a  check,  wished  to  conquer  nature  itself,  and  to 
perform  impossibilities.  Stralsund,  open  to  the 
sea,  continued  to  be  supplied  with  provisions  and 
reinforcements;  yet  Wallenstein  maintained  his 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


163 


blockade  on  the  land  side,  and  endeavored,  by 
boasting  menaces,  to  supply  his  want  of  real 
strength.  “  I  will  take  this  town,”  said  he, 
*'  though  it  were  fastened  by  a  chain  to  the 
heavens.”  The  Emperor  himself,  who  might  have 
cause  to  regret  an  enterprise  which  promised  no 
very  glorious  result,  joyfully  availed  himself  of  the 
apparent  submission  and  acceptable  propositions 
of  the  inhabitants,  to  order  the  general  to  retire 
from  the  town.  Wallenstein  despised  the  com¬ 
mand,  and  continued  to  harass  the  besieged  by 
incessant  assaults.  As  the  Danish  garrison,  al¬ 
ready  much  reduced,  was  unequal  to  the  fatigues 
of  this  prolonged  defense,  and  the  king  was  una¬ 
ble  to  detach  any  further  troops  to  their  support, 
Straisund,  with  Christian’s  consent,  threw  itself 
under  the  protection  of  the  King  of  Sweden.  The 
Danish  commander  left  the  town  to  make  way  for 
a  Swedish  governor,  who  gloriously  defended  it. 
Here  Wallenstein’s  good  fortune  forsook  him; 
and,  for  the  first  time,  his  pride  experienced  the 
humiliation  of  relinquishing  his  prey,  after  the 
loss  of  many  months  and  12,000  men.  The  neces¬ 
sity  to  which  lie  reduced  the  town  of  applying  for 
protection  to  Sweden,  “laid  the  foundation  of  a 
close  alliance  between  Gustavus  Adolphus  and 
Straisund,  which  greatly  facilitated  the  entrance 
of  the  Swedes  into  Germany. 

Hitherto  invariable  success  had  attended  the 
arms  of  the  Emperor  and  the  League,  and  Chris¬ 
tian  IV.,  defeated  in  Germany,  had  sought  refuge 
in  his  own  islands  ;  but  the  Baltic  checked  the 
further  progress  of  the  conquerors.  The  want  of 
ships  not  only  stopped  the  pursuit  of  the  king, 
but  endangered  their  previous  acquisitions.  The 
union  of  the  two  monarchs  was  most  to  be  dread¬ 
ed,  because,  so  long  as  it  lasted,  it  effectually 
prevented  the  Emperor  and  his  general  from  ac¬ 
quiring  a  footing  on  the  Baltic,  or  effecting  a  land¬ 
ing  in  Sweden.  But  if  they  could  succeed  in  dis¬ 
solving  this  union,  and  especially  in  securing  the 
friendship  of  the  Danish  king,  they  might  hope  to 
overpower  the  insulated  force  of  Sweden.  The 
dread  of  the  interference  of  foreign  powers,  the 
insubordination  of  the  Protestants  in  his  own 
states,  and  still  more  the  storm  which  was  gradu¬ 
ally  darkening  along  the  whole  of  Protestant 
Germany,  inclined  the  Emperor  to  peace,  which 
his  general,  from  opposite  motives,  was  equally 
desirous  to  effect.  Far  from  wishing  for  a  state 
things  which  would  reduce  him  from  the  meridian 
of  greatness  and  glory  to  the  obscurity  of  private 
life,  he  only  wished  to  change  the  theatre  of  war, 
and  by  a  partial  peace  to  prolong  the  general  con¬ 
fusion.  The  friendship  of  Denmark,  whose  neigh¬ 
bor  he  had  become  as  Archduke  of  Mechlenburg, 
was  most  important  for  the  success  of  his  ambi¬ 
tious  views  ;  and  he  resolved,  even  at  the  sacrifice 
of  his  sovereign’s  interests,  to  secure  its  alliance. 

By  the  treaty  of  Copenhagen,  Christian  IV.  had 
expressly  engaged  not  to  conclude  a  separate 
peace  with  the  Emperor,  without  the  consent  of 
Sweden.  Notwithstanding,  Wallenstein’s  propo¬ 
sition  was  readily  received  by  him.  In  a  confer¬ 
ence  at  Lubeck,  in  1629,  from  which  Wallenstein, 
with  studied  contempt,  excluded  the  Swedish  am¬ 
bassadors  who  came  to  intercede  for  Mechlen¬ 
burg,  all  the  conquests  taken  by  the  imperialists 


were  restored  to  the  Danes.  The  condition  im¬ 
posed  upon  the  king  were,  that  he  should  inter¬ 
fere  no  further  with  the  affairs  of  Germany  than 
was  called  for  by  his  character  of  Duke  of  Hol¬ 
stein  ;  that  he  should  on  no  pretext  harass  tho 
Chapters  of  Lower  Germany,  and  should  leave 
the  Dukes  of  Mechlenburg  to  their  fate.  By 
Christian  himself  had  these  princes  been  involved 
in  the  war  with  the  Emperor;  he  now  sacrificed 
them,  to  gain  the  favor  of  the  usurper  of  their 
territories.  Among  the  motives  which  had  en¬ 
gaged  him  in  a  war  with  the  Emperor,  not  the 
least  was  the  restoration  of  his  relation,  the  Elec¬ 
tor  Palatine— -yet  the  name  of  that  unfortunate 
prince  was  not  even  mentioned  in  the  treaty  ; 
while  in  one  of  its  articles  the  legitimacy  of  the 
Bavarian  election  was  expressly  recognized.  Thus 
meanly  and  ingloriously  did  Christian  IV.  retire 
from  the  field. 

Ferdinand  had  it  now  in  his  power,  for  the 
second  time,  to  secure  the  tranquillity  of  Ger¬ 
many;  and  it  depended  solely  on  his  will  whether 
the  treaty  with  Denmark  should  or  should  not  be 
the  basis  of  a  general  peace.  From  every  quar¬ 
ter  arose  the  cry  of  the  unfortunate,  petitioning 
for  an  end  of  their  sufferings  ;  the  cruelties  of  his 
soldiers,  and  the  rapacity  of  his  generals  had  ex¬ 
ceeded  all  bounds.  Germany,  laid  waste  by  the 
desolating  bands  of  Man.sfeld  and  the  Duke  of 
Brunswick,  and  by  the  still  more  terrible  hordes 
of  Tilly  and  Wallenstein,  lay  exhausted,  bleeding, 
wasted,  and  sighing  for  repose.  An  anxious 
desire  for  peace  was  felt  by  all  the  Estates,  and  by 
the  Emperor  himself ;  involved  as  he  was  in  a  war 
with  France  in  Upper  Italy,  exhausted  by  his  past 
warfare  in  Germany,  and  apprehensive  of  the  day 
of  reckoning  which  was  ^  approaching.  But,  un¬ 
fortunately,  the  conditions  on  which  alone  the  two 
religious  parties  were  willing  respectively  to 
sheath  the  sword,  were  irreconcilable.  The 
Roman  Catholics  wished  to  terminate  the  war  to 
their  own  advantage  ;  the  Protestants  advanced 
equal  pretensions.  The  Emperor,  instead  of 
uniting  both  parties  by  a  prudent  moderation, 
sided  with  one ;  and  thus  Germany  was  again 
plunged  in  the  horrors  of  a  bloody  war. 

From  the  very  close  of  the  Bohemian  troubles, 
Ferdinand  had  carried  on  a  counter  reformation 
in  his  hereditary  dominions,  in  which,  however, 
from  regard  to  some  of  the  Protestant  Estates, 
he  proceeded,  at  first,  with  moderation.  But  the 
victories  of  his  generals  in  Lower  Germany  en¬ 
couraged  him  to  throw  off  all  reserve.  Accord¬ 
ingly  he  had  it  intimated  to  all  the  Protestants  in 
these  dominions,  that  they  must  either  abandon 
their  religion  or  their  native  country, — a  bitter 
and  dreadful  alternative,  which  excited  the  most 
violent  commotions  among  his  Austrian  subjects., 
In  the  Palatinate,  immediately  after  the  expulsion 
of  Frederick,  the  Protestant  religion  had  been 
suppressed,  and  its  professors  expelled  from  the 
University  of  Heidelberg. 

All  this  was  but  the  prelude  to  greater  changes. 
In  the  Electoral  Congress  held  at  Miihlberg,  the 
Roman  Catholics  had  demanded  of  the  Emperor 
that  all  the  archbishoprics,  bishoprics,  mediate 
and  immediate,  abbacies  and  monasteries,  which, 
since  the  Diet  of  Augsburg,  had  been  secularized 


164 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS7  WAR. 


by  the  Protestants,  should  be  restored  to  the 
church,  in  order  to  indemnify  them  for  the  losses 
and  sufferings  in  the  war.  To  a  Roman  Catholic 
priuce  so  zealous  as  Ferdinand  was,  such  a  hint 
was  not  likely  to  be  neglected;  but  he  still 
thought  it  would  be  premature  to  arouse  the 
whole  Protestants  of  Germany  by  so  decisive  a 
step.  Not  a  single  Protestant  prince  but  would 
be  deprived,  by  this  revocation  of  the  religious 
foundations,  of  a  part  of  his  lands  ;  for  where 
these  revenues  had  not  actually  been  diverted  to 
secular  purposes  they  had  been  made  over  to  the 
Protestant  Church.  To  this  source,  many 
princes  owed  the  chief  part  of  their  revenues  and 
importance.  All,  without  exception,  Would  be  ir¬ 
ritated  by  this  demand  for  restoration.  The  reli¬ 
gious  treaty  did  not  expressly  deny  their  right  to 
these  chapters,  although  it  did  not  allow  it.  But  a 
possession  which  had  now  been  held  for  nearly  a 
century,  the  silence  of  four  preceding  Emperors, 
and  the  law  of  equity,  which  gave  them  an  equal 
right  with  the  Roman  Catholics  to  the  foundations 
of  their  common  ancestors,  might  be  strongly 
pleaded  by  them  as  a  valid  title.  Besides  the 
actual  loss  of  power  and  authority,  which  the 
surrender  of  these  foundations  would  occasion, 
besides  the  inevitable  confusion  which  would  ne¬ 
cessarily  attend  it,  one  important  disadvantage  to 
which  it  would  lead,  was,  that  the  restoration  of 
the  Rojnan  Catholic  bishops  would  increase  the 
strength  of  that  party  in  the  Diet  by  so  many  addi¬ 
tional  votes.  Such  grievous  sacrifices  likely  to  fall 
on  the  Protestants,  made  the  Emperor  apprehensive 
of  a  formidable  opposition  ;  and  until  the  military 
ardor  should  have  cooled  in  Germany,  he  had  no 
wish  to  provoke  a  party  formidable  by  its  union, 
and  which  in  the  Elector  of  Saxony  had  a 
powerful  leader.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  try  the 
experiment  at  first  on  a  small  scale,  in  order  to 
ascertain  how  it  was  likely  to  succeed  on  a  larger 
one.  Accordingly,  some  of  the  free  cities  in 
Upper  Germany,  and  the  Duke  of  Wirtemberg, 
received  orders  to  surrender  to  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics  several  of  the  confiscated  chapters. 

The  state  of  affairs  in  Saxony  enabled  the  em¬ 
peror  to  make  some  bolder  experiments  in  that 
quarter.  In  the  bishoprics  of  Magdeburg  and 
Halberstadt,  the  Protestant  canons  had  not  hesi¬ 
tated  to  elect  bishops  of  their  own  religion.  Both 
bishoprics,  with  the  exception  of  the  town  of 
Magdeburg  itself,  were  overrun  by  the  troops  of 
Wallenstein.  It  happened,  moreover,  that  by 
the  death  of  the  Administrator  Duke  Christian 
of  Brunswick,  Halberstadt  was  vacant,  as  was 
also  the  archbishopric  of  Magdeburg  by  the  de¬ 
position  of  Christian  William,  a  prince  of  the 
House  of  Brandenburg.  Ferdinand  took  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  circumstance  to  restore  the  see  of 
Halberstadt  to  a  Roman  Catholic  bishop,  and  a 
prince  of  his  own  house.  To  avoid  a  similar  co¬ 
ercion,  the  Chapter  of  Magdeburg  hastened  to 
elect  a  son  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony  as  Arch¬ 
bishop.  But  the  pope,  who  with  his  arrogated 
authority  interfered  in  this  matter,  conferred  the 
Archbishopric  of  Magdeburg  also  on  the  Austrian 
prince.  Thus,  with  all  his  pious  zeal  for  religion, 
Ferdinand  never  lost  sight  of  the  interests  of  his 
family. 


At  length,  when  the  peace  of  Lubeck  had  de-  • 
livered  the  Emperor  from  all  apprehensions  on 
the  side  of  Denmark,  and  the  German  Protest¬ 
ants  seemed  entirely  powerless,  the  League  be¬ 
coming  louder  and  more  urgent  in  its  demands, 
Ferdininand,  in  1629,  signed  the  Edict  of  Resti¬ 
tution,  (so  famous  by  its  disastrous  consequences,) 
which  he  had  previously  laid  before  the  four  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  electors  for  their  approbation. 
In  the  preamble,  he  claimed  the  prerogative,  iu 
right  of  his  imperial  authority,  to  interpret  the 
meaning  of  the  religious  treaty,  the  ambiguities 
of  which  had  already  caused  so  many  disputes, 
and  to  decide  as  supreme  arbiter  and  judge  be¬ 
tween  the  contending  parties.  This  prerogative 
he  founded  upon  the  practice  of  his  ancestors, 
and  its  previous  recognition  even  by  the  Protest¬ 
ant  states.  Saxony  had  actually  acknowledged 
this  right  of  the  Emperor  ;  and  it  now  became 
evident  how  deeply  this  court  had  injured  the 
Protestant  cause  by  its  dependence  on  the  House 
of  Austria.  But  though  the  meaning  of  the 
religious  treaty  was  really  ambiguous,  as  a  cen¬ 
tury  of  religious  disputants  sufficiently  proved, 
yet  for  the  Emperor,  who  must  be  either  a  Pro¬ 
testant  or  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  therefore  an 
interested  party,  to  assume  the  right  of  deciding 
between  the  disputants,  was  clearly  a  violation 
of  an  essential  article  of  the  pacification.  He 
could  not  be  judge  in  his  own  cause,  without 
reducing  the  liberties  of  the  empire  to  an  empty 
sound. 

And  now,  in  virtue  of  this  usurpation,  Ferdi¬ 
nand  decided,  “That  every  secularization  of  a 
religious  foundation,  mediate  or  immediate,  by 
the  Protestants,  subsequent  to  the  date  of  the 
treaty,  was  contrary  to  its  spirit,  and  must  be 
revoked  as  a  breach  of  it.”  He  further  decided, 
“That,  by  the  religious  peace,  Catholic  proprie¬ 
tors  of  estates  were  no  further  bound  to  their 
Protestant  subjects  than  to  allow  them  full 
liberty  to  quit  their  territories.”  In  obedience  to 
this  decision,  all  unlawful  possessors  of  benefices 
— the  Protestant  states  in  short  without  excep¬ 
tion — were  ordered,  under  pain  of  the  ban  of 
the  empire,  immediately  to  surrender  their  usurped 
possessions  to  the  imperial  commissioners. 

This  sentence  applied  to  no  less  than  two  arch¬ 
bishoprics,  and  twelve  bishoprics,  besides  innumer¬ 
able  abbacies.  The  edict  came  like  a  thunder¬ 
bolt  on  the  whole  of  Protestant  Germany  ;  dread¬ 
ful  even  in  its  immediate  consequences  ;  but  yet 
more  so  from  the  further  calamities  it  seemed  to 
threaten.  The  Protestants  were  now  convinced 
that  the  suppression  of  their  religion  had  been  re¬ 
solved  on  by  the  Emperor  and  the  League,  and  that 
the  overthrow  of  German  liberty  would  soon  fol¬ 
low.  Their  remonstrances  were  unheeded  ;  the  com¬ 
missioners  were  named,  and  an  army  assembled 
to  enforce  obedience.  The  edict  was  first  put  iu 
force  in  Augsburg,  where  the  treaty  was  con¬ 
cluded  ;  the  city  was  again  placed  under  the  gov¬ 
ernment  of  its  bishop,  and  six  Protestant  churches 
in  the  town  were  closed.  The  Duke  of  Wirtem¬ 
berg  was,  in  like  manner,  compelled  to  surrender 
his  abbacies.  These  severe  measures,  though  they 
alarmed  the  Protestant  states,  were  yet  insuffi¬ 
cient  to  rouse  them  to  an  active  resistance. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


165 


Their  fear  of  the  emperor  was  too  strong,  and 
many  were  disposed  to  quiet  submission.  The 
hope  of  attaining  their  end  by  gentle  measures, 
induced  the  Roman  Catholics  likewise  to  delay 
for  a  year  the  execution  of  the  edict,  and  this 
saved  the  Protestants;  before  the  end  of  that 
period,  the  success  of  the  Swedish  arms  had  to¬ 
tally  changed  the  state  of  affairs. 

In  a  Diet  held  at  Ratisbon,  at  which  Ferdinand 
was  present  in  person  (in  1630),  the  necessity  of 
taking  some  measures  for  the  immediate  restora¬ 
tion  of  a  general  peace  to  Germany,  and  for  the 
removal  of  all  grievances,  was  debated.  The 
complaints  of  the  Roman  Catholics  were  scarcely 
less  numerous  than  those  of  the  Protestants;  how¬ 
ever  Ferdinand  had  flattered  himself  that  by  the 
Edict  of  Restitution  he  had  secured  the  members 
of  the  League,  and  its  leader  by  the  gift  of  the 
electoral  dignity,  and  the  cession  of  great  part  of 
the  Palatinate.  But  the  good  understanding  be¬ 
tween  the  Emperor  and  the  princes  of  the  League 
had  rapidly  declined  since  the  employment  of 
Wallenstein.  Accustomed  to  give  law  to  Ger¬ 
many,  and  even  to  sway  the  Emperor’s  own  des¬ 
tiny,  the  haughty  Elector  of  Bavaria  now  at  once 
saw  himself  supplanted  by  the  imperial  general, 
and  with  that  of  the  League,  his  own  importance 
completely  undermined.  Another  had  now  step¬ 
ped  in  to  reap  the  fruits  of  his  victories,  and  to 
bury  his  past  services  in  oblivion.  Wallenstein’s 
imperious  character,  whose  dearest  triumph  was 
in  degrading  the  authority  of  Maximilian,  and 
giving  an  odious  latitude  to  that  of  the  Emperor, 
tended  not  a  little  to  augment  the  irritation  of 
the  Elector.  Discontented  with  the  Emperor,  and 
distrustful  of  his  intentions,  he  had  entered  into 
an  alliance  with  France,  which  the  other  members 
of  the  League  were  suspected  of  favoring.  A  fear 
of  the  Emperor’s  plans  of  aggrandizement,  and 
discontent  with  existing  evils,  had  extinguished 
among  them  all  feelings  of  gratitude.  Wallen¬ 
stein’s  exactions  had  become  altogether  intoler¬ 
able.  Brandenburg  estimated  its  loss  at  twenty, 
Pomerania  at  ten,  Hesse  Cassel  at  seven  millions 
of  dollars,  and  the  rest  in  proportion.  The  cry 
for  redress  was  loud,  urgent,  and  universal;  all 
prejudices  were  hushed;  Roman  Catholics  and 
Protestants  were  united  on  this  point.  The  ter¬ 
rified  Emperor  was  assailed  on  all  sides  by  peti¬ 
tions  against  Wallenstein,  and  his  ear  filled  with 
the  most  fearful  descriptions  of  his  outrages.  Fer¬ 
dinand  was  not  naturally  cruel.  If  not  totally  in¬ 
nocent  of  the  atrocities  which  were  practiced  in 
Germany  under  the  shelter  of  his  name,  he  was 
ignorant  of  their  extent ;  and  he  was  not  long  in 
yield'ng  to  the  representation  of  the  princes,  and 
reduced  his  standing  army  by  eighteen  thousand 
cavalry.  While  this  reduction  took  place,  the 
Swedes  were  actively  preparing  an  expedition 
into  Germany,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  dis¬ 
banded  Imperialists  enlisted  under  their  banners. 

The  Emperor’s  concessions  only  encouraged  the 
Elector  of  Bavaria  to  bolder  demands.  So  long 
as  the  Duke  of  Friedland  retained  the  supreme 
command,  his  triumph  over  the  Emperor  was  in¬ 
complete.  The  princes  of  the  League  were  medi¬ 
tating  a  severe  revenge  on  Wallenstein  for  that 
haughtiness  with  which  he  had  treated  them  all 


alike.  His  dismissal  was  demanded  by  the  whole 
college  of  electors,  and  even  by  Spain,  with  a  de¬ 
gree  of  unanimity  and  urgency  which  astonished 
the  Emperor.  The  anxiety  with  which  Wallen¬ 
stein’s  enemies  pressed  for  his  dismissal,  ought  to 
have  convinced  the  Emperor  of  the  importance 
of  his  services.  Wallenstein,  informed  of  the  ca¬ 
bals  which  were  forming  against  him  in  Ratisbon, 
lost  no  time  in  opening  the  eyes  of  the  Emperor 
to  the  real  views  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  He 
himself  appeared  in  Ratisbon,  with  a  pomp  which 
threw  his  master  into  the  shade,  and  increased  the 
hatred  of  his  opponents. 

Long  was  the  Emperor  undecided.  The  sacri¬ 
fice  demanded  was  a  painful  one.  To  the  Duke 
of  Friedland  alone  he  owed  his  preponderance  ; 
he  felt  how  much  he  would  lose  in  yielding  him  to 
the  indignation  of  the  princes.  But  at  this  mo¬ 
ment,  unfortunately,  he  was  under  the  necessity 
of  conciliating  the  Electors.  His  son  Ferdinand 
had  already  been  chosen  King  of  Hungary,  and 
he  was  endeavoring  to  procure  his  election  as  his 
successor  in  the  empire.  For  this  purpose,  the 
support  of  Maximilian  was  indispensable.  This 
consideration  was  the  weightiest,  and  to  oblige 
the  Elector  of  Bavaria  he  scrupled  not  to  sacrifice 
his  most  valuable  servant. 

At  the  Diet  of  Ratisbon,  there  were  present 
ambassadors  from  France,  empowered  to  adjust 
the  differences  which  seemed  to  menace  a  war  in 
Italy  between  the  Emperor  and  their  sovereign. 
Vincent,  Duke  of  Mantua  and  Montferrat,  dying 
without  issue,  his  next  relation,  Charles,  Duke  of 
Nevers,  had  taken  possession  of  this  inheritance, 
without  doing  homage  to  the  Emperor  as  liege 
lord  of  the  principality.  Encouraged  by  the  sup¬ 
port  of  France  and  Venice,  he  refused  to  surren¬ 
der  these  territories  into  the  hands  of  the  imperial 
commissioners,  until  his  title  to  them  should  be 
decided.  On  the  other  hand,  Ferdinand  had  taken 
up  arms  at  the  instigation  of  the  Spaniards,  to 
whom,  as  possessors  of  Milan,  the  near  neighbor¬ 
hood  of  a  vassal  of  France  was  peculiarly  alarm¬ 
ing,  and  who  welcomed  this  prospect  of  making 
with  the  assistance  of  the  Emperor,  additional 
conquests  in  Italy.  In  spite  of  all  the  exertions 
of  Pope  Urban  VIII.  to  avert  a  war  in  that 
country,  Ferdinand  marched  a  German  army 
across  the  Alps,  and  threw  the  Italian  states  into 
a  general  consternation.  His  arms  had  been  suc¬ 
cessful  throughout  Germany,  and  exaggerated 
fears  revived  the  olden  apprehension  of  Austria’s 
projects  of  universal  monarchy.  All  the  horrors 
of  the  German  war  now  spread  like  a  deluge  over 
those  favored  countries  which  the  Po  waters; 
Mantua  was  taken  by  storm,  and  the  surrounding 
districts  given  up  to  the  ravages  of  a  lawless  sol¬ 
diery.  The  curse  of  Italy  was  thus  added  to  the 
maledictions  upon  the  Emperor  which  resounded 
through  Germany;  and  even  in  the  Roman  Con¬ 
clave,  silent  prayers  were  offered  for  the  success 
of  the  Protestant  arms. 

Alarmed  by  the  universal  hatred  which  this 
Italian  campaign  had  drawn  upon  him,  and 
wearied  out  by  the  urgent  remonstrances  of  the 
Electors,  who  zealously  supported  the  application 
of  the  French  ambassador,  the  Emperor  promised 
the  investiture  to  the  new  Duke  of  Mantua. 


166 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


This  important  service  on  the  part  of  Bavaria, 
of  course,  required  an  equivalent  from  France. 
The  adjustment  of  the  treaty  gave  the  envoys  of 
Richelieu,  during  their  residence  in  Ratisbon,  the 
desired  opportunity  of  entangling  the  Emperor  in 
dangerous  intrigues,  of  inflaming  the  discontented 
princes  of  the  League  still  more  strongly  against 
him,  and  of  turning  to  his  disadvantage  all  the 
transactions  of  the  Diet.  For  this  purpose  Riche¬ 
lieu  had  chosen  an  admirable  instrument  in 
Father  Joseph,  a  Capuchin  friar,  who  accompa¬ 
nied  the  ambassadors  without  exciting  the  least 
suspicion.  One  of  his  principal  instructions  was 
assiduously  to  bring  about  the  dismissal  of  Wal¬ 
lenstein.  With  the  general  who  had  led  it  to 
victory,  the  army  of  Austria  would  lose  its  prin¬ 
cipal  strength  ;  many  armies  could  not  compen¬ 
sate  for  the  loss  of  this  individual.  It  would 
therefore  be  a  master-stroke  of  policy,  at  the  very 
moment  when  a  victorious  monarch,  the  absolute 
master  of  his  operations,  was  arming  against  the 
Emperor,  to  remove  from  the  head  of  the  impe¬ 
rial  armies  the  only  general  who,  by  ability  and 
military  experience,  was  able  to  cope  with  the 
French  king.  Father  Joseph,  in  the  interests  of 
Bavaria,  undertook  to  overcome  the  irresolution 
of  the  Emperor,  who  was  now  in  a  manner  be¬ 
sieged  by  the  Spaniards  and  the  Electoral  Coun¬ 
cil.  “It  would  be  expedient,”  he  thought,  “to 
gratify  the  Electors  on  this  occasion,  and  thereby 
facilitate  his  son’s  election  to  the  Roman  Crown. 
The  object  once  gained,  Wallenstein  could  at  any 
time  resume  his  former  station.”  The  artful  Ca¬ 
puchin  was  too  sure  of  his  man  to  touch  upon 
this  ground  of  consolation. 

The  voice  of  a  monk  was  to  Ferdinand  II.  the 
voice  of  God.  “Nothing  on  earth,”  writes  his 
own  confessor,  “was  more  sacred  in  his  eyes  than 
a  priest.  If  it  could  happen,  he  used  to  say,  that 
an  angel  and  a  Regular  were  to  meet  him  at  the 
same  time  and  place,  the  Regular  should  receive 
his  first,  and  the  angel  his  second  obeisance.” 
Wallenstein’s  dismissal  was  determined  upon. 

In  return  for  this  pious  concession,  the  Capu¬ 
chin  dexterously  counteracted  the  Emperor’s 
scheme  to  procure  for  the  King  of  Hungary  the 
further  dignity  of  King  of  the  Romans.  In  an 
express  clause  of  the  treaty  just  concluded,  the 
French  ministers  engaged,  in  the  name  of  their 
sovereign,  to  observe  a  complete  neutrality  be¬ 
tween  the  Emperor  and  his  enemies;  while,  at 
the  same  time,  Richelieu  was  actually  negotiating 
with  the  King  of  Sweden  to  declare  war,  and 
pressing  upon  him  the  alliance  of  his  master. 
The  latter,  indeed,  disavowed  the  lie  as  soon  as  it 
had  served  its  purpose,  and  Father  Joseph,  con¬ 
fined  to  a  convent,  must  atone  for  the  alleged  of¬ 
fense  of  exceeding  his  instructions.  Ferdi¬ 
nand  perceived,  when  too  late,  that  he  had  been 
imposed  upon.  “  A  wicked  Capuchin,”  he  was 
heard  to  say,  “  has  disarmed  me  with  his  rosary, 
and  thrust  nothing  less  than  six  electoral  crowns 
into  his  coivl.” 

Artifice  and  trickery  thus  triumphed  over  the 
Emperor,  at  the  moment  when  he  was  believed  to 
be  omnipotent  in  Germany,  and  actually  was  so 
in  the  field.  With  the  loss  of  eighteen  thousand 


men,  and  of  a  general  who  alone  was  worth  whole 
armies,  he  left  Ratisbon  without  gaining  the  end 
for  which  he  had  made  such  sacrifices.  Before 
the  Swedes  had  vanquished  him  in  the  field, 
Maximilian  of  Bavaria  and  Father  Joseph  had 
given  him  a  mortal  blow.  At  this  memorable 
Diet  at  Ratisbon,  the  war  with  Sweden  was  re¬ 
solved  upon,  and  that  of  Mantua  terminated. 
Vainly  had  the  princes  present  at  it  interceded 
for  the  Dukes  of  Mecklenburg ;  and  equally 
fruitless  had  been  an  application  by  the  English 
ambassadors  for  a  pension  to  the  Palatine  Fred¬ 
erick. 

Wallenstein  was  at  the  head  of  an  army  of 
nearly  a  hundred  thousand  men  who  adored  him, 
when  the  sentence  of  his  dismissal  arrived.  Most 
of  the  officers  were  his  creatures  : — with  the  com¬ 
mon  soldiers  his  hint  was  law.  His  ambition  was 
boundless,  his  pride  indomitable,  his  imperious 
spirit  could  not  brook  an  injury  unavenged.  One 
moment  would  now  precipitate  him  from  the 
height  of  grandeur  into  the  obscurity  of  a  pri¬ 
vate  station.  To  execute  such  a  sentence  upon 
such  a  delinquent  seemed  to  require  more  address 
than  it  cost  to  obtain  it  from  the  judge.  Accord¬ 
ingly,  two  of  Wallenstein’s  most  intimate  friends 
were  selected  as  heralds  of  these  evil  tidings,  and 
instructed  to  soften  them  as  much  as  possible,  by 
flattering  assurances  of  the  continuance  of  the 
Emperor’s  favor. 

Wallenstein  had  ascertained  the  purport  of 
their  message  before  the  imperial  ambassadors 
arrived.  He  had  time  to  collect  himself,  and  his 
countenance  exhibited  an  external  calmness,  while 
grief  and  rage  were  storming  in  his  bosom.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  obey.  The  Emperor’s 
decision  had  taken  him  by  surprise  before  circum¬ 
stances  were  ripe,  or  his  preparations  complete, 
for  the  bold  measures  he  had  contemplated.  His 
extensive  estates  were  scattered  over  Bohemia 
and  Moravia;  and  by  their  confiscation,  the  Em¬ 
peror  might  at  once  destroy  the  sinews  of  his 
power.  He  looked,  therefore,  to  the  future  for 
revenge  ;  and  in  this  hope  he  was  encouraged  by 
the  predictions  of  an  Italian  astrologer,  who  led 
his  imperious  spirit  like  a  child  in  leading-strings. 
Seni  had  read  in  the  stars,  that  his  master’s  bril¬ 
liant  career  was  not  yet  ended ;  and  that  bright 
and  glorious  prospects  still  awaited  him.  It  was, 
indeed,  unnecessary  to  consult  the  stars  to  foretell 
that  an  enemy,  Gustavus  Adolphus,  would  ere 
long  render  indispensable  the  services  of  such  a 
general  as  Wallenstein. 

“The  Emperor  is  betrayed,”  said  Wallenstein 
to  the  messengers  ;  “  I  pity  but  forgive  him.  It 
is  plain  that  the  grasping  spirit  of  the  Bavarian 
dictates  to  him.  I  grieve  that,  with  so  much 
weakness,  he  has  sacrificed  me,  but  I  will  obey.” 
He  dismissed  the  emissaries  with  princely  pre¬ 
sents  ;  and  in  a  humble  letter  besought  the  con¬ 
tinuance  of  the  Emperor’s  favor,  and  of  the  dig¬ 
nities  he  had  bestowed  upon  him. 

The  murmurs  of  the  army  were  universal,  on 
hearing  of  the  dismissal  of  their  general ;  and  the 
greater  part  of  his  officers  immediately  quitted 
the  imperial  service.  Many  followed  him  to  hi? 
estates  in  Bohemia  and  Moravia ;  others  he  at- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


167 


tached  to  his  interests  oj  pensions,  in  order  to 
command  their  services  when  the  opportunity 
should  offer. 

But  repose  was  the  last  thing  that  Wallenstein 
contemplated  when  he  returned  to  private  life  , 
In  his  retreat,  he  surrounded  himself  with  a  rega* 
pomp,  which  seemed  to  mock  the  sentence  of  deg¬ 
radation.  Six  gates  led  to  the  palace  he  inhabited 
in  Prague,  and  a  hundred  houses  were  pulled  down 
to  make  way  for  his  courtyard.  Similar  palaces 
were  built  on  his  other  numerous  estates.  Gen¬ 
tlemen  of  the  noblest  houses  contended  for  the 
honor  of  serving  him,  and  even  imperial  chamber¬ 
lains  resigned  the  golden  key  to  the  Emperor,  to 
fill  a  similar  office  under  Wallenstein.  He  main¬ 
tained  sixty  pages,  who  were  instructed  by  the 
ablest  masters.  His  antechamber  was  protected 
by  fifty  life-guards.  His  table  never  consisted  of 
less  than  one  hundred  covers,  and  his  seneschal 
was  a  person  of  distinction.  When  he  traveled, 
his  baggage  and  suite  accompanied  him  in  a  hun¬ 
dred  wagons,  drawn  by  six  or  four  horses ;  his 
court  followed  in  sixty  carriages,  attended  by  fifty 
led  horses.  The  pomp  of  his  liveries,  the  splendor 
of  his  equipages,  and  the  decorations  of  his  apart¬ 
ments,  were  in  keeping  with  all  the  rest.  Six 
barons  and  as  many  knights,  -were  in  constant  at¬ 
tendance  upon  his  person,  and  ready  to  execute 
his  slightest  order.  Twelve  patrols  went  their 
rounds  about  his  palace,  to  prevent  any  disturb¬ 
ance.  His  busy  genius  required  silence.  The 
noise  of  coaches  was  to  be  kept  away  from  his 
residence,  and  the  streets  leading  to  it  were  fre¬ 
quently  blocked  with  chains.  His  own  circle  was 
as  silent  as  the  approaches  to  his  palace ;  dark, 
reserved,  and  impenetrable,  he  was  more  sparing 
of  his  words  than  of  his  gifts :  while  the  little 
that  he  spoke  was  harsh  and  imperious.  He 
never  smiled,  and  the  coldness  of  his  temperament 
was  proof  against  sensual  seductions.  Ever  oc¬ 
cupied  with  grand  schemes,  he  despised  all  those 
idle  amusements  in  which  so  many  waste  their 
lives.  The  correspondence  he  kept  up  with  the 
whole  of  Europe  was  chiefly  managed  by  himself, 
and,  that  as  little  as  possible  might  be  trusted  to 
the  silence  of  others,  most  of  the  letters  were 
written  by  his  own  hand.  He  was  a  man  of  large 
stature,  thin,  of  a  sallow  complexion,  with  short 
red  hair,  and  small  sparkling  eyes.  A  gloomy 
and  forbidding  seriousness  sat  upon  his  brow ;  and 
his  magnificent  presents  alone  retained  the  trem¬ 
bling  crowd  of  his  dependents. 

In  this  stately  obscurity  did  Wallenstein  si¬ 
lently,  but  not  inactively,  await  the  hour  of  re¬ 
venge.  The  victorious  career  of  Gnstavus  Adol¬ 
phus  soon  gave  him  a  presentiment  of  its  ap¬ 
proach.  Not  one  of  his  lofty  schemes  had  been 
abandoned  ;  and  the  Emperor’s  ingratitude  had 
loosened  the  curb  of  his  ambition.  The  dazzling 
splendor  of  his  private  life  bespoke  high  soaring 
projects  ;  and,  lavish  as  a  king,  he  seemed  already 
to  reckon  among  his  certain  possessions  those 
which  he  contemplated  with  hope. 

After  Wallenstein’s  dismissal,  and  the  invasion 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  a  new  generalissimo  was 
to  be  appointed ;  and  it  now  appeared  advisable 
to  unite  both  the  imperial  army  and  that  of  the 
League  under  one  general.  Maximilian  of  Bava¬ 


ria  sought  this  appointment,  which  would  have 
enabled  him  to  dictate  to  the  Emperor,  who,  from 
a  conviction  of  this,  wished  to  procure  the  com¬ 
mand  for  his  eldest  son,  the  King  of  Hungary, 
i  At  last,  in  order  to  avoid  offense  to  either  of  the 
competitors,  the  appointment  was  given  to  Tilly, 
who  now  exchanged  the  Bavarian  for  the  Austrian 
service.  The  imperial  army  in  Germany,  after  the 
retirement  of  Wallenstein,  amounted  to  about 
forty  thousand  men  ;  that  of  the  League  to  nearly 
the  same  number,  both  commanded  by  excellent 
officers,  trained  by  the  experience  of  several  cam¬ 
paigns,  and  proud  of  a  long  series  of  victories. 
With  such  a  force,  little  apprehension  was  felt  at 
the  invasion  of  the  King  of  Sweden,  and  the  less 
so  as  it  commanded  both  Pomerania  and  Meck¬ 
lenburg,  the  only  countries  through  which  he 
could  enter  Germany. 

After  the  unsuccessful  attempt  of  the  King  of 
Denmark  to  check  the  Emperor’s  progress,  Gus¬ 
tavus  Adolphus  was  the  only  prince  in  Europe 
from  whom  oppressed  liberty  could  look  for  pro¬ 
tection — the  only  one  who,  while  he  was  person¬ 
ally  qualified  to  conduct  such  an  enterprise,  had 
both  political  motives  to  recommend  and  wrongs 
to  justify  it.  Before  the  commencement  of  the 
war  in  Lower  Saxony,  important  political  inter¬ 
ests  induced  him,  as  well  as  the  King  of  Den¬ 
mark,  to  offer  his  services  and  his  army  for  the 
defense  of  Germany  ;  but  the  offer  of  the  latter 
had,  to  his  own  misfortune,  been  preferred.  Since 
that  time,  Wallenstein  and  the  Emperor  had 
adopted  measures  which  must  have  been  equally 
offensive  to  him  as  a  man  and  as  a  king.  Impe¬ 
rial  troops  had  been  dispatched  to  the  aid  of  the 
Polish  king,  Sigismund,  to  defend  Prussia  against 
the  Swedes.  When  the  king  complained  to  Wal¬ 
lenstein  of  this  act  of  hostility,  he  received  for 
answer,  “The  Emperor  has  more  soldiers  than  he 
wants  for  himself,  he  must  help  his  friends.”  The 
Swedish  ambassadors  had  been  insolently  ordered 
by  Wallenstein  to  withdraw  from  the  conference 
at  Lubeck  ;  and  when,  unawed  by  this  command, 
they  were  courageous  enough  to  remain,  contrary 
to  the  law  of  nations,  he  had  threatened  them  with 
violence.  Ferdinand  had  also  insulted  the  Swe¬ 
dish  flag,  and  intercepted  the  king’s  dispatches  to 
Transylvania.  He  also  threw  every  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  a  peace  betwixt  Poland  and  Sweden, 
supported  the  pretensions  of  Sigismund  to  the 
Swedish  throne,  and  denied  the  right  of  Gustavus 
to  the  title  of  king.  Deigning  no  regard  to  the 
repeated  remonstrances  of  Gustavus,  he  rather 
aggravated  the  offense  by  new  grievances,  than 
acceded  to  the  required  satisfaction. 

So  many  personal  motives,  supported  by  im¬ 
portant  considerations,  both  of  policy  and  reli¬ 
gion,  and  seconded  by  pressing  invitations  from 
Germany,  had  their  full  weight  with  a  prince,  who 
was  naturally  the  more  jealous  of  his  royal  pre¬ 
rogative  the  more  it  was  questioned,  who  was 
flattered  by  the  glory  he  hoped  to  gain  as  Pro¬ 
tector  of  the  oppressed,  and  passionately  loved 
war  as  the  element  of  his  genius.  But,  until  a 
truce  or  peace  with  Poland  should  set  his  hands 
free,  a  new  and  daugerous  war  was  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

Cardinal  Richelieu  had  the  merit  of  effecting 


168 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS7  WAR. 


this  truce  with  Poland.  This  great  statesman, 
who  guided  the  helm  of  Europe,  while  in  France 
he  repressed  the  rage  of  faction  and  the  insolence 
of  the  nobles,  pursued  steadily,  amidst  the  cares 
of  a  stormy  administration,  his  plan  of  lowering  the 
ascendency  of  the  House  of  Austria.  But  cir¬ 
cumstances  opposed  considerable  obstacles  to  the 
execution  of  his  designs;  and  even  the  greatest 
minds  cannot,  with  impunity,  defy  the  prejudices 
of  the  age.  The  minister  of  a  Roman  Catholic 
king,  and  a  Cardinal,  he  was  prevented  by  the 
purple  he  bore  from  joining  the  enemies  of  that 
church  in  an  open  attack  on  a  power  which  had 
the  address  to  sanctify  its  ambitious  encroach¬ 
ments  under  the  name  of  religion.  The  external 
deference  which  Richelieu  was  obliged  to  pay  to 
the  narrow  views  of  his  cotemporaries  limited 
his  exertions  to  secret  negotiations,  by  which  he 
endeavored  to  gain  the  hand  of  others  to  accom¬ 
plish  the  enlightened  projects  of  his  own  mind. 
After  a  fruitless  attempt  to  prevent  the  peace 
between  Denmark  and  the  Emperor,  he  had  re¬ 
course  to  Gustavus  Adolphus,  the  hero  of  his  age. 
No  exertion  was  spared  to  bring  this  monarch  to 
a  favorable  decision,  and  at  the  same  time  to  faci¬ 
litate  the  execution  of  it.  Charnasse,  an  unsus¬ 
pected  agent  of  the  Cardinal,  proceeded  to  Polish 
Prussia,  where  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  conduct¬ 
ing  the  war  against  Sigismund,  and  alternately 
visited  these  princes,  in  order  to  persuade  them 
to  a  truce  or  peace.  Gustavus  had  been  long  in¬ 
clined  to  it,  and  the  French  minister  succeeded 
at  last  in  opening  the  eyes  of  Sigismund  to  his 
true  interests,  and  to  the  deceitful  policy  of  the 
Emperor.  A  truce  for  six  years  was  agreed  on, 
Gustavus  being  allowed  to  retain  all  his  con¬ 
quests.  This  treaty  gave  him  also  what  he  had 
so  long  desired,  the  liberty  of  directing  his  arms 
against  the  Emperor.  For  this  the  French  am¬ 
bassador  offered  him  the  alliance  of  his  sovereign 
and  considerable  subsidies.  But  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  was  justly  apprehensive  lest  the  acceptance 
of  the  assistance  should  make  him  dependent  upon 
France,  and  fetter  him  in  his  career  of  conquest, 
while  an  alliance  with  a  Roman  Catholic  power 
might  excite  distrust  among  the  Protestants. 

If  the  war  was  just  and  necessary,  the  circum¬ 
stances  under  which  it  was  undertaken  were  not 
less  promising.  The  name  of  the  Emperor,  it  is 
true,  was  formidable,  his  resources  inexhaustible, 
his  power  hitherto  invincible.  So  dangerous  a 
contest  would  have  dismayed  any  other  than  Gus¬ 
tavus.  He  saw  all  the  obstacles  and  dangers 
which  opposed  his  undertaking,  but  he  knew  also 
the  means  by  which,  as  he  hoped,  they  might  be 
conquered.  His  army,  though  not  numerous,  was 
well  disciplined,  inured  to  hardship  by  a  severe 
climate  and  campaigns,  and  trained  to  victory  in 
the  war  with  Poland.  Sweden,  though  poor  in 
men  and  money,  and  overtaxed  by  an  eight  years’ 
war,  was  devoted  to  its  monarch  with  an  enthusi¬ 
asm  which  assured  him  of  the  ready  support  of 
his  subjects.  In  Germany,  the  name  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  was  at  least  as  much  hated  as  feared.  The 
Protestant  princes  only  awaited  the  arrival  of  a 
deliverer  to  throw  off  his  intolerable  yoke,  and 
openly  declare  for  the  Swedes.  Even  the  Roman 
Catholic  states  would  welcome  an  antagonist  to 


the  Emperor,  whose  opposition  might  control  his 
overwhelming  influence.  The  first  victory  gained 
on  German  ground  would  be  decisive.  It  would 
encourage  those  princes  who  still  hesitated  to  de¬ 
clare  themselves,  strengthen  the  cause  of  his  adhe¬ 
rents,  augment  his  troops,  and  open  resources  for 
the  maintenance  of  the  campaign.  If  the  greater 
part  of  the  German  states  were  impoverished  by 
oppression,  the  flourishing  Hanse  towns  had  es« 
caped,  and  they  could  not  hesitate,  by  a  small 
voluntary  sacrifice,  to  avert  the  general  ruin.  As 
the  imperialists  should  be  driven  from  the  different 
provinces,  their  armies  would  diminish,  since  they 
were  subsisting  on  the  countries  in  which  they 
were  encamped.  The  strength,  too,  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  had  been  lessened  by  ill-timed  detachments 
to  Italy  and  the  Netherlands  ;  while  Spain,  wea¬ 
kened  by  the  loss  of  the  Manilla  galleons,  and 
engaged  in  a  serious  war  in  the  Netherlands,  could 
afford  him  little  support.  Great  Britain,  on  the 
other  hand,  gave  the  King  of  Sweden  hope  of 
considerable  subsidies  ;  and  France,  now  at  peace 
with  itself,  came  forward  with  the  most  favorable 
offers. 

But  the  strongest  pledge  for  the  success  of  his 
undertaking  Gustavus  found — in  himself.  Pru¬ 
dence  demanded  that  he  should  embrace  all  the 
foreign  assistance  he  could,  in  order  to  guard  his 
enterprise  from  the  imputation  of  rashness ;  but 
all  his  confidence  and  courage  were  entirely  de¬ 
rived  from  himself.  He  was  indisputably  the 
greatest  general  of  his  age,  and  the  bravest  sol¬ 
dier  in  the  army  which  he  had  formed.  Familiar 
with  the  tactics  of  Greece  and  Rome,  he  had 
discovered  a  more  effective  system  of  waVfare, 
which  was  adopted  as  a  model  by  the  most  emi¬ 
nent  commanders  of  subsequent  times.  He  re¬ 
duced  the  unwieldy  squadrons  of  cavalry,  and 
rendered  their  movements  more  light  and  rapid  ; 
and,  with  the  same  view,  he  widened  the  intervals 
between  his  battalions.  Instead  of  the  usual  ar¬ 
ray  in  a  single  line,  he  disposed  his  forces  in  two 
lines,  that  the  second  might  advance  in  the  event 
of  the  first  giving  way. 

He  made  up  for  his  want  of  cavalry  by  placing 
infantry  among  the  horse  ;  a  practice  which  fre¬ 
quently  decided  the  victory.  Europe  first  learned 
from  him  the  importance  of  infantry.  All  Ger¬ 
many  was  astonished  at  the  strict  discipline 
which,  at  the  first,  so  creditably  distinguished  the 
Swedish  army  within  their  territories  ;  all  dis¬ 
orders  were  punished  with  the  utmost  severity, 
particularly  impiety,  theft,  gambling,  and  duelling, 
The  Swedish  articles  of  war  enforced  frugality 
in  the  camp,  the  King’s  tent  not  excepted. 
Neither  silver  nor  gold  was  to  be  seen.  The 
general’s  eye  looked  as  vigilantly  to  the  morals  as 
to  the  martial  bravery  of  his  soldiers  ;  every 
regiment  was  ordered  to  form  around  its  chaplain 
for  morning  and  evening  prayers.  In  all  these 
points  the  lawgiver  was  also  an  example.  A 
sincere  and  ardent  piety  exalted  his  courage. 
Equally  free  from  the  coarse  infidelity  which 
leaves  the  passions  of  the  barbarian  without 
control, — and  from  the  groveling  superstition  of 
Ferdinand,  who  humbled  himself  to  the  dust 
before  the  Supreme  Being,  while  he  haughtily 
trampled  on  his  fellow-creature — in  the  height 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR.  169 


of  his  success  he  was  ever  a  man  and  a  Christian 
. — in  the  height  of  his  devotion,  a  king  and  a  hero. 
The  hardships  of  war  he  shared  with  the  meanest 
soldier  in  his  army ;  maintained  a  calm  serenity 
amidst  the  hottest  fury  of  battle  ;  his  glance  was 
omnipresent,  and  he  intrepidly  forgot  the  danger 
while  he  exposed  himself  to  the  greatest  peril. 
His  natural  courage,  indeed,  too  often  forgot  the 
duty  of  a  general  ;  and  the  life  of  a  king  ended  in 
the  death  of  a  common  soldier.  But  such  a 
leader  was  followed  to  victory  alike  by  the  coward 
and  the  brave,  and  his  eagle  glance  marked  every 
heroic  deed  which  his  example  had  inspired. 
The  fame  of  their  sovereign  excited  in  the 
nation  an  enthusiastic  sense  of  their  own  import¬ 
ance  ;  proud  of  their  king,  the  peasant  in  Finland 
and  Gothland  joyfully  contributed  his  pittance  ; 
the  soldier  willingly  shed  his  blood  ;  and  the  lofty 
energy  which  his  single  mind  had  imparted  to  the 
nation  long  survived  its  creator. 

The  necessity  of  the  war  was  acknowledged, 
but  the  best  plan  of  conducting  it  was  a  matter 
of  much  question.  Even  to  the  bold  Chancellor 
Oxenstiern,  an  offensive  war  appeared  too  daring 
a  measure ;  the  resources  of  his  poor  and  con¬ 
scientious  master,  appeared  to  him  too  slender  to 
compete  with  those  of  a  despotic  sovereign,  who 
held  all  Germany  at  his  command.  But  the  minis¬ 
ter’s  timid  scruples  were  overruled  by  the  hero’s 
penetrating  prudence.  “  If  we  await  the  enemy 
in  Sweden,”  said  Gustavus,  “in  the  event  of  a 
defeat  every  thing  would  be  lost;  by  a  fortunate 
commencement  in  Germany  every  thing  would  be 
gained.  The  sea  is  wide,  and  we  have  a  long  line 
of  coast  in  Sweden  to  defend.  If  the  enemy’s 
fleet  should  escape  us,  or  our  own  be  defeated, 
it  would,  in  either  case,  be  impossible  to  prevent 
the  enemy’s  landing.  Every  thing  depends  on  the 
retention  of  Stralsund.  So  long  as  this  harbor  is 
open  to  us,  we  shall  both  command  the  Baltic, 
and  secure  a  retreat  from  Germany.  But  to  pro¬ 
tect  this  port,  we  must  not  remain  in  Sweden,  but 
advance  at  once  into  Pomerania,  Let  us  talk  no 
more,  then,  of  a  defensive  war,  by  which  we  should 
sacrifice  our  greatest  advantages.  Sweden  must 
not  be  doomed  to  behold  a  hostile  banner  ;  if  we 
are  vanquished  in  Germany  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  follow  your  plan.” 

Gustavus  resolved  to  cross  the  Baltic  and 
attack  the  Emperor.  His  preparations  were 
made  with  the  utmost  expedition,  and  his  pre¬ 
cautionary  measures  were  not  less  prudent  than 
the  resolution  itself  was  bold  and  magnanimous. 
Before  engaging  in  so  distant  a  war,  it  was  ne¬ 
cessary  to  secure  Sweden  against  its  neighbors. 
At  a  personal  interview  with  the  King  of  Den¬ 
mark  at  Markaroed,  Gustavus  assured  himself  of 
the  friendship  of  that  monarch  ;  his  frontier  on 
the  side  of  Moscow  was  well  guarded  ;  Poland 
might  be  held  in  check  from  Germanv,  if  it  be- 
trayed  any  design  of  infringing  the  truce.  Fal- 
kenberg,  a  Swedish  ambassador,  who  visited  the 
courts  of  Holland  and  Germany,  obtained  the 
most  flattering  promises  from  several  Protestant 
princes,  though  none  of  them  possessed  courage 
or  self-devotion  enough  to  enter  into  a  formal  al¬ 
liance  with  him.  Lubeck  and  Hamburg  engaged 
to  advance  him  money,  and  to  accept  Swedish 


copper  in  return.  Emissaries  were  also  dis¬ 
patched  to  the  Prince  of  Transylvania,  to  excite 
that  implacable  enemy  of  Austria  to  arms. 

In  the  mean  time,  Swedish  levies  were  made  ic 
Germany  and  the  Netherlands,  the  regiments  in-, 
creased  to  their  full  complement,  new  ones  raised, 
transports  provided,  a  fleet  fitted  out,  provisions, 
military  stores,  and  money  collected.  Thirty 
ships  of  war  were  in  a  short  time  prepared,  15,000 
men  equipped,  and  two  hundred  transports  were 
ready  to  convey  them  across  the  Baltic.  A 
greater  force  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  unwilling 
to  carrv  into  Germanv,  and  even  the  maintenance 
of  this  exceeded  the  revenues  of  his  kingdom. 
But  however  small  his  army,  it  was  admirable  in 
all  points  of  discipline,  courage, and  experience,  and 
might  serve  as  the  nucleus  of  a  more  powerful  ar¬ 
mament,  if  it  once  gained  the  German  frontier, 
and  its  first  attempts  were  attended  with  success. 
Oxenstiern,  at  once  general  and  chancellor,  was 
posted  with  10,000  men  in  Prussia,  to  protect  that 
province  against  Poland.  Some  regular  troops, 
and  a  considerable  body  of  militia,  which  served 
as  a  nursery  for  the  main  body,  remained  in 
Sweden,  as  a  defense  against  a  sudden  incursion 
by  any  treacherous  neighbor. 

These  were  the  measures  taken  for  the  external 
defense  of  the  kingdom.  Its  internal  administra¬ 
tion  was  provided  for  with  equal  care.  The 
government  was  intrusted  to  the  Council  of  State, 
and  the  finances  to  the  Palatine, 'John  Casimir, 
the  brother-in-law  of  the  King,  while  his  wife, 
tenderly  as  he  was  attached  to  her,  was  excluded 
from  all  share  in  the  government,  for  which  her 
limited  talents  incapacitated  her.  He  set  his 
house  in  order  like  a  dying  man.  On  the  20th 
May,  1630,  when  all  his  measures  were  arranged, 
and  all  was  ready  for  his  departure,  the  King  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  Diet  at  Stockholm,  to  bid  the  States 
a  solemn  farewell.  Taking  in  his  arms  his  daugh¬ 
ter  Christina,  then  only  four  years  old,  who,  in  the 
cradle,  had  been  acknowledged  as  his  successor, 
he  presented  her  to  the  States  as  the  future  sove¬ 
reign,  exacted  from  them  a  renewal  of  the  oath 
of  allegiance  to  her,  in  case  he  should  never  more 
return  ;  and  then  read  the  ordinances  for  the 
government  of  the  kingdom  during  his  absence, 
or  the  minority  of  his  daughter.  The  whole  as¬ 
sembly  was  dissolved  in  tears,  and  the  King  him¬ 
self  was  some  time  before  he  could  attain  sufficient 
composure  to  deliver  his  farewell  address  to  the 
States. 

“Not  lightly  or  wantonly,”  said  he,  “am  I 
about  to  involve  myself  and  you  in  this  new  and 
dangerous  war  :  God  is  my  witness  that  I  do  not 
fight  to  gratify  my  own  ambition.  But  the  Em¬ 
peror  has  wronged  me  most  shamefully  in  the 
person  of  my  ambassador.  He  has  supported  my 
enemies,  persecuted  my  friends  and  brethren, 
trampled  my  religion  in  the  dust,  and  even 
stretched  his  revengeful  arm  against  my  crown. 
The  oppressed  states  of  Germany  call  loudly  for 
aid,  which,  by  God’s  help,  we  will  give  them. 

“  I  am  fully  sensible  of  the  dangers  to  which 
my  life  will  be  exposed.  I  have  never  yet  shrunk 
from  them,  nor  is  it  likely  that  I  shall  escape  them 
all.  Hitherto,  Providence  has  wonderfully  pro¬ 
tected  me,  but  I  shall  at  least  fall  in  defense  of  my 


170 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


country.  I  commend  you  to  the  protection  of 
Heaven,  he  just,  be  conscientious,  act  uprightly, 
and  we  shall  meet  again  in  eternity. 

“  To  you,  my  Counsellors  of  State,  I  address 
myself  first.  May  God  enlighten  you,  and  fill 
you  with  wisdom,  to  promote  the  welfare  of  my 
people.  You,  too,  my  brave  nobles,  I  commend 
to  the  divine  protection.  Continue  to  prove 
yourselves  the  worthy  successors  of  those  Gothic 
heroes,  whose  bravery  humbled  to  the  dust  the 
pride  of  ancient  Rome.  To  you,  ministers  of  re¬ 
ligion,  I  recommend  moderation  and  unity  ;  be 
yourselves  examples  of  the  virtues  which  you 
preach,  and  abuse  not  your  influence  over  the 
minds  of  my  people.  On  you,  deputies  of  the 
burgesses,  and  the  peasantry,  I  entreat  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  heaven  ;  may  your  industry  be  rewarded  by 
a  prosperous  harvest;  your  stores  plenteously 
filled,  and  may  you  be  crowned  abundantly  with 
all  the  blessings  of  this  life.  For  the  prosperity 
of  all  my  subjects,  absent  and  present,  I  offer  my 
warmest  prayers  to  Heaven.  I  bid  you  all  a  sin¬ 
cere — it  may  be — an  eternal  farewell.” 

The  embarkation  of  the  troops  took  place  at 
Elfsknaben,  where  the  fleet  lay  at  anchor.  An 
immense  concourse  flocked  thither  to  witness  this 
magnificent  spectacle.  The  hearts  of  the  specta¬ 
tors  were  agitated  by  varied  emotions,  as  they 
alternately  considered  the  vastness  of  the  enter¬ 
prise,  and  the  greatness  of  the  leader.  Among 
the  superior  officers  who  commanded  in  this  army 
were  Gustavus  Horn,  the  Rhinegrave  Otto  Lewis, 
Henry  Matthias  Count  Thurn,  Ottenberg,  Bau- 
dissen,  Banner,  Teufel,  Tott,  Mutsenfahl,  Falken- 
berg,  Kniphausen,  and  other  distinguished  names. 
Detained  by  contrary  winds,  the  fleet  did  not  sail 
till  June,  and  on  the  24th  of  that  month  reached 
the  Island  of  Rugen  in  Pomerania. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  was  the  first  who  landed. 
In  the  presence  of  his  suite,  he  knelt  on  the  shore 
of  Germany,  to  return  thanks  to  the  Almighty 
for  the  safe  arrival  of  his  fleet  and  his  army.  He 
landed  his  troops  on  the  Islands  of  Wollin  and 
Usedom;  upon  his  approach,  the  imperial  garri¬ 
sons  abandoned  their  entrenchments  and  fled. 
He  advanced  rapidly  on  Stettin,  to  secure  this 
important  place  before  the  appearance  of  the  Im¬ 
perialists.  Bogislaus  XIV.,  Duke  of  Pomerania, 
a  feeble  and  superannuated  prince,  had  been  long 
tired  out  by  the  outrages  committed  by  the  latter 
within  his  territories ;  but  too  weak  to  resist,  he 
had  contented  himself  with  murmurs.  The  ap¬ 
pearance  of  his  deliverer,  instead  of  animating 
his  courage,  increased  his  fear  and  anxiety.  Se¬ 
verely  as  his  country  had  suffered  from  the  Impe¬ 
rialists,  the  risk  of  incurring  the  Emperor’s  ven¬ 
geance  prevented  him  from  declaring  openly  for 
the  Swedes.  Gustavus  Adolphus,  who  was  en¬ 
camped  under  the  walls  of  the  town,  summoned 
the  city  to  receive  a  Swedish  garrison.  Bogis¬ 
laus  appeared  in  person  in  the  camp  of  Gustavus, 
to  deprecate  this  condition.  “I  come  to  you,” 
said  Gustavus,  “  not  as  an  enemy  but  a  friend.  I 
wage  no  war  against  Pomerania,  nor  against  the 
German  empire,  but  against  the  enemies  of  both. 
In  my  hands  this  duchy  shall  be  sacred  ;  and  it 
shall  be  restored  to  you  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
campaign,  by  me,  with  more  certainty  than  by  any 


other.  Look  to  the  traces  of  the  imperial  force 
within  your  territories,  and  to  mine  in  Usedom  ; 
and  decide  whether  you  will  have  the  Emperor  or 
me  as  your  friend.  What  have  you  to  expect,  if 
the  Emperor  should  make  himself  master  of  your 
capital?  Will  he  deal  with  you  more  leniently 
than  I  ?  Or  is  it  your  intention  to  stop  my  pro¬ 
gress  ?  The  case  is  pressing :  decide  at  Dnce, 
and  do  not  compel  me  to  have  recourse  to  more 
violent  measures.” 

The  alternative  was  a  painful  one.  On  the  one 
side,  the  King  of  Sweden  was  before  his  gates 
with  a  formidable  army  ;  on  the  other,  he  saw  the 
inevitable  vengeance  of  the  Emperor,  and  the 
fearful  example  of  so  many  German  princes,  who 
were  now  wandering  in  misery,  the  victims  of  that 
revenge.  The  more  immediate  danger  decided 
his  resolution.  The  gates  of  Stettin  were  opened 
to  the  king;  the  Swedish  troops  entered;  and 
the  Austrians,  who  were  advancing  by  rapid 
marches,  anticipated.  The  capture  of  this  place 
procured  for  the  king  a  firm  footing  in  Pomera¬ 
nia,  the  command  of  the  Oder,  and  a  magazine 
for  his  troops.  To  prevent  a  charge  of  treachery, 
Bogislaus  was  careful  to  excuse  this  step  to  the 
Emperor  on  the  plea  of  necessity;  but  aware  of 
Ferdinand’s  implacable  disposition,  he  entered 
into  a  close  alliance  with  his  new  protector.  By 
this  league  with  Pomerania,  Gustavus  secured  a 
powerful  friend  in  Germany,  who  covered  his  rear, 
and  maintained  his  communication  with  Sweden. 

As  Ferdinand  was  already  the  aggressor  in 
Prussia.  Gustavus  Adolphus  thought  himself  ab¬ 
solved  from  the  usual  formalities,  and  commenced 
hostilities  without  any  declaration  of  war.  To 
the  other  European  powers,  he  justified  his  con¬ 
duct  in  a  manifesto,  in  which  he  detailed  the 
grounds  which  had  led  him  to  take  up  arms. 
Meanwhile  he  continued  his  progress  in  Pomera¬ 
nia,  while  he  saw  his  army  daily  increasing.  The 
troops  which  had  fought  under  Mansfeld,  Duke 
Christian  of  Brunswick,  the  King  of  Denmark, 
and  Wallenstein,  came  in  crowds,  both  officers 
and  soldiers,  to  join  his  victorious  standard. 

At  the  Imperial  court,  the  invasion  of  the  King 
of  Sweden  at  first  excited  far  less  attention  than 
it  merited.  The  pride  of  Austria,  extravagantly 
elated  by  its  unheard-of  successes,  looked  down 
with  contempt  upon  a  prince,  who,  with  a  handful 
of  men,  came  from  an  obscure  corner  of  Europe, 
and  who  owed  his  past  successes,  as  they  im¬ 
agined,  entirely  to  the  incapacity  of  a  weak  oppo¬ 
nent.  The  depreciatory  representation  which 
Wallenstein  had  artfully  given  of  the  Swedish 
power,  increased  the  Emperor’s  security  ;  for  what 
had  he  to  fear  from  an  enemy  whom  his  general 
undertook  to  drive  with  such  ease  from  Germany? 
Even  the  rapid  progress  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
in  Pomerania,  could  not  entirely  dispel  this  preju¬ 
dice  which  the  mockeries  of  the  courtiers  con¬ 
tinued  to  feed.  He  was  called  in  Vienna  the 
Snow  King,  whom  the  cold  of  the  north  kept  to¬ 
gether,  but  who  would  infallibly  melt  as  he  ad¬ 
vanced  southward.  Even  the  electors  assembled 
in  Ratisbon  disregarded  his  representations ;  and,' 
influenced  by  an  abject  complaisance  to  Ferdi 
nand,  refused  him  even  the  title  of  king.  But 
while  they  mocked  him  in  Ratisbon  and  Vienna, 


2— G.  p.  200, 


2— E.  p.  170, 


I 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


171 


in  Mecklenburg  and  Pomerania,  one  strong  town 
after  another  fell  into  his  hands. 

Notwithstanding  this  contempt,  the  Emperor 
thought  it  proper  to  offer  to  adjust  his  differences 
with  Sweden  by  negotiation,  and  for  that  purpose 
sent  plenipotentiaries  to  Denmark.  But  their  in¬ 
structions  showed  how  little  he  was  in  earnest  in 
these  proposals,  for  he  still  continued  to  refuse  to 
Gustavus  the  title  of  king.  He  hoped  by  this 
means  to  throw  on  the  King  of  Sweden  the  odium 
of  being  the  aggressor,  and  thereby  to  insure  the 
support  of  the  states  of  the  empire.  The  confer¬ 
ence  at  Dantzic  proved,  as  might  have  been  ex¬ 
pected,  fruitless,  and  the  animosity  of  both  parties 
was  increased  to  its  utmost  by  an  intemperate 
correspondence. 

An  imperial  general,  Torquato  Conti,  who  com¬ 
manded  in  Pomerania,  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
made  a  vain  attempt  to  wrest  Stettin  from  the 
Swedes.  The  Imperialists  were  driven  out  from 
one  place  alter  another;  Damm,  Stuttgard,  Ga¬ 
min,  and  Wolgast,  soon  fell  into  the  hands  of 
Gustavus.  To  revenge  himself  upon  the  Duke 
of  Pomerania,  the  imperial  general  permitted  his 
generals,  upon  his  retreat,  to  exercise  every  bar¬ 
barity  on  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  Pomera¬ 
nia,  who  had  already  suffered  but  too  severely 
from  his  avarice.  On  pretense  of  cutting  off  the 
resources  of  the  Swedes,  the  whole  country  was 
laid  waste  and  plundered ;  and  often  when  the 
Imperialists  were  unable  any  longer  to  maintain 
a  place,  it  was  laid  in  ashes,  in  order  to  leave  the 
enemy  nothing  but  ruins.  But  these  barbarities 
only  served  to  place  in  a  more  favorable  light  the 
opposite  conduct  of  the  Swedes,  and  to  win  all 
hearts  to  their  humane  monarch.  The  Swedish 
soldier  paid  for  all  he  required;  no  private  pro¬ 
perty  was  injured  on  his  march.  The  Swedes 
consequently  were  received  with  open  arms  both 
in  town  and  country,  whilst  every  Imperialist  that 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Pomeranian  peasantry 
was  remorselessly  murdered.  Many  Pomeranians 
entered  into  the  service  of  Sweden,  and  the  es¬ 
tates  of  this  exhausted  country  willingly  voted 
the  king  a  contribution  of  100,000  florins. 

Torquato  Conti,  who,  with  all  his/  severity  of 
character,  was  a  consummate  general,  endeavored 
to  render  Stettin  useless  to  the  King  of  Sweden, 
as  he  could  not  deprive  him  of  it.  He  entrenched 
himself  upon  the  Oder,  at  Gartz,  above  Stettin, 
in  order,  by  commanding  that  river,  to  cut  off  the 
water  communication  of  the  town  with  the  rest  of 
Germany.  Nothing  could  induce  him  to  attack 
the  King  of  Sweden,  who  was  his  superior  in 
numbers,  while  the  latter  was  equally  cautious  not 
to  storm  the  strong  entrenchments  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists.  Torquato,  too  deficient  in  troops  and 
money  to  act  upon  the  offensive  against  the  king, 
hoped  by  this  plan  of  operations  to  give  time  for 
Tilly  to  hasten  to  the  defense  of  Pomerania,  and 
then,  in  conjunction  with  that  general,  to  at¬ 
tack  the  Swedes.  Seizing  the  opportunity  of  the 
temporary  absence  of  Gustavus,  he  made  a  sudden 
attempt  upon  Stettin,  but  the  Swedes  were  not 
unprepared  for  him.  A  vigorous  attack  of  the 
Imperialists  was  firmly  repulsed,  and  Torquato 
was  forced  to  retire  with  great  loss.  For  this 
auspicious  commencement  of  the  war,  however, 


Gustavus  was,  it  must  be  owned,  as  much  in¬ 
debted  to  his  good  fortune  as  to  his  military 
talents.  The  imperial  troops  in  Pomerania  had 
been  greatly  reduced  since  Wallenstein^  dis¬ 
missal  ;  moreover,  the  outrages  they  had  com¬ 
mitted  were  now  severely  revenged  upon  them  ; 
wasted  and  exhausted,  the  country  no  longer 
afforded  them  a  subsistence,  All  discipline  was 
at  an  end ;  the  orders  of  the  officers  were  disre¬ 
garded,  while  their  numbers  daily  decreased  by 
desertion,  and  by  a  general  mortality,  which  the 
piercing  cold  of  a  strange  climate  had  produced 
among  them. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  imperial  general 
was  anxious  to  allow  his  troopa  the  repose  of  win¬ 
ter  quarters,  but  he  had  to  do  with  an  enemy  to 
whom  the  climate  of  Germany  had  no  winter. 
Gustavus  had  taken  the  precaution  of  providing 
his  soldiers  with  dresses  of  sheep-skin,  to  enable 
them  to  keep  the  field  even  in  the  most  inclement 
season.  The  imperial  plenipotentiaries,  who  came 
to  treat  with  him  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities,  re¬ 
ceived  this  discouraging  answer :  “  The  Swedes 
are  soldiers  in  winter  as  well  as  in  summer,  and  not 
disposed  to  oppress  the  unfortunate  peasantry. 
The  Imperialists  may  act  as  they  think  proper, 
but  they  need  not  expect  to  remain  undisturbed.” 
Torquato  Conti  soon  after  resigned  a  command,  in 
which  neither  riches  nor  reputation  was  to  begained. 

In  this  inequality  of  the  two  armies,  the  advan¬ 
tage  was  necessarily  on  the  side  of  the  Swedes. 
The  Imperialists  were  incessantly  harassed  in 
their  wdnter  quarters  ;  Greifenhagen,  an  important 
place  upon  the  Oder,  taken  by  storm,  and  the 
towns  of  Gartz  and  Piritzwere  at  last  abandoned 
by  the  enemy.  In  the  whole  of  Pomerania, 
Greifswald,  Deurmin,  and  Colberg  alone  remained 
in  their  hands,  and  these  the  king  made  great 
preparations  to  besiege.  The  enemy  directed 
their  retreat  toward  Brandenburg,  in  which  much 
of  their  artillery  and  baggage,  and  many  prisoners 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  pursuers. 

By  seizing  the  passes  of  Riebnitz  and  Damgar- 
den,  Gustavus  had  opened  a  passage  into  Meck¬ 
lenburg,  whose  inhabitants  were  invited  to  return 
to  their  allegiance  under  their  legitimate  sovereign, 
and  to  expel  the  adherents  of  Wallenstein.  The 
Imperialists,  however,  gained  the  important  town 
of  Rostock  by  stratagem,  and  thus  prevented  the 
further  advance  of  the  king,  who  was  unwilling  to 
divide  his  forces.  The  exiled  dukes  of  Mecklen¬ 
burg  had  ineffectually  employed  the  princes  as¬ 
sembled  at  Ratisbon  to  intercede  with  the  Empe¬ 
ror  :  in  vain  they  had  endeavored  to  soften  Ferdi¬ 
nand,  by  renouncing  the  alliance  of  the  king,  and 
every  idea  of  resistance.  But,  driven  to  despair 
by  the  Emperor’s  inflexibility,  they  openly  espoused 
the  side  of  Sweden,  and  raising  troops,  gave  the 
command  of  them  to  Francis  Charles  Duke  of 
Saxe-Lauenburg.  That  general  made  himself 
master  of  several  strong  places  on  the  Elbe,  but 
lost  them  afterward  to  the  Imperial  General  Pap- 
penheim,  who  was  dispatched  to  oppose  him. 
Soon  afterward,  besieged  by  the  latter  in  the 
town  of  Ratzeburg,  he  was  compelled  to  surren¬ 
der  with  all  his  troops.  Thus  ended  the  attempt 
which  these  unfortunate  princes  made  to  recover 
their  territories  ;  and  it  was  reserved  for  the  vie- 


172 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


toriousarm  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  to  render  them 
that  brilliant  service. 

The  Imperialists  had  thrown  themselves  into 
Brandenburg,  which  now  became  the  theatre  of 
the  most  barbarons  atrocities.  These  outrages 
were  inflicted  upon  the  subjects  of  a  prince  who 
had  never  injured  the  Emperor,  and  whom,  more¬ 
over,  he  was  at  the  very  time  fb citing  to  take  up 
arms  against  the  King  of  Sweden.  The  sight  of 
the  disorders  of  their  soldiers,  which  want  of  mo¬ 
ney  compelled  them  to  wink  at,  and  of  authority 
over  their  troops,  excited  the  disgust  even  of  the 
imperial  generals  ;  and,  from  very  shame,  their 
commander-in-chief,  Count  Schaumjourg,  wished 
to  resign. 

Without  a  sufficient  force  to  protect  his  terri¬ 
tories,  and  left  by  the  Emperor,  in  spite  of  the 
most  pressing  remonstrances,  without  assistance, 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  at  last  issued  an 
edict,  ordering  his  subjects  to  repel  force  by  force, 
and  to  put  to  death  without  mercy  every  Imperial 
soldier  who  should  henceforth  be  detected  in 
plundering.  To  such  a  height  had  the  violence 
of  outrage  and  the  misery  of  the  government  risen, 
that  nothing  was  left  to  the  sovereign,  but  the 
desperate  extremity  of  sanctioning  private  ven¬ 
geance  by  a  formal  law. 

The  Swedes  had  pursued  the  Imperialists  into 
Brandenburg;  but  the  Elector’s  refusal  to  open 
to  him  the  fortress  of  Custrin  for  his  march, 
obliged  the  king  to  lay  aside  his  design  of  besieg¬ 
ing  Frankfort  on  the  Oder.  He  therefore  returned 
to  complete  the  conquest  of  Pomerania,  by  the 
capture  of  Deinmin  and  Colberg.  In  the  mean 
time,  Field-Marshal  Tilly  was  advancing  to  the 
defense  of  Brandenburg. 

This  general,  who  could  boast  as  yet  of  never 
having  suffered  a  defeat,  the  conqueror  of  Matis- 
feld,  of  Duke  Christian  of  Brunswick,  of  the  Mar¬ 
grave  of  Baden,  and  the  King  of  Denmark,  was 
nowin  the  Swedish  monarch  to  meet  an  opponent 
worthy  of  his  fame.  Descended  of  a  noble  family 
in  Liege,  Tilly  had  formed  his  military  talents  in 
the  wars  of  the  Netherlands,  which  was  then  the 
great  school  for  generals.  He  soon  found  an  op- 
ortunity  of  distinguishing  himself  under  Rodolph 
I.  in  Hungary,  where  he  rapidly  rose  from  one 
step  to  another.  After  the  peace,  he  entered 
into  the  service  of  Maximilian  of  Bavaria,  who 
made  him  commander-in-chief  with  absolute  pow¬ 
ers.  Here,  by  his  excellent  regulations,  he  was 
the  founder  of  the  Bavarian  army  ;  and  to  him, 
chiefly,  Maximilian  was  indebted  for  his  superiority 
in  the  field.  Upon  the  termination  of  the  Bohe¬ 
mian  war,  he  was  appointed  commander  of  the 
troops  of  the  League  ;  and,  after  Wallenstein’s 
dismissal,  generalissimo  of  the  imperial  armies. 
Equally  stern  toward  his  soldiers  and  implacable 
toward  his  enemies,  and  as  gloomy  and  impene¬ 
trable  as  Wallenstein,  he  was  greatly  his  superior 
jn  probity  and  disinterestedness.  A  bigoted  zeal 
for  religion,  and  a  bloody  spirit  of  persecution, 
co-operated  with  the  natural  ferocity  of  his  cha¬ 
racter,  to  make  him  the  terror  of  the  Protestants. 
A  strange  and  terrific  aspect  bespoke  his  charac¬ 
ter :  of  low  stature,  thin,  with  hollow  cheeks,  a 
long  nose,  a  broad  and  wrinkled  forehead,  large 
whiskers,  and  a  pointed  chin  ;  he  was  generally 


attired  in  a  Spanish  doublet  of  green  satin,  with 
slashed  sleeves,  with  a  small  high-peaked  hat  upon 
his  head,  surmounted  by  a  red  feather  which  hung 
down  to  his  back.  His  whole  aspect  recalled  to 
recollection  the  Duke  of  Alva,  the  scourge  of  the 
Flemings,  and  his  actions  were  far  from  effacing 
the  impression.  Such  was  the  general  who  was 
now  to  be  opposed  to  the  hero  of  the  north. 

Tilly  was  far  from  undervaluing  his  antagonist. 
“  The  King  of  Sweden,”  said  he,  in  the  Diet  at 
Ratisbon,  “  is  an  enemy  both  prudent  and  brave, 
inured  to  war,  and  in  the  flower  of  his  age.  His 
plans  are  excellent,  his  resources  considerable; 
his  subjects  enthusiastically  attached  to  him.  His 
army,  composed  of  Swedes,  Germans,  Livonians, 
Finlanders,  Scots,  and  English,  by  its  devoted 
obedience  to  its  leader,  is  blended  into  one  nation : 
he  is  a  gamester  in  playing  with  whom  not  to 
have  lost  is  to  have  won  a  great  deal.” 

The  progress  of  the  King  of  Sweden  in  Bran¬ 
denburg  and  Pomerania,  left  the  new  general¬ 
issimo  no  time  to  lose  ;  and  his  presence  was  now 
urgently  called  for  by  those  who  commanded  in 
that  quarter.  With  all  expedition  he  collected 
the  imperial  troops  which  were  dispersed  over  the 
empire ;  but  it  required  time  to  obtain  from  the 
exhausted  and  impoverished  provinces  the  neces¬ 
sary  supplies.  At  last,  about  the  middle  of  win¬ 
ter,  he  appeared  at  the  head  of  twenty  thousand 
men,  before  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  he  was 
joined  by  Schaumburg.  Leaving  to  this  general 
the  defense  of  Frankfort,  with  a  sufficient  garrison, 
he  hastened  to  Pomerania,  with  a  view  of  saving 
Demmin,  and  relieving  Colberg,  which  was  already 
hard  pressed  by  the  Swedes.  But  even  before  he 
had  left  Brandenburg,  Demmin,  which  was  but 
poorly  defended  by  the  Duke  of  Savelli,  had  sur¬ 
rendered  to  the  king,  and  Colberg,  after  a  five 
months’  siege,  was  starved  into  a  capitulation. 
As  the  passes  in  Upper  Pomerania  were  wrell 
guarded,  and  the  king’s  camp  near  Schwedt  defied 
attack,  Tilly  abandoned  his  offensive  plan  of 
operations,  and  retreated  toward  the  Elbe  to  be¬ 
siege  Magdeburg. 

The  capture  of  Demmin  opened  to  the  king  a 
free  passage  into  Mecklenburg  ;  but  a  more  im¬ 
portant  enterprise  drew  his  arms  into  another 
quarter.  Scarcely  had  Tilly  commenced  his  re¬ 
trograde  movement,  when  suddenly  breaking  up 
his  camp  at  Schwedt,  the  king  marched  his  whole 
force  against  Frankfort  on  the  Oder.  This  town, 
badly  fortified,  was  defended  by  a  garrison  of 
eight  thousand  men,  mostly  composed  of  those 
ferocious  bands  who  had  so  cruelly  ravaged  Po¬ 
merania  and  Brandenburg.  It  was  now  attacked 
with  such  impetuosity,  that  on  the  third  day  it 
was  taken  by  storm.  The  Swedes,  assured  of 
victory,  rejected  every  offer  of  capitulation,  as 
they  were  resolved  to  exercise  the  dreadful  right 
of  retaliation.  For  Tilly,  soon  after  his  arrival, 
had  surrounded  a  Swedish  detachment,  and,  ir¬ 
ritated  by  their  obstinate  resistance,  had  cut 
them  in  pieces  to  a  man.  This  cruelty  was  not 
forgotten  by  the  Swedes.  “New  Brandenburg 
Quarter,”  they  replied  to  the  Imperialists  who 
begged  their  lives,  and  slaughtered  them  without 
mercy.  Several  thousands  were  either  killed  or 
taken,  and  many  were  drowned  in  the  Oder,  the 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


173 


rest  fled  to  Silesia.  All  their  artillery  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Swedes.  To  satisfy  the  rage  of  his 
troops,  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  under  the  necessity 
of  giving  up  the  town  for  three  hours  to  plunder. 

While  the  king  was  thus  advancing  from  one 
contest  to  another,  and,  by  his  success,  encour¬ 
aging  the  Protestants  to  active  resistance,  the 
Emperor  proceeded  to  enforce  the  Edict  of  Res¬ 
titution,  and,  by  his  exorbitant  pretensions,  to  ex¬ 
haust  the  patience  of  the  states.  Compelled  by 
necessity,  he  continued  the  violent  course  which 
he  had  begun  with  such  arrogant  confidence ; 
the  difficulties  into  which  his  arbitrary  conduct 
had  plunged  him,  he  could  only  extricate  himself 
from  by  measures  still  more  arbitrary.  But  in  so 
complicated  a  body  as  the  German  empire,  des¬ 
potism  must  always  create  the  most  dangerous 
convulsions.  With  astonishment,  the  princes  be¬ 
held  the  constitution  of  the  empire  overthrown, 
and  the  state  of  nature  to  which  matters  were 
again  verging,  suggested  to  them  the  idea  of  self- 
defense,  the  only  means  of  protection  in  such  a 
state  of  things.  The  steps  openly  taken  by  the 
Emperor  against  the  Lutheran  church,  had  at  last 
removed  the  vail  from  the  eyes  of  John  George, 
who  had  been  so  long  the  dupe  of  his  artful  policy. 
Ferdinand,  too,  had  personally  offended  him  by 
the  exclusion  of  his  son  from  the  archbishopric 
of  Magdeburg ;  and  field-marshal  Arnheim,  his 
new  favorite  and  minister,  spared  no  pains  to  in¬ 
crease  the  resentment  of  his  master.  Arnheim 
had  formerly  been  an  imperial  general  under 
Wallenstein,  and  being  still  zealously  attached  to 
him,  he  was  eager  to  avenge  his  old  benefactor 
and  himself  on  the  Emperor,  by  detaching  Saxony 
from  the  Austrian  interest.  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
supported  by  the  Protestant  states,  would,  be  in¬ 
vincible  ;  a  consideration  which  already  filled  the 
Emperor  with  alarm.  The  example  of  Saxony 
would  probably  influence  others,  and  the  Empe¬ 
ror’s  fate  seemed  now  in  a  manner  to  depend 
upon  the  Elector’s  decision.  The  artful  favorite 
impressed  upon  his  master  this  idea  of  his  own 
importance,  and  advised  him  to  terrify  the  Empe¬ 
ror,  by  threatening  an  alliance  with  Sweden,  and 
thus  to  extort  from  his  fears,  what  he  had  sought 
in  vain  from  his  gratitude.  The  favorite,  however, 
was  far  from  wishing  him  actually  to  enter  into 
the  Swedish  alliance,  but,  by  holding  aloof  from 
both  parties,  to  maintain  his  own  importance  and 
independence.  Accordingly,  he  laid  before  him 
a  plan,  which  only  wanted  a  more  able  hand  to 
carry  it  into  execution,  and  recommended  him.  by 
heading  the  Protestant  party,  to  erect  a  third 
power  in  Germany,  and  thereby  maintain  the 
balance  between  Sweden  and  Austria. 

This  project  was  peculiarly  flattering  to  the 
Saxon  Elector,  to  whom  the  idea  of  being  depend¬ 
ent  upon  Sweden,  or  of  longer  submitting  to  the 
tyranny  of  the  Emperor,  was  equally  hateful.  He 
could  not,  with  indifference,  see  the  control  of 
German  affairs  wrested  from  him  by  a  foreign 
prince  ;  and  incapable  as  he  was  of  taking  a  prin¬ 
cipal  part,  his  vanity  would  not  condescend  to  act 
a  subordinate  one.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to 
draw  every  possible  advantage  from  the  progress 
of  Gustavus,  but  to  pursue,  independently,  his 
own  separate  plans.  With  this  view,  he.  consulted 


with  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  who,  from  simi¬ 
lar  causes,  was  ready  to  act  against  the  Emperor, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  was  jealous  of  Sweden.  In 
a  Diet  at  Torgau,  having  assured  himself  of  the 
support  of  his  Estates,  he  invited  the  Protestant 
States  of  the  empire  to  a  general  convention, 
which  took  place  at  Leipsic,  on  the  6th  February, 
1631.  Brandenburg,  Hesse  Cassel,  with  several 
princes,  counts,  states  of  the  empire,  and  Protes¬ 
tant  bishops  were  present,  either  personally  or  by 
deputy,  at  this  assembly,  which  the  chaplain  to 
the  Saxon  Court,  Dr.  Hoe  of  Hohenegg,  opened 
with  a  vehement  discourse  from  the  pulpit.  The 
Emperor  had,  in  vain,  endeavored  to  prevent  thi3 
self-appointed  convention,  whose  object  was  evi¬ 
dently  to  provide  for  its  own  defense,  and  which 
the  presence  of  the  Swedes  in  the  empire,  rendered 
more  than  usually  alarming.  Emboldened  by  the 
progress  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  the  assembled 
princes  asserted  their  rights,  and  after  a  session 
of  two  months  broke  up,  with  adopting  a  resolu¬ 
tion  which  placed  the  Emperor  in  no  slight  em¬ 
barrassment.  Its  import  was  to  demand  of  the 
Emperor,  in  a  general  address,  the  revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Restitution,  the  withdrawal  of  his 
troops  from  their  capitals  and  fortresses,  the  sus¬ 
pension  of  all  existing  proceedings,  and  the  abo¬ 
lition  of  abuses  ;  and,  in  the  meau  time,  to  raise  an 
army  of  40,000  men,  to  enable  them  to  redress 
their  own  grievances,  if  the  Emperor  should  still 
refuse  satisfaction. 

A  further  incident  contributed  not  a  little  to 
increase  the  firmness  of  the  Protestant  princes. 
The  King  of  Sweden  had,  at  last,  overcome  the 
scruples  which  had  deterred  him  from  a  closer  alli¬ 
ance  with  France,  and,  on  the  13th  January,  1631, 
concluded  a  formal  treaty  with  this  crown.  After 
a  serious  dispute  respecting  the  treatment  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  princes  of  the  empire,  whom 
France  took  under  her  protection,  and  against 
whom  Gustavus  claimed  the  right  of  retaliation, 
and  after  some  less  important  differences  with  re¬ 
gard  to  the  title  of  majesty,  which  the  pride  of 
France  was  loth  to  concede  to  the  King  of  Sweden, 
Richelieu  yielded  the  second,  and  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  the  first  point,  aud  the  treaty  was  sigued  at 
Beerwald  in  Neumark.  The  contracting  parties 
mutually  covenanted  to  defend  each  other  with  a 
military  force,  to  protect  their  common  friends, 
to  restore  to  their  dominions  the  deposed  princes 
of  the  empire,  and  to  replace  every  thing,  both  on 
the  frontier  and  in  the  interior  of  Germany,  on  the 
same  footing  on  which  it  stood  before  the  com¬ 
mencement  of  the  war.  For  this  end,  Sweden  en¬ 
gaged  to  maintain  an  army  of  30,000  men  in  Ger¬ 
many,  and  France  agreed  to  furnish  the  Swedes 
with  an  annual  subsidy  of  400,000  dollars.  If  the 
arms  of  Gustavus  were  successful,  he  was  to  re¬ 
spect  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  and  the  con¬ 
stitution  of  the  empire  in  all  the  conquered  places, 
and  to  make  no  attempt  against  either.  All  Es¬ 
tates  and  princes,  whether  Protestant  or  Roman 
Catholic,  either  in  Germany  or  in  other  countries, 
were  to  be  invited  to  become  parties  to  the  treaty ; 
neither  France  nor  Sweden  was  to  conclude  a 
separate  peace  without  the  knowledge  and  consent 
of  the  other  -r  and  the  treaty  itself  was  to  continue 
in  force  for  five  years. 


* 


174  HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Great  as  was  the  struggle  to  the  King  of  Swe¬ 
den  to  receive  subsidies  from  France,  and  sacrifice 
his  independence  in  the  conduct  of  the  war,  this 
alliance  with  France  decided  his  cause  in  Ger¬ 
many.  Protected  as  he  now  was,  by  the  greatest 
power  in  Europe,  the  German  states  began  to  feel 
confidence  in  his  undertaking,  for  the  issue  of 
which  they  had  hitherto  good  reason  to  tremble. 
He  became  truly  formidable  to  the  Emperor.  The 
Roman  Catholic  princes  too,  who,  while  they  were 
anxious  to  humble  Austria,  now  witnessed  his 
progress  with  distrust,  were  less  alarmed  now  that 
an  alliance  with  a  Roman  Catholic  power  insured 
his  respect  for  their  religion.  And  thus,  while 
Gustavus  Adolphus  protected  the  Protestant  re¬ 
ligion  and  the  liberties  of  Germany  against  the 
aggression  of  Ferdinand,  France  secured  those 
liberties,  and  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  against 
Gustavus  himself,  if  the  intoxication  of  success 
should  hurry  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  moderation. 

The  King  of  Sweden  lost  no  time  in  apprizing 
the  members  of  the  confederacy  of  Leipsic  of  the 
treaty  concluded  with  France,  and  inviting  them 
to  a  closer  union  with  himself.  The  application 
was  seconded  by  France,  who  spared  no  pains  to 
win  over  the  Elector  of  Saxony.  Gustavus  was 
willing  to  be  content  with  secret  support,  if  the 
princes  should  deem  it  too  bold  a  step  as  yet  to 
declare  openly  in  his  favor.  Several  princes  gave 
him  hopes  of  his  proposals  being  accepted  on  the 
first  favorable  opportunity ;  but  the  Saxon  Elector, 
full  of  jealousy  and  distrust  toward  the  King  of 
Sweden,  and  true  to  the  selfish  policy  he  had  pur¬ 
sued,  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  give  a  de¬ 
cisive  answer. 

The  resolution  of  the  confederacy  of  Leipsic, 
and  the  alliance  between  France  and  Sweden,  were 
news  equally  disagreeable  to  the  Emperor.  Against 
them  he  employed  the  thunder  of  imperial  ordi¬ 
nances,  and  the  want  of  an  army  saved  France 
from  the  full  weight  of  his  displeasure.  Remon¬ 
strances  were  addressed  to  all  the  members  of  the 
confederacy,  strongly  prohibiting  them  from  en¬ 
listing  troops.  They  retorted  with  explanations 
equally  vehement,  justified  their  conduct  upon  the 
principles  of  natural  right,  and  continued  their 
preparations. 

Meantime  the  imperial  generals,  deficient  both 
in  troops  and  money,  found  themselves  reduced 
to  the  disagreeable  alternative  of  losing  sight 
either  of  the  King  of  Sweden,  or  of  the  Estates  of 
the  empire,  sirtce  with  a  divided  force  they  were 
not  a  match  for  either.  The  movements  of  the 
Protestants  called  their  attention  to  the  interior 
of  the  empire,  while  the  progress  of  the  king  in 
Brandenburg,  by  threatening  the  hereditary  pos¬ 
sessions  of  Austria,  required  them  to  turn  their 
arms  to  that  quarter.  After  the  conquest  of 
Frankfort,  the  king  had  advanced  upon  Lands- 
burg  on  the  Warta,  and  Tilly,  after  a  fruitless  at¬ 
tempt  to  relieve  it,  had  again  returned  to  Magde¬ 
burg,  to  prosecute  with  vigor  the  siege  of  that 
town. 

The  rich  archbishopric,  of  which  Magdeburg  was 
the  capital,  had  long  been  in  the  possession  of 
princes  of  the  house  of  Brandenburg,  who  intro¬ 
duced  the  Protestant  religion  into  the  province. 
Christian  William,  the  last  administrator,  had,  by 


his  alliance  with  Denmark,  incurred  the  ban  of 
the  empire,  on  which  account  the  chapter,  to 
avoid  the  Emperor’s  displeasure,  had  formally  de¬ 
posed  him.  In  his  place  they  had  elected  Prince 
John  Augustus,  the  second  son  of  the  Elector  of 
Saxony,  whom  the  Emperor  rejected,  in  order  to 
confer  the  archbishopric  on  his  son  Leopold.  The 
Elector  of  Saxony  complained  ineffectually  to  the 
imperial  court;  but  Christian  William  of  Bran¬ 
denburg  took  more  active  measures.  Relying  on 
the  attachment  of  the  magistracy  and  inhabitants 
of  Brandenburg,  and  excited  by  chimerical  hopes, 
he  thought  himself  able  to  surmount  all  the  ob¬ 
stacles  which  the  vote  of  the  chapter,  the  compe¬ 
tition  of  two  powerful  rivals,  and  the  Edict  of 
Restitution  opposed  to  his  restoration.  He  went 
to  Sweden,  and,  by  the  promise  of  a  diversion  in 
Germany,  sought  to  obtain  assistance  from  Gus¬ 
tavus.  He  was  dismissed  by  that  monarch  not 
without  hopes  of  effectual  protection,  but  with  the 
advice  to  act  with  caution. 

Scarcely  had  Christian  William  been  informed 
of  the  landing  of  his  protector  in  Pomerania,  than 
he  entered  Magdeburg  in  disguise.  Appearing 
suddenly  in  the  town  council,  he  reminded  the 
magistrates  of  the  ravages  which  both  town  and 
country  had  suffered  from  the  imperial  troops,  of 
the  pernicious  designs  of  Ferdinand,  and  the 
danger  of  the  Protestant  church.  He  then  in¬ 
formed  them,  that  the  moment  of  deliverance  was 
at  hand,  and  that  Gustavus  Adolphus  offered  them 
his  alliance  and  assistance.  Magdeburg,  one  of 
the  most  flourishing  towns  in  Germany,  enjoyed 
under  the  government  of  its  magistrates,  a  repub¬ 
lican  freedom,  which  inspired  its  citizens  with  a 
brave  heroism.  Of  this  they  had  already  given 
proofs,  in  the  bold  defense  of  their  rights  against 
Wallenstein,  who,  tempted  by  their  wealth,  made 
on  them  the  most  extravagant  demands.  Their 
territory  had  been  given  up  to  the  fury  of  his 
troops,  though  Magdeburg  itself  had  escaped  his 
vengeance.  It  was  not  difficult,  therefore,  for  the 
Administrator  to  gain  the  concurrence  of  men  in 
in  whose  minds  the  remembrance  of  these  out¬ 
rages  was  still  recent.  An  alliance  was  formed 
between  the  city  and  King  of  Sweden,  by  which 
Magdeburg  granted  to  the  king  a  free  passage 
through  its  gates  and  territories,  with  liberty  of 
enlisting  soldiers  within  its  boundaries,  and  on  the 
other  hand,  obtained  promises  of  effectual  protec¬ 
tion  for  its  religion  and  its  privileges 

The  Administrator  immediately  collected  troops 
and  commenced  hostilities,  before  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  was  near  enough  to  co-operate  with  him. 
He  defeated  some  imperial  detachments  in  the 
neighborhood,  made  a  few  conquests,  and  even 
surprised  Halle.  But  the  approach  of  an  impe¬ 
rial  army  obliged  him  to  retreat  hastily,  and  not 
without  loss,  to  Magdeburg.  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
though  displeased  with  his  premature  measures, 
sent  Dietrich  Falkenberg,  an  experienced  officer, 
to  direct  the  Administrator’s  military  operations, 
and  to  assist  him  with  his  counsel.  Falkenberg 
was  named  by  the  magistrates  governor  of  the 
town  during  the  war.  The  Prince’s  army  was 
daily  augmented  by  recruits  from  the  neighboring 
towns ;  and  he  was  able  for  some  months  to  main¬ 
tain  a  petty  warfare  with  success. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


1T5 


At  length  Connt  Pappenheim,  having  brought 
his  expedition  against  the  Duke  of  Saxe  Lauen- 
burg  to  a  close,  approached  the  town.  Driving 
the  troops  of  the  Administrator  from  their  en¬ 
trenchments,  he  cut  off  his  communication  with 
Saxony,  and  closely  invested  the  place.  He  was 
Boon  followed  by  Tilly,  who  haughtily  summoned 
the  Elector  forthwith  to  comply  with  the  Edict 
of  Restitution,  to  submit  to  the  Emperor’s  orders, 
and  surrender  Magdeburg.  The  Prince’s  answer 
was  spirited  and  resolute,  and  obliged  Tilly  at 
once  to  have  recourse  to  arms. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  siege  was  prolonged,  by 
the  progress  of  the  King  of  Sweden,  which  called 
the  Austrian  generals  from  before  the  place;  and 
the  jealousy  of  the  officers,  who  conducted  the 
operations  in  their  absence,  delayed,  for  some 
months,  the  fall  of  Magdeburg.  On  the  30th 
March,  1631,  Tilly  returned,  to  push  the  siege 
with  vigor. 

The  outworks  were  soon  carried,  and  Falken- 
berg,  after  withdrawing  the  garrisons  from  the 
points  which  he  could  no  longer  hold,  destroyed 
the  bridge  over  the  Elbe.  As  the  troops  were 
barely  sufficient  to  defend  the  extensive  fortifica¬ 
tions,  the  suburbs  of  Sudenburg  and  Neustadt 
were  abandoned  to  the  enemy,  who  immediately 
laid  them  in  ashes.  Pappenheim,  now  separated 
from  Tilly,  crossed  the  Elbe  at  Schonenbeck,  and 
attacked  the  town  from  the  opposite  side. 

The  garrisou,  reduced  by  the  defense  of  the 
outworks,  scarcely  exceeded  two  thousand  infan¬ 
try  and  a  few  hundred  horse  ;  a  small  number  for 
so  extensive  and  irregular  a  fortress.  To  supply 
this  deficiency,  the  citizens  were  armed — a  despe¬ 
rate  expedient,  which  produced  more  evils  than 
those  it  prevented.  The  citizens,  at  best  but  in¬ 
different  soldiers,  by  their  disunion  threw  the  town 
into  confusion.  The  poor  complained  that  they 
wTere  exposed  to  every  hardship  and  danger,  while 
the  rich,  by  hiring  substitutes,  remained  at  home 
in  safety.  These  rumors  broke  out  at  last  in  an 
open  mutiny  ;  indifference  succeeded  to  zeal ;  wea¬ 
riness  and  negligence  took  the  place  of  vigilance 
and  foresight.  Dissension,  combined  with  grow¬ 
ing  scarcity,  gradually  produced  a  feeling  of  de¬ 
spondence,  many  began  to  tremble  at  the  desperate 
nature  of  their  undertaking,  and  the  magnitude 
of  the  power  to  which  they  were  opposed.  But 
religious  zeal,  an  ardent  love  of  liberty,  an  invin¬ 
cible  hatred  to  the  Austrian  yoke,  and  the  expec¬ 
tation  of  speedy  relief,  banished  as  yet  the  idea 
of  a  surrender;  and  divided  as  they  were  in  every 
thing  else,  they  were  united  in  the  resolve  to  de¬ 
fend  themselves  to  the  last  extremity. 

Their  hopes  of  succor  were  apparently  well 
founded.  They  knew  that  the  confederacy  of 
Leipsic  was  arming ;  they  were  aware  of  the  near 
approach  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Both  were  alike 
interested  in  the  preservation  of  Magdeburg ; 
and  a  few  days  might  bring  the  King  of  Sweden 
before  its  walls.  All  this  was  also  known  to 
Tilly,  who,  therefore,  was  anxious  to  make  himself 
speedily  master  of  the  place.  With  this  view,  he 
liad  dispatched  a  trumpeter  with  letters  to  the 
Administrator,  the  commandant,  and  the  magis¬ 
trates,  offering  terms  of  capitulation  ;  but  he  re¬ 


ceived  for  answer,  that  they  would  rather  die  than 
surrender.  A  spirited  sally  of  the  citizens,  also 
convinced  him  that  their  courage  was  as  earnest 
as  their  words,  while  the  king’s  arrival  at  Pots¬ 
dam,  with  the  incursions  of  the  Swedes  as  far  as 
Zerbst,  filled  him  with  uneasiness,  but  raised  the 
hopes  of  the  garrison.  A  second  trumpeter  was 
now  dispatched;  but  the  more  moderate  tone  of 
his  demands  increased  the  confidence  of  the  be¬ 
sieged,  and  unfortunately  their  negligence  also. 

The  besiegers  had  now  pushed  their  approaches 
as  far  as  the  ditch,  and  vigorously  cannonaded 
the  fortifications  from  the  abandoned  batteries. 
One  tower  was  entirely  overthrown,  but  this  did 
not  facilitate  an  assault,  as  it  fell  sidewise  upon 
the  wall,  and  not  into  the  ditch.  Notwithstanding 
the  continual  bombardment,  the  walls  had  not 
suffered  much ;  and  the  fire  balls,  which  were  in¬ 
tended  to  set  the  town  in  flames,  were  prevented 
of  their  effect  by  the  excellent  precautions  adopted 
against  them.  But  the  ammunition  of  the  be¬ 
sieged  was  nearly  expended,  and  the  cannon  of 
the  town  gradually  ceased  to  answer  the  fire  of 
the  Imperialists.  Before  a  new  supply  could  be 
obtained,  Magdeburg  would  be  either  relieved  or 
taken.  The  hopes  of  the  besieged  were  on  the 
stretch,  and  all  eyes  anxiously  directed  toward 
the  quarter  in  which  the  Swedish  banners  were 
expected  to  appear.  Gustavus  Adolphus  was 
near  enough  to  reach  Magdeburg  within  three 
days ;  security  grew  with  hope,  which  all  things 
contributed  to  augment.  On  the  9th  of  May,  the 
fire  of  the  Imperialists  was  suddenly  stopped,  and 
the  caunon  withdrawn  from  several  of  the  bat¬ 
teries.  A  deathlike  stillness  reigned  in  the  Im¬ 
perial  camp.  The  besieged  were  convinced  that 
deliverance  was  at  hand.  Both  citizens  and  sol¬ 
diers  left  their  posts  upon  the  ramparts  early  in 
the  morning,  to  indulge  themselves,  after  their 
long  toils,  with  the  refreshment  of  sleep,  but  it 
was  indeed  a  dear  sleep,  and  a  frightful  awaken¬ 
ing. 

Tilly  had  abandoned  the  hope  of  taking  the 
town,  before  the  arrival  of  the  Swedes,  by  the 
means  which  he  had  hitherto  adopted  ;  he  there¬ 
fore  determined  to  raise  the  siege,  but  first  to 
hazard  a  general  assault.  This  plan,  however, 
was  attended  with  great  difficulties,  as  no  breach 
had  been  effected,  and  the  works  were  scarcely* 
injured.  But  the  council  of  war  assembled  on 
this  occasion  declared  for  an  assault,  citing  the 
example  of  Maestricht,  which  had  beeu  taken 
early  in  the  morning,  while  the  citizens  and  sol¬ 
diers  were  reposing  themselves.  The  attack  was 
to  be  made  simultaneously  on  four  points;  the 
night  betwixt  the  9th  and  10th  of  May  was  em¬ 
ployed  in  the  necessary  preparations.  Every  thing 
was  ready  and  awaiting  the  signal,  which  was  to 
be  given  by  cannon  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning. 
The  signal,  however,  was  not  given  for  two  hours 
later,  during  which  Tilly,  who  was  still  doubtful 
of  success,  again  consulted  the  council  of  war. 
Pappenheim  was  ordered  to  attack  the  works  of 
the  new  town,  where  the  attempt  was  favored  by 
a  sloping  rampart,  and  a  dry  ditch  of  moderate 
depth.  The  citizens  and  soldiers  had  mostly  left 
the  walls,  and  the  few  who  remained  were  over- 


176 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


come  with  sleep.  This  general,  therefore,  found 
little  difficulty  in  mounting  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  his  troops. 

Falkenberg,  roused  by  the  report  of  musketry, 
hastened  from  the  town-house,  where  he  was  em¬ 
ployed  in  despatching  Tilly’s  second  trumpeter, 
and  hurried  with  all  the  force  he  could  hastily 
assemble  toward  the  gate  of  the  new  town,  which 
was  already  in  the  possession  of  the  enemy. 
Beaten  back,  this  intrepid  general  flew  to  another 
quarter,  where  a  second  party  of  the  enemy  were 
preparing  to  scale  the  walls.  After  an  ineffectual 
resistance,  he  fell  in  the  commencement  of  the  ac¬ 
tion.  The  roaring  of  musketry,  the  pealing  of  the 
alarm-bells,  and  the  growing  tumult!  apprised  the 
awakening  citizens  of  their  danger.  Hastily  arm¬ 
ing  themselves,  they  rushed  in  blind  confusion 
against  the  enemy.  Still  some  hope  of  repulsing 
the  besiegers  remained  ;  but  the  governor  being 
killed,  their  efforts  were  without  plan  and  co¬ 
operation,  and  at  last  their  ammunition  began  to 
fail  them.  In  the  mean  while,  two  other  gates, 
hitherto  unattacked,  were  stripped  of  their  de¬ 
fenders,  to  meet  the  urgent  danger  within  the 
town.  The  enemy  quickly  availed  themselves  of 
this  confusion  to  attack  these  posts.  The  resist¬ 
ance  was  nevertheless  spirited  and  obstinate,  until 
four  imperial  regiments,  at  length,  masters  of  the 
ramparts,  fell  upon  the  garrison  in  the  rear,  and 
completed  their  rout.  Amidst  the  general  tumult, 
a  brave  captain,  named  Schmidt,  who  still  headed 
a  few  of  the  more  resolute  against  the  enemy, 
succeeded  in  driving  them  to  the  gates ;  here  he 
fell  mortally  wounded,  and  with  him  expired  the 
hopes  of  Magdeburg.  Before  noon,  all  the  works 
were  carried,  and  the  town  was  in  the  enemy’s 
hands. 

Two  gates  were  now  opened  by  the  storming 
party  for  the  main  body,  and  Tilly  marched  in 
with  part  of  his  infantry.  Immediately  occupy¬ 
ing  the  principal  streets,  he  drove  the  citizens 
with  pointed  cannon  into  their  dwellings,  there  to 
await  their  destiny.  They  were  not  long  held  in 
suspense  ;  a  word  from  Tilly  decided  the  fate  of 
Magdeburg. 

Even  a  more  humane  general  would  in  vain 
have  recommended  mercy  to  such  soldiers  ;  but 
Tilly  never  made  the  attempt.  Left  by  their  ge¬ 
neral’s  silence  masters  of  the  lives  of  all  the  citi¬ 
zens,  the  soldiery  broke  into  the  houses  to  satiate 
their  most  brutal  appetites.  The  prayers  of  inno¬ 
cence  excited  some  compassion  in  the  hearts  of 
the  Germans,  but  none  in  the  rude  breasts  of 
Pappenheim’s  Walloons.  Scarcely  had  the  sav¬ 
age  cruelty  commenced,  when  the  other  gates 
were  thrown  open,  and  the  cavalry,  with  the  fear¬ 
ful  hordes  of  the  Croats,  poured  in  upon  the  de¬ 
voted  inhabitants. 

Here  commenced  a  scene  of  horrors  for  which 
history  has  no  language — poetry  no  pencil.  Nei¬ 
ther  innocent  childhood,  nor  helpless  old  age; 
neither  youth,  sex,  rank,  nor  beauty,  could  disarm 
the  fury  of  the  conquerors.  Wives  were  abused 
in  the  arms  of  their  husbands,  daughters  at  the 
feet  of  their  parents  ;  and  the  defenseless  sex  ex¬ 
posed  to  the  double  sacrifice  of  virtue  and  life. 
No  situation,  however  obscure,  or  however  sacred, 
escaped  the  rapacity  of  the  enemy.  In  a  single 


church  fifty-three  women  were  found  beheaded. 
The  Croats  amused  themselves  with  throwing 
children  into  the  flames;  Pappenheim’s  Walloons 
with  stabbing  infants  at  the  mother’s  breast. 
Some  officers  of  the  League,  horror-struck  at  this 
dreadful  scene,  ventured  to  remind  Tilly  that  he 
had  it  in  his  power  to  stop  the  carnage.  “  Return 
in  an  hour,”  was  his  answer;  “  I  will  see  what  I 
can  do  ;  the  soldier  must  have  some  reward  for 
his  danger  and  toils.”  These  horrors  lasted  with 
nnabated  fury,  till  at  last  the  smoke  and  flames 
proved  a  check  to  the  plunderers.  To  augment 
the  confusion  and  to  divert  the  resistance  of  the 
inhabitants,  the  Imperii  lists  had,  in  the  com¬ 
mencement  of  the  assault,  fired  the  town  in  seve¬ 
ral  places.  The  wind  rising  rapidly,  spread  the 
flames,  till  the  blaze  became  universal.  Fearful, 
indeed,  was  the  tumult  amid  clouds  of  smoke, 
heaps  of  dead  bodies,  the  clash  of  3words,  the 
crash  of  falling  ruins,  and  streams  of  blood.  The 
atmosphere  glowed ;  and  the  intolerable  heat 
forced  at  last  even  the  murderers  to  take  refuge 
in  their  camp.  In  less  than  twelve  hours,  this 
strong,  populous,  and  flourishing  city,  one  of  the 
finest  in  Germany,  was  reduced  to  ashes,  with  the 
exception  of  two  churches  and  a  few  houses. 
The  Administrator,  Christian  William,  after  re¬ 
ceiving  several  wounds,  was  taken  prisoner,  with 
three  of  the  burgomasters;  most  of  the  officers 
and  magistrates  had  already  met  an  enviable 
death.  The  avarice  of  the  officers  had  saved  four 
hundred  of  the  richest  citizens,  in  the  hope  of  ex¬ 
torting  from  them  an  exorbitant  ransom.  But 
this  humanity  was  confined  to  the  officers  of  the 
League,  whom  the  ruthless  barbarity  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists  caused  to  be  regarded  as  guardian  angels. 

Scarcely  had  the  fury  of  the  flames  abated, 
when  the  Imperialists  returned  to  renew  the  pil¬ 
lage  amid  the  ruins  and  ashes  of  the  town. 
M  any  were  suffocated  by  the  smoke  ;  many  found 
rich  booty  in  the  cellars,  where  the  citizens  had 
concealed  their  more  valuable  effects.  On  the 
13th  of  May,  Tilly  himself  appeared  in  the  town, 
after  the  streets  had  been  cleared  of  ashes  and 
dead  bodies.  Horrible  and  revolting  to  humanity 
was  the  scene  that  presented  itself.  The  living 
crawling  from  under  the  dead,  children  wandering 
about  with  heart-rending  cries,  calling  for  their 
parents ;  and  infants  still  sucking  the  breasts  of 
their  lifeless  mothers.  More  than  six  thousand 
bodies  were  thrown  into  the  Elbe  to  clear  the 
streets ;  a  much  greater  number  had  been  con¬ 
sumed  by  the  flames.  The  whole  number  of  the1 
slain  was  reckoned  at  not  less  than  thirty  thou¬ 
sand. 

The  entrance  of  the  general,  which  took  place  on 
the  14th,  put  a  stop  to  the  plunder,  and  saved  the 
few  who  had  hitherto  contrived  to  escape.  About 
a  thousand  people  were  taken  out  of  the  cathe¬ 
dral,  where  they  had  remained  three  days  and  two 
nights,  without  food,  and  in  momentary  fear  of 
death.  Tilly  promised  them  quarter,  and  com¬ 
manded  bread  to  be  distributed  among  them. 
The  next  day,  a  solemn  mass  was  performed  in 
the  cathedral,  and  Te  Deurn  sung  amidst  the  dis-. 
charge  of  artillery.  The  imperial  general  rode 
through  the  streets,  that  he  might  be  able,  as  an 
eyewitness,  to  inform  his  master  that  nosuch  con* 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


177 


quest  had  been  made  since  the  destruction  of 
Troy  and  Jerusalem.  Nor  was  this  an  exagge¬ 
ration,  whether  we  consider  the  greatness,  impor¬ 
tance,  and  the  prosperity  of  the  city  razed,  or  the 
fury  of  its  ravages. 

In  Germany,  the  tidings  of  the  dreadful  fate 
of  Magdeburg  caused  triumphant  joy  to  the 
Roman  Catholics,  while  it  spread  terror  and 
consternation  among  the  Protestants.  Loudly 
and  generally  they  complained  against  the  king 
of  Sweden,  who,  with  so  strong  a  force,  and  in 
the  very  neighborhood,  had  left  an  allied  city  to 
its  fate.  Even  the  most  reasonable  deemed  his 
inaction  inexplicable ;  and  lest  he  should  lose 
irretrievably  the  good-will  of  the  people,  for 
whose  deliverance  he  had  engaged  in  this  war, 
Gustavus  was  under  the  necessity  of  publishing 
to  the  world  a  justification  of  his  own  conduct. 

He  had  attacked,  and  on  the  16th  of  April,  car¬ 
ried  Landsberg,  when  he  was  apprised  of  the 
danger  of  Magdeburg.  He  resolved  immediately 
to  march  to  the  relief  of  that  town  ;  and  he  moved 
with  all  his  cavalry,  and  ten  regiments  of  infantry 
toward  the  Spree.  But  the  position  which  he 
held  in  Germany,  made  it  necessary  that  he  should 
not  move  forward  without  securing  his  rear.  In 
traversing  a  country  where  he  was  surrounded  by 
suspicious  friends  and  dangerous  enemies,  and 
where  a  single  premature  movement  might  cut  off 
his  communication  with  his  own  kingdom,  the 
utmost  vigilance  and  caution  were  necessary. 
The  Elector  of  Brandenburg  had  already  opened 
the  fortress  of  Gustrin  to  the  flying  Imperialists, 
and  closed  the  gates  against  their  pursuers.  If 
now  Gustavus  should  fail  in  his  attack  upon 
Tilly,  the  Elector  might  again  open  his  fortresses 
to  the  Imperialists,  and  the  king,  with  an  enemy 
both  in  front  and  rear,  would  be  irrecoverably 
lost.  In  order  to  prevent  this  contingency,  he 
demanded  that  the  Elector  should  allow  him  to 
hold  the  fortresses  of  Custrin  and  Spandau,  till 
the  siege  of  Magdeburg  should  be  raised. 

Nothing  could  be  more  reasonable  than  this 
demand.  The  services  which  Gustavus  had  lately 
rendered  the  Elector,  by  expelling  the  Imperial¬ 
ists  from  Brandenburg,  claimed  his  gratitude, 
while  the  past  conduct  of  the  Swedes  in  Germany 
entitled  them  to  confidence.  But  by  the  surren¬ 
der  of  his  fortresses,  the  Elector  would  iu  some 
measure  make  the  king  of  Sweden  master  of  his 
country;  besides  that,  by  such  a  step,  he  must  at 
once  break  with  the  Emperor,  and  expose  his 
states  to  his  future  vengeance.  The  Elector’s 
struggle  with  himself  was  long  and  violent,  but 
pusillanimity  and  self-interest  for  awhile  pre¬ 
vailed.  Unmoved  by  the  fate  of  Magdeburg,  cold 
in  the  cause  of  religion  and  the  liberties  of  Ger¬ 
many,  he  saw  nothing  but  his  own  danger  ;  and 
this  anxiety  was  greatly  stimulated  by  his  minis¬ 
ter  Yon  Schwartzenburgh,  who  was  secretly  in 
the  pay  of  Austria.  In  the  mean  time  the  Swed¬ 
ish  troops  approached  Berlin,  and  the  king  took 
up  his  residence  with  the  Elector.  When  he  wit¬ 
nessed  the  timorous  hesitation  of  that  prince,  he 
could  not  restrain  his  indignation  :  “  My  road  is 
to  Magdeburg,”  said  he ;  “  not  for  my  own  advan¬ 
tage,  but  for  that  of  the  Protestant  religion.  If 
no  one  will  stand  by  me  I  shall  immediately  re- 
Vol.  II.— 12 


treat,  conclude  a  peace  with  the  Emperor,  and  re¬ 
turn  to  Stockholm.  I  am  convinced  that  Ferdi¬ 
nand  will  readily  grant  me  whatever  condition  I 
may  require.  But  if  Magdeburg  is  once  lost,  and 
the  Emperor  relieved  from  all  fear  of  me,  then  it 
is  for  you  to  look  to  yourselves  and  the  conse¬ 
quences.”  This  timely  threat,  and  perhaps,  too, 
the  aspect  of  the  Swedish  army,  which  was  strong 
enough  to  obtain  by  force  what  was  refused  to  en¬ 
treaty,  brought  at  last  the  Elector  to  his  senses, 
and  Spandau  was  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the 
Swedes. 

The  king  had  now  two  routes  to  Magdeburg ; 
one  westward  led  through  an  exhausted  country, 
and  filled  with  the  enemy’s  troops,  who  might  dis¬ 
pute  with  him  the  passage  of  the  Elbe  ;  the  other 
more  to  the  southward,  by  Dessau  and  Wittem- 
berg,  where  bridges  were  to  be.  found  for  crossing 
the  Elbe,  and  where  supplies  could  easily  be 
drawn  from  Saxony.  But  he  could  not  avail  him¬ 
self  of  the  latter  without  the  consent  of  the  Elec¬ 
tor,  whom  Gustavus  had  good  reason  to  distrust. 
Before  setting  out  on  his  march,  therefore  he  de¬ 
manded  from  that  prince  a  free  passage  and  liberty 
for  purchasing  provisions  for  his  troops.  His  ap¬ 
plication  was  refused,  and  no  remonstrances  could 
prevail  on  the  Elector  to  abandon  his  system  of 
neutrality.  While  the  point  was  still  in  dis¬ 
pute,  the  news  of  the  dreadful  fate  of  Magdeburg 
arrived. 

Tilly  announced  its  fall  to  the  Protestant  princes 
in  the  tone  of  a  conqueror,  and  lost  no  time  in 
making  the  most  of  the 'general  consternation. 
The  influence  of  the  Emperor,  which  had  sensibly 
declined  during  the  rapid  progress  of  Gustavus, 
after  this  decisive  blow  rose  higher  than  ever  ; 
and  the  change  was  speedily  visible  in  the  impe¬ 
rious  tone  he  adopted  toward  the  Protestant 
states.  The  decrees  of  the  Confederation  of  Leip- 
sic  were  annulled  by  a  proclamation,  the  Conven¬ 
tion  itself  suppressed  by  an. imperial  decree,  and 
all  the  refractory  states  threatened  with  the  fate 
of  Magdeburg.  As  the  executor  of  this  imperial 
mandate,  Tilly  immediately  ordered  troops  to 
march  against  the  Bishop  of  Bremen,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  Confederacy,  and  had  himself  en¬ 
listed  soldiers.  The  terrified  bishop  immediately 
gave  up  his  forces  to  Tilly,  and  signed  the  revo¬ 
cation  of  the  acts  of  the  Confederation.  An  im¬ 
perial  army,  which  had  lately  returned  from  Italy, 
under  the  command  of  Count  Furstenberg,  acted 
in  the  same  manner  toward  the  Administra¬ 
tor  of  Wirtemberg.  The  duke  was  compelled 
to  submit  to  the  Edict  of  Restitution,  and  all 
the  decrees  of  the  Emperor,  and  even  to  pay  a 
monthly  subsidy  of  100,000  dollars,  for  the  main¬ 
tenance  of  the  imperial  troops.  Similar  burdens 
were  inflicted  upon  Ulm  and  Nuremberg,  and  the 
entire  circle  of  Franconia  and  Swabia.  The  hand 
of  the  Emperor  was  stretched  in  terror  over  all 
Germany.  The  sudden  preponderance,  more  in 
appearance,  perhaps,  than  in  reality,  which  he  had 
obtained  by  this  blow,  carried  him  beyond  the 
bounds  even  of  the  moderation  which  he  had 
hitherto  observed,  and  misled  him  into  hasty  and 
violent  measure,  which  at  last  turned  the  waver¬ 
ing  resolution  of  the  German  princes  in  favor  of 
Gustavus  Adolphus.  Injurious  as  the  immediate 


178 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS7  WAR. 


consequences  of  the  fall  of  Magdeburg  were  to  j 
the  Protestant  cause,  its  remoter  effects  were 
most  advantageous.  The  past  surprise  made  way 
for  active  resentment,  despair  inspired  courage, 
and  the  German  freedom  rose,  like  a  phenix,  from 
the  ashes  of  Magdeburg. 

Among  the  princes  of  the  Leipsic  Confedera¬ 
tion,  the  Elector  of  Saxony  and  the  Landgrave  of 
Hesse  were  the  most  powerful  ;  and,  until  they 
were  disarmed,  the  universal  authority  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  was  unconfirmed.  Against  the  Landgrave, 
therefore,  Tilly  first  directed  his  attack,  and 
marched  straight  from  Magdeburg  into  Thuringia. 
During  this  march,  the  territories  of  Saxe  Ernest 
and  Schwartzburg  were  laid  waste,  and  Franken- 
liausen  plundered  before  the  very  eyes  of  Tilly, 
and  laid  in  ashes  with  impunity.  The  unfortunate 
peasant  paid  dear  for  his  master’s  attachment  to 
the  interests  of  Sweden.  Erfurt,  the  key  of  Sax¬ 
ony  and  Franconia,  was  threatened  with  a  siege, 
but  redeemed  itself  by  a  voluntary  contribution 
of  money  and  provisions.  From  thence,  Tilly 
dispatched  his  emissaries  to  the  Landgrave,  de¬ 
manding  of  him  the  immediate  disbanding  of  his 
army,  a  renunciation  of  the  league  of  Leipsic,  the 
reception  of  imperial  garrisons  into  his  territories 
and  fortresses,  with  the  necessary  contributions, 
and  the  declaration  of  friendship  or  hostility. 
Such  was  the  treatment  which  a  prince  of  the 
Empire  -was  compelled  to  submit  to  from  a  ser¬ 
vant  of  the  Emperor.  But  these  extravagant  de¬ 
mands  acquired  a  formidable  weight  from  the 
power  which  supported  them  ;  and  the  dreadful 
fate  of  Magdeburg,  still  fresh  in  the  memory  of 
the  Landgrave,  tended  still  further  to  enforce 
them.  Admirable,  therefore,  was  the  intrepidity 
of  the  Landgrave’s  answer  :  “  To  admit  foreign 
troops  into  his  capital  and  fortresses,  the  Land¬ 
grave  is  not  disposed ;  his  troops  he  requires  for 
his  own  purposes  ;  as  for  an  attack,  he  can  defend 
himself.  If  General  'Tilly  wants  money  or  provi¬ 
sions,  let  him  go  to  Munich,  where  there  is  plenty 
of  both.”  The  irruption  of  two  bodies  of  imperial 
troops  into  Hesse  Cassel  was  the  immediate  re¬ 
sult  of  this  spirited  reply,  but  the  Landgrave  gave 
them  so  warm  a  reception  that  they  could  effect 
nothing ;  and  just  as  Tilly  was  preparing  to  fol¬ 
low  with  his  whole  army,  to  punish  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  country  for  the  firmness  of  its  sovereign,  the 
movements  of  the  King  of  Sweden  recalled  him  to 
another  quarter. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  had  learned  the  fall  of 
Magdeburg  with  deep  regret;  and  the  demand 
now  made  by  the  Elector,  George  William,  in 
terms  of  their  agreement,  for  the  restoration  of 
Spandau,  greatly  increased  this  feeling.  The  loss 
of  Magdeburg  had  rather  augmented  than  lessened 
the  reasons  which  made  the  possession  of  this 
fortress  so  desirable  ;  and  the  nearer  became  the 
necessity  of  a  decisive  battle  between  himself  and 
Tilly,  the  more  unwilling  he  felt  to  abandon  the 
only  place  which,  in  the  event  of  a  defeat,  could 
insure  him  a  refuge.  After  a  vain  endeavor,  by 
entreaties  and  representations,  to  bring  over  the 
Elector  to  his  views,  whose  coldness  and  luke¬ 
warmness  daily  increased,  he  gave  orders  to  his 
general  to  evacuate  Spandau,  but  at  the  same 


time  declared  to  the  Elector  that  he  would  hence¬ 
forth  regard  him  as  an  enemy. 

To  give  weight  to  this  declaration,  he  appeared 
with  his  whole  force  before  Berlin.  “  I  will  not 
be  worse  treated  than  the  imperial  generals,”  was 
his  reply  to  the  ambassadors  whom  the  bewildered 
Elector  dispatched  to  his  camp.  “  Your  master 
has  received  them  into  his  territories,  furnished 
them  with  all  necessary  supplies,  ceded  to  them 
every  place  which  they  required,  and  yet,  by  all 
these  concessions,  he  could  not  prevail  upon  them 
to  treat  his  subjects  with  common  humanity.  All 
that  I  require  of  him  is  security,  a  moderate  sum 
of  money,  and  provisions  for  my  troops  ;  in  return, 

I  promise  to  protect  his  country,  and  to  keep  the 
war  at  a  distance  from  him.  On  these  points, 
however,  I  must  insist;  and.  my  brother,  the 
Elector,  must  instantly  determine  to  have  me  as  a 
friend,  or  to  see  his  capital  plundered.”  This  deci¬ 
sive  tone  produced  a  due  impression  ;  and  the 
cannon  pointed  against  the  town  put  an  end  to 
the  doubts  of  George  William.  In  a  few  days,  a 
treaty  was  signed,  by  which  the  Elector  engaged 
to  furnish  a  monthly  subsidy  of  thirty  thousand 
dollars,  to  leave  Spandau  in  the  king’s  hands,  and 
to  open  Custrin  at  all  times  to  the  Swedish  troops. 
This  now  open  alliance  of  the  Elector  of  Bran¬ 
denburg  with  the  Swedes,  excited  no  less  displea¬ 
sure  at  Vienna,  than  did  formerly  the  similar  pro¬ 
cedure  of  the  Duke  of  Pomerania;  but  the  changed 
fortune  which  now  attended  his  arms,  obliged  the 
Emperor  to  confine  his  resentment  to  words. 

The  king’s  satisfaction,  on  this  favorable  event, 
was  increased  by  the  agreeable  intelligence  that 
Griefswald,  the  only  fortress  which  the  Imperial¬ 
ists  still  held  in  Pomerania,  had  surrendered,  and 
that  the  whole  country  was  now  free  of  the  enemy. 
He  appeared  once  more  in  this  duchy,  and  was 
gratified  at  the  sight  of  the  general  joy  which  he 
had  caused  to  the  people.  A  year  had  elapsed 
since  Gustavus  first  entered  Germany,  and  this 
event  was  now  celebrated  by  all  Pomerania  as  a 
national  festival.  Shortly  before,  the  Czar  of 
Moscow  had  sent  ambassadors  to  congratulate 
him,  to  renew  his  alliance,  and  even  to  offer  him 
troops.  He  had  great  reason  to  rejoice  at  the 
friendly  disposition  of  Bussia,  as  it  was  indispen¬ 
sable  to  his  interests  that  Sweden  itself  should 
remain  undisturbed  by  any  dangerous  neighbor 
during  the  war  in  which  he  himself  was  engaged. 
Soon  after,  his  queen,  Maria  Eleonora,  landed  in 
•Pomerania,  with  a  reinforcement  of  8,000  Swedes; 
and  the  arrival  of  6,000  English,  under  the  Mar¬ 
quis  of  Hamilton,  requires  more  particular  notice, 
because  this  is  all  that  history  mentions  of  the 
English  during  the  Thirty  Years’  War. 

During  Tilly’s  expedition  into  Thuringia,  Pap- 
penheim  commanded  in  Magdeburg;  but  was  un- 
able  to  prevent  the  Swedes  from  crossing  the 
Elbe  at  various  points,  routing  some  imperial  de¬ 
tachments,  and  seizing  several  posts.  He  him¬ 
self,  alarmed  at  the  approach  of  the  King  of  Swe¬ 
den,  anxiously  recalled  Tilly,  and  prevailed  upon 
him  to  return  by  rapid  marches  to  Magdeburg. 
Tilly  encamped  on  this  side  of  the  river  at  Wol- 
merstadt;  Gustavus  on  the  same  side,  near  Wer- 
ben,  not  far  from  the  confluence  of  the  Havel  anil 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR 


179 


the  Elbe.  His  very  arrival  portended  no  good  to 
Tilly.  The  Swedes  routed  three  of  his  uegiments, 
which  were  posted  in  villages  at  some  distance 
from  the  main  body,  carried  off  half  their  bag¬ 
gage,  and  burned  the  remainder.  Tilly  in  vain 
advanced  within  cannon  shot  of  the  king’s  camp, 
and  offered  him  battle.  Gustavus,  weaker  by  one- 
half  than  his  adversary,  prudently  declined  ft; 
and  his  position  was  too  strong  for  an  attack. 
Nothing  more  ensued  but  a  distant  cannonade, 
and  a  few  skirmishes,  in  which  the  Swedes  had 
invariably  the  advantage.  In  his  retreat  to  Wol- 
merstadt,  Tilly’s  army  was  weakened  by  numerous 
desertions.  Fortune  seemed  to  have  forsaken 
him  since  the  carnage  of  Magdeburg. 

The  King  of  Sweden,  on  the  contrary,  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  uninterrupted  success.  While  he  him¬ 
self  was  encamped  in  Werben,  the  whole  of  Meck¬ 
lenburg,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  towns,  was 
conquered  by  General  Tott  and  the  Duke  Adol¬ 
phus  Frederick;  and  he  enjoyed  the  satisfaction 
of  reinstating  both  dukes  in  their  dominions.  He 
proceeded  in  person  to  Gustrow,  where  the  rein¬ 
statement  was  solemnly  to  take  place,  to  give  ad¬ 
ditional  dignity  to  the  ceremony  by  his  presence. 
The  two  dukes,  with  their  deliverer  between  them, 
and  attended  by  a  spleudid  train  of  princes,  made 
a  public  entry  into  the  city,  which  the  joy  of  their 
subjects  converted  into  an  affecting  solemnity. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  Werben,  the  Landgrave 
of  Hesse  Cassel  appeared  in  his  camp,  to  conclude 
an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance;  the  first  so¬ 
vereign  prince  in  Germany,  who  voluntarily  and 
openly  declared  against  the  Emperor,  though  not 
wholly  uninfluenced  by  strong  motives.  The 
Landgrave  bound  himself  to  act  against  the  king’s 
enemies  as  his  own,  to  open  to  him  his  towns  and 
territory,  and  to  furnish  his  army  with  provisions 
and  necessaries.  The  king,  on  the  other  hand, 
declared  himself  his  ally  and  protector;  and  en¬ 
gaged  to  conclude  no  peace  with  the  Emperor 
without  first  obtaining  for  the  Landgrave  a  full 
redress  of  grievances.  Both  parties  honorably 
performed  their  agreement.  Hesse  Cassel  adhered 
to  the  Swedish  alliance  during  the  whole  of  this 
tedious  war;  and  at  the  peace  of  Westphalia  had 
no  reason  to  regret  the  friendship  of  Sweden. 

Tilly,  from  whom  this  bold  step  on  the  part  of 
the  Landgrave  was  not  long  concealed,  dispatched 
Count  Fugger  with  several  regiments  against 
him  ;  and  at  the  same  time  endeavored  to  excite 
his  subjects  to  rebellion  by  inflammatory  letters. 
But  these  made  as  little  impression  as  his  troops, 
which  subsequently  failed  him  so  decidedly  at  the 
battle  of  Breitenfeld.  The  Estates  of  Hesse 
could  not  for  a  moment  hesitate  between  their  op¬ 
pressor  and  their  protector. 

But  the  imperial  general  was  far  more  disturbed 
by  the  equivocal  conduct  of  the  Elector  of  Sax¬ 
ony,  who,  in  defiance  of  the  imperial  prohibition, 
continued  his  preparations,  and  adhered  to  the 
confederation  of  Leipsic.  At  this  conjuncture, 
when  the  proximity  of  the  King  of  Sweden  made 
a  decisive  battle  ere  long  inevitable,  it  appeared  1 
extremely  dangerous  to  leave  Saxony  in  arms, 
and  ready  in  a  moment  to  declare  for  the  enemy. 
Tilly  had  just  received  a  reinforcement  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  veteran  troops  under  Furstenberg, 


and,  confident  in  his  strength,  he  hoped  either  to 
disarm  the  Elector  by  the  mere  terror  of  his  arri¬ 
val,  or  at  least  to  conquer  him  with  little  diffi¬ 
culty.  Before  quitting  his  camp  at  Wolmerstadt, 
he  commanded  the  Elector,  by  a  special  messen¬ 
ger,  to  open  his  territories  to  the  imperial  troops ; 
either  to  disband  his  own,  or  to  join  them  to  the 
imperial  army  ;  and  to  assist,  in  conjunction  with 
himself,  in  driving  the  King  of  Sweden  out  of 
Germany.  While  he  reminded  him  that,  of  all 
the  German  states,  Saxony  had  hitherto  been 
most  respected,  he  threatened  it,  in  case  of  refu¬ 
sal,  with  the  most  destructive  ravages. 

But  Tilly  had  chosen  an  unfavorable  moment 
for  so  imperious  a  requisition.  The  ill-treatment 
of  his  religious  and  political  confederates,  the 
destruction  of  Magdeburg,  the  excesses  of  the 
Imperialists  in  Lusatia,  all  combined  to  incense 
the  Elector  against  the  Emperor.  The  approach 
too,  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  (however  slender  his 
claims  were  to  the  protection  of  that  prince), 
tended  to  fortify  his  resolution.  He  accordingly 
forbade  the  quartering  of  the  imperial  soldiers  in 
his  territories,  and  announced  his  firm  determina¬ 
tion  to  persist  in  his  warlike  preparations.  “  How¬ 
ever  surprised  he  should  be,”  he  added,  “  to  see  au 
imperial  army  on  its  march  against  his  territories, 
when  that  army  had  enough  to  do  in  watching 
the  operations  of  the  King  of  Sweden,  neverthe¬ 
less  he  did  not  expect,  instead  of  the  promised 
and  well  merited  rewards,  to  be  repaid  with  in 
gratitude  and  the  ruin  of  his  country.”  To  Tilly’s 
deputies,  who  were  entertained  in  a  princely  style, 
he  gave  a  still  plainer  answer  on  the  occasion. 
“  Gentlemen,”  said  he,  “  I  perceive  that  the  Saxon 
confectionery,  which  has  been  so  long  kept  back, 
is  at  length  to  be  set  upon  the  table.  But  as  it 
is  usual  to  mix  with  it  nuts  and  garnish  of  all 
kinds,  take  care  of  your  teeth.” 

Tilly  instantly  broke  up  his  camp,  and,  with  the 
most  frightful  devastation,  advanced  upon  Halle; 
from  this  place  he  renewed  his  demands  on  the 
Elector,  in  a  tone  still  more  urgent  and  threaten¬ 
ing.  The  previous  policy  of  this  prince,  both 
from  his  own  inclination  and  the  persuasions  of 
his  corrupt  minister,  had  been  to  promote  the  in¬ 
terests  of  the  Emperor,  even  at  the  expense  of  his 
own  sacred  obligations,  and  but  very  little  tact 
had  hitherto  kept  him  inactive.  All  this  but  ren¬ 
ders  more  astonishing  the  infatuation  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  or  his  minister,  in  abandoning,  at  so  critical 
a  moment,  the  policy  they  had  hitherto  adopted, 
and,  by  extreme  measures,  incensing  a  prince  so 
easily  led.  Was  this  the  very  object  which  Tilly 
had  in  view?  Was  it  his  purpose  to  convert  an 
equivocal  friend  into  an  open  enemy,  and  thus  to 
'  relieve  himself  from  the  necessity  of  that  indul¬ 
gence  in  the  treatment  of  this  prince,  which  the 
secret  instructions  of  the  Emperor  had  hitherto 
imposed  upon  him?  Or  was  it  the  Emperor’s 
wish,  by  driving  the  Elector  to  open  hostilities, 
to  get  quit  of  his  obligations  to  him,  and  so  clev¬ 
erly  to  break  off  at  once  the  difficulty  of  a  reckon¬ 
ing  ?  In  either  case,  we  must  be  equally  surprised 
at  the  daring  presumption  of  Tilly,  who  hesitated 
not,  in  presence  of  one  formidable  enemy,  to  pro¬ 
voke  another ;  and  at  his  negligence  in  permit¬ 
ting,  without  opposition,  the  union  of  the  two. 


180 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS5  WAR. 


The  Saxon  Elector,  rendered  desperate  by  the 
entrance  of  Tilly  into  his  territories,  threw  him¬ 
self,  though  not  without  a  violent  struggle,  under 
the  protection  of  Sweden. 

Immediately  after  dismissing  Tilly’s  first  em¬ 
bassy,  he  had  dispatched  his  field-marshal  Arn- 
heim  in  all  haste  to  the  camp  of  Gustavus,  to 
solicit  the  prompt  assistance  of  that  monarch 
whom  he  had  so  long  neglected.  The  king  con¬ 
cealed  the  inward  satisfaction  he  felt  at  this  long- 
wished-for  result.  “  I  am  sorry  for  the  Elector,” 
said  he,  with  dissembled  coldness,  to  the  ambas¬ 
sador ;  “had  he  heeded  my  repeated  remon¬ 
strances,  his  country  would  never  (have  seen  the 
face  of  an  enemy,  and  Magdeburg  would  not  have 
fallen.  Now,  when  necessity  leaves  him  no  alter¬ 
native,  he  has  recourse  to  my  assistance.  But 
tell  him,  that  I  cannot,  for  the  sake  of  the  Elector 
of  Saxony,  ruin  my  own  cause,  and  that  of  my 
confederates.  What  pledge  have  I  for  the 
sincerity  of  a  prince  whose  minister  is  in  the  pay 
of  Austria,  and  who  will  abandon  me  as  soon  as 
the  Emperor  flatters  him,  and  withdraws  his 
troops  from  his  frontiers  ?  Tilly,  it  is  true,  has 
received  a  strong  reinforcement ;  but  this  shall 
not  prevent  me  from  meeting  him  with  confidence, 
as  soon  as  I  have  covered  my  rear.” 

The  Saxon  minister  could  make  no  other  reply 
to  these  reproaches,  than  that  it  was  best  to  bury 
the  past  in  oblivion. 

He  pressed  the  king  to  name  the  conditions  on 
which  he  would  afford  assistance  to  Saxony,  and 
offered  to  guarantee  their  acceptance.  “  I  re¬ 
quire,”  said  Gustavus,  “  that  the  Elector  shall 
cede  to  me  the  fortress  of  Wittenberg,  deliver  to 
me  his  eldest  sons  as  hostages,  furnish  my  troops 
with  three  months’  pay,  and  deliver  up  to  me  the 
traitors  among  his  ministry.” 

“Not  Wittenberg  alone,”  said  the  Elector, 
when  he  received  this  answer,  and  hurried  back 
his  minister  to  the  Swedish  camp,  “not  Witten¬ 
berg  alone,  but  Torgau,  and  all  Saxony,  shall  be 
open  to  him  ;  my  whole  family  shall  be  his  host¬ 
ages  ;  and  if  that  is  insufficient,  I  will  place  myself 
in  his  hands.  Return  and  inform  him  I  am  ready 
to  deliver  to  him  any  traitors  he  shall  name,  to 
furnish  his  army  with  the  money  he  requires,  and 
to  venture  my  life  and  fortune  in  the  good  cause” 

The  king  had  only  desired  to  test  the  sincerity 
of  the  Elector’s  new  sentiments.  Convinced  of  it, 
he  now  retracted  these  harsh  demands.  “  The 
distrust,”  said  he,  “which  was  shown  to  myself 
when  advancing  to  the  relief  of  Magdeburg,  had 
naturally  excited  mine;  the  Elector’s  present 
confidence  demands  a  return.  I  am,  satisfied, 
provided  he  grants  my  army  one  month’s  pay,  and 
even  for  this  advance  I  hope  to  indemnify  him.” 

Immediately  upon  the  conclusion  of  the  treaty, 
the  king  crossed  the  Elbe,  and  next  day  joined 
the  Saxons.  Instead  of  preventing  this  junction, 
Tilly  had  advanced  against  Leipsic,  which  he 
summoned  to  receive  an  imperial  garrison.  In 
hopes  of  speedy  relief,  Hans  Yon  der  Pforta,  the 
commandant,  made  preparations  for  his  defense, 
and  laid  the  suburb  toward  Halle  in  ashes.  But 
the  ill  condition  of  the  fortifications  made  resist¬ 
ance  vain,  and  on  the  second  day  the  gates  were 
opened.  Tilly  had  fixed  his  head -quarters  in  the 


house  of  a  grave-digger,  the  only  one  still  stand* 
ing  in  thp  suburb  of  Halle  :  here  he  signed  the 
capitulation,  and  here,  too,  he  arranged  his  attack 
on  the  King  of  Sweden.  Tilly  grew  pale  at  the 
representation  of  the  death’s  head  and  cross-bones, 
with  which  the  proprietor  had  decorated  his  house  ; 
and,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  Leipsic  expe¬ 
rienced  moderate  treatment. 

Meanwhile,  a  council  of  war  was  held  at  Tor¬ 
gau,  between  the  King  of  Sweden  and  the  Elector 
of  Saxony,  at  which  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg 
was  also  present.  The  resolution  which  should 
now  be  adopted,  was  to  decide  irrevocably  the 
fate  of  Germany  and  the  Protestant  religion,  the 
happiness  of  nations  and  the  destiny  of  their 
princes.  The  anxiety  of  suspense  which,  before 
every  decisive  resolve,  oppresses  even  the  hearts 
of  heroes,  appeared  now  for  a  moment  to  over¬ 
shadow  the  great  mind  of  Gustavus  Adolphus. 
“  If  we  decide  upon  battle,”  said  he,  “  the  stake 
will  be  nothing  less  than  a  crown  and  two  elect¬ 
orates.  Fortune  is  changeable,  and  the  inscrut¬ 
able  decrees  of  Heaven  may,  for  our  sins,  give  the 
victory  to  our  enemies.  My  kingdom,  it  is  true, 
even  after  the  loss  of  my  life  and  my  army,  would 
still  have  a  hope  left.  Far  removed  from  the 
scene  of  action,  defended  by  a  powerful  fleet,  a 
well-guarded  frontier,  and  a  warlike  population, 
it  wrould  at  least  be  safe  from  the  worst  conse¬ 
quences  of  a  defeat.  But  what  chances  of  escape 
are  there  for  you,  with  an  enemy  so  close  at  hand  ?  ” 
Gustavus  Adolphus  displayed  the  modest  diffidence 
of  a  hero,  whom  an  overweening  belief  of  his 
own  strength  did  not  blind  to  the  greatness  of  his 
danger;  John  George,  the  confidence  of  a  weak 
man.  who  knows  that  he  has  a  hero  by  his  side. 
Impatient  to  rid  his  territories  as  soon  as  possi¬ 
ble  of  the  oppressive  presence  of  two  armies,  he 
burned  for  a  battle,  in  which  he  had  no  former 
laurels  to  lose.  He  was  ready  to  march  with  his 
Saxons  alone  against  Leipsic,  and  attack  Tilly. 
At  last  Gustavus  acceded  to  his  opinion  ;  and  it 
was  resolved  that  the  attack  should  be  made  with¬ 
out  delay,  before  the  arrival  of  the  reinforcements, 
which  were  on  their  way,  under  Altringer  and 
Tiefenbaeh.  The  united  Swedish  and  Saxon 
armies  now  crossed  the  Mulda,  while  the  Elector 
returned  homeward. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  7th  of  September, 
1631,  the  hostile  armies  came  in  sight  of  each 
other.  Tilly,  who,  since  he  had  neglected  the 
opportunity  of  overpowering  the  Saxons  before 
their  union  with  the  Swedes,  was  disposed  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  reinforcements,  had  taken 
up  a  strong  and  advantageous  position  not  %r 
from  Leipsic,  where  he  expected  he  should  be 
able  to  avoid  the  battle.  But  the  impetuosity  of 
Pappenheim  obliged  him,  as  soon  as  the  enemy 
were  in  motion,  to  alter  his  plans,  and  to  move  to 
the  left,  in  the  direction  of  the  hills  which  run 
from  the  village  of  Wahren  toward  Lindenthal. 
At  the  foot  of  these  heights,  his  army  was  drawn 
up  in  a  single  line,  and  his  artillery  placed  upon 
the  heights  behind,  from  which  it  could  sweep  the 
whole  extensive  plain  of  Breitenfeld.  The  Swed¬ 
ish  and  Saxon  army  advanced  in  two  columns,  hav¬ 
ing  to  pass  the  Lober,  near  Podelwitz,  in  Tilly’s 
front. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


181 


To  defend  the  passage  of  this  rivulet,  Pappen- 
heim  advanced  at  the  head  of  two  thousand  cuiras¬ 
siers,  though  after  great  reluctance  on  the  part 
of  Tilly,  and  with  express  orders  not  to  commence 
a  battle.  But,  in  disobedience  to  this  command, 
Pappenheim  attacked  the  vanguard  of  the  Swedes, 
and  after *a  brief  struggle  was  driven  to  retreat. 
To  check  the  progress  of  the  enemy,  he  set  fire  to 
Podelwitz,  which,  however,  did  not  prevent  the 
two  columns  from  advancing  and  forming  in  order 
of  battle. 

On  the  right,  the  Swedes  drew  up  in  a  double 
line,  the  infantry  in  the  centre,  divided  into  such 
small  battalions  as  could  be  easily  and  rapidly 
manoeuvred  without  breaking  their  order ;  the 
cavalry  upon  their  wings,  divided  in  the  same 
manner  into  small  squadrons,  interspersed  with 
bodies  of  musketeers,  so  as  both  to  give  an  ap¬ 
pearance  of  greater  numerical  force,  and  to  annoy 
the  enemy’s  horse.  Colonel  Teufel  commanded 
the  centre,  Gustavus  Horn  the  left,  while  the  right 
was  led  by  the  king  in  person,  opposed  to  Count 
Pappenheim. 

On  the  left,  the  Saxons  formed  at  a  consider¬ 
able  distance  from  the  Swedes- — by  the  advice  of 
Gustavus,  which  was  justified  by  the  event.  The 
order  of  battle  had  been  arranged  between  the 
Elector  and  his  field-marshal,  and  the  king  was 
content  with  merely  signifying  his  approval.  He 
was  anxious  apparently  to  separate  the  Swedish 
prowess  from  that  of  the  Saxons,  and  fortune  did 
not  confound  them. 

The  enemy  was  drawn  up  under  the  heights  to¬ 
ward  the  west,  in  one  immense  line,  long  enough 
to  outflank  the  Swedish  army — the  infantry  being 
divided  in  large  battalions,  the  cavalry  in  equally 
unwieldly  squadrons.  The  artillery  being  on  the 
heights  behind,  the  range  of  its  fire  was  over  the 
heads  of  his  men.  From  this  position  of  his  ar¬ 
tillery,  it  was  evident  that  Tilly’s  purpose  was  to 
await  rather  than  to  attack  the  enemy ;  since  this 
arrangement  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  do 
so  without  exposing  his  men  to  the  fire  of  his 
own  cannons.  Tilly  himself  commanded  the 
centre,  Count  Furstenberg  the  right  wing,  and 
Pappenheim  the  left.  The  united  troops  of  the 
Emperor  and  the  League  on  this  day  did  not 
amount  to  more  than  35,000  men  ;  the  Swedes  and 
Saxons  were  about  the  same  number.  But  had 
a  million  been  confronted  with  a  million,  it  could 
only  have  rendered  the  action  more  bloody,  cer¬ 
tainly  not  more  important  and  decisive.  For  this 
day  Gustavus  had  crossed  the  Baltic,-  to  court 
danger  in  a  distant  country,  and  expose  his  crown 
and  life  to  the  caprice  of  fortune.  The  two  great¬ 
est  generals  of  the  time,  both  hitherto  invincible, 
were  now  to  be  matched  against  each  other  in  a 
contest  which  both  had  long  avoided ;  and  on  this 
field  of  battle  the  hitherto  untarnished  laurels  of 
one  leader  must  droop  forever.  The  two  parties 
in  Germany  had  beheld  the  approach  of  this  day 
with  fear  and  trembling  ;  Europe  awaited  with 
deep  anxiety  its  issue,  and  posterity  was  either  to 
bless  or  deplore  it  forever. 

Tilly’s  usual  intrepidity  and  resolution  seemed 
to  forsake  him  on  this  eventful  day.  He  had 
formed  no  regular  plan  for  giving  battle  to  the 
king,  and  he  displayed  as  little  firmness  in  avoid¬ 


ing  it.  Contrary  to  his  own  judgment,  Pappen¬ 
heim  had  forced  him  to  action.  Doubts  which  he 
had  never  before  felt,  struggled  in  his  bosom ; 
gloomy  forebodings  clouded  his  ever-open  brow ; 
the  shade  of  Magdeburg  seemed  to  hover  over 
him. 

A  cannonade  of  two  hours  commenced  the 
battle;  the  wind,  which  was  from  the  west,  blew 
thick  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust  from  the  newly- 
plowed  and  parched  fields  into  the  faces  of  the 
Swedes.  This  compelled  the  king  insensibly  to 
wheel  northward,  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
this  movement  was  executed  left  no  time  to  the 
enemy  to  prevent  it. 

Tilly  at  last  left  his  heights,  and  began  the  first 
attack  upon  the  Swedes ;  but  to  avoid  their  hot 
fire,  he  filed  off  toward  the  right,  and  fell  upon 
the  Saxons  with  such  impetuosity  that  their  line 
was  broken,  and  the  whole  army  thrown  into  con¬ 
fusion.  The  Elector  himself  retired  to  Eilen- 
burg,  though  a  few  regiments  still  maintained 
their  ground  upon  the  field,  and  by  a  bold  stand 
saved  the  honor  of  Saxony.  Scarcely  had  the 
confusion  begun  ere  the  Croats  commenced  plun¬ 
dering,  and  messengers  were  dispatched  to  Mu¬ 
nich  and  Vienna  with  the  news  of  the  victory. 

Pappenheim  had  thrown  himself  with  the  whole 
force  of  his  cavalry  upon  the  right  wing  of  the 
Swedes,  but  without  being  able  to  make  it  waver. 
The  king  commanded  here  in  person,  and  under 
him  General  Banner.  Seven  times  did  Pappen¬ 
heim  renew  the  attack,  and  seven  times  was  he 
repulsed.  He  fled  at  last  with  great  loss,  and 
abandoned  the  field  to  his  conqueror. 

In  the  mean  time,  Tilly,  having  routed  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  the  Saxons,  attacked  with  his  victo¬ 
rious  troops  the  left  wing  of  the  Swedes.  To  this 
wing  the  king,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  that  the 
Saxons  were  thrown  into  disorder,  had,  with  a 
ready  foresight,  detached  a  reinforcement  of  three 
regiments  to  cover  its  flank,  which  the  flight  of 
the  Saxons  had  left  exposed.  Gustavus  Horn, 
who  commanded  here,  showed  the  enemy’s  cui¬ 
rassiers  a  spirited  resistance,  which  the  infantry, 
interspersed  among  the  squadrons  of  horse,  ma¬ 
terially  assisted.  The  enemy  were  already  begin¬ 
ning  to  relax  the  vigor  of  their  attack,  when  Gus¬ 
tavus  Adolphus  appeared  to  terminate  the  con¬ 
test.  The  left  wing  of  the  Imperialists  had  been 
routed  ;  and  the  king’s  division,  having  no  longer 
any  enemy  to  oppose,  could  now  turn  their  arms 
wherever  it  would  be  to  the  most  advantage. 
Wheeling,  therefore,  with  his  right  wing  and  main 
body  to  the  left,  he  attacked  the  heights  on  which 
the  enemy’s  artillery  was  planted.  Gaining  pos¬ 
session  of  them  in  a  short  time,  he  turned  upon 
the  enemy  the  full  fire  of  their  own  cannon. 

The  play  of  artillery  upon  their  flank,  and  the 
terrible  onslaught  of  the  Swedes  in  front,  threw 
this  hitherto  invincible  army  into  confusion.  A 
sudden  retreat  was  the  only  course  left  to  Tilly, 
but  even  this  was  to  be  made  through  the  midst 
of  the  enemy.  The  whole  army  was  in  disorder, 
with  the  exception  of  four  regiments  of  veteran 
soldiers,  who  never  as  yet  had  fled  from  the  field, 
and  were  resolved  not  to  do  so  now.  Closing 
their  ranks,  they  broke  through  the  thickest  of 
the  victorious  army,  and  gained  a  small  thicket, 


182 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


\ 


where  they  opposed  a  new  front  to  the  Swedes, 
and  maintained  their  resistance  till  night,  when 
their  number  was  reduced  to  six  hundred  men. 
With  them  fled  the  wreck  of  Tilly’s  army,  and  the 
battle  was  decided. 

Amid  the  dead  and  the  wounded,  Gustavus 
Adolphus  threw  himself  on  his  knees;  and  the 
first  joy  of  his  victory  gushed  forth  in  fervent 
prayer.  He  ordered  his  cavalry  to  pursue  the 
enemy  as  long  as  the  darkness  of  the  night  would 
permir.  The  pealing  of  the  alarm-bells  set  the 
inhabitants  of  all  the  neigboring  villages  in  mo¬ 
tion,  and  utterly  lost  was  the  unhappy  fugitive 
who  fell  into  their  hands.  The  lqng  encamped 
with  the  rest  of  his  army  between  the  field  of 
battle  and  Leipsic,  as  it  was  impossible  to  attack 
the  town  the  same  night.  Seven  thousand  of  the 
enemy  were  killed  in  the  field,  and  more  than  five 
thousand  either  wounded  or  taken  prisoners. 
Their  whole  artillery  and  camp  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Swedes,  and  more  than  a  hundred  stand¬ 
ards  and  colors  were  taken.  Of  the  Saxons  about 
two  thousand  had  fallen,  while  the  loss  of  the 
Swedes  did  not  exceed  seven  hundred.  The  rout 
of  the  Imperialists  was  so  complete,  that  Tilly, 
on  his  retreat  to  Halle  and  Halberstadt,  could 
not  rally  above  six  hundred  men,  or  Pappenheim 
more  than  fourteen  hundred  — so  rapidly  was  this 
formidable  army  dispersed,  which  so  lately  was  the 
terror  of  Italy  and  Germany. 

Tilly  himself  owed  his  escape  merely  to  chance. 
Exhausted  by  his  wounds,  lie  still  refused  to  sur¬ 
render  to  a  Swedish  captain  of  horse,  who  sum¬ 
moned  him  to  yield  ;  but  who,  when  he  was  on 
the  point  of  putting  him  to  death,  was  himself 
stretched  on  the  ground  by  a  timely  pistol-shot. 
But  more  grievous  than  danger  or  wounds  was  the 
pain  of  surviving  his  reputation,  and  of  losing  in 
a  single  day  the  fruits  of  a  long  life.  All  former 
victories  were  as  nothing,  since  he  had  failed  in 
gaining  the  one  that  should  have  crowned  them 
all.  Nothing  remained  of  all  his  past  exploits, 
but  the  general  execration  which  had  followed 
them.  From  this  period  he  never  recovered  his 
cheerfulness  or  his  good  fortune.  Even  his  last 
consolation,  the  hope  of  revenge,  was  denied  to 
him,  by  the  express  command  of  the  Emperor  not 
to  risk  a  decisive  battle. 

The  disgrace  of  this  day  is  to  be  ascribed  prin¬ 
cipally  to  three  mistakes  ;  his  planting  the  cannon 
on  the  hills  behind  him,  his  afterward  abandoning 
these  heights,  and  his  allowing  the  enemy,  with¬ 
out  opposition,  to  form  in  order  of  battle.  But 
how  easily  might  those  mistakes  have  been  recti¬ 
fied,  had  it  not  beer,  for  the  cool  presence  of  mind 
and  superior  genius  of  his  adversary ! 

Tilly  fled  from  Halle  to  Halberstadt,  where  he 
scarcely  allowed  time  for  the  cure  of  his  wounds, 
before  he  hurried  toward  the  Weser  to  recruit 
his  force  by  the  imperial  garrisons  in  Lower 
Saxony. 

The  Elector  of  Saxony  had  not  failed,  after  the 
danger  was  over,  to  appear  in-Gustavus’s  camp. 
The  king  thanked  him  for  having  advised  a 
battle  ;  and  the  Elector,  charmed  at  his  friendly 
reception,  promised  him,  in  the  first  transports 
of  joy,  the  Roman  crown.  Gustavus  set  out  next 
day  for  Merseburg,  leaving  the  Elector  to  recover 


Leipsic.  Five  thousand  Imperialists,  who  had 
collected  together  after  the  defeat,  and  whom  he 
met  on  his  march,  were  either  cut  in  pieces  or 
taken  prisoners,  of  whom  again  the  greater  part 
entered  into  his  service.  Merseburg  quickly  sur¬ 
rendered  ;  Halle  was  soon  after  taken,  whither  the 
Elector  of  Saxony,  after  making  himself  master 
of  Leipsic,  repaired  to  meet  the  king,  and  to  con¬ 
cert  their  future  plan  of  operations. 

The  victory  was  gained,  but  only  a  prudent  use 
of  it  could  render  it  decisive.  The  imperial  ar¬ 
mies  were  totally  routed,  Saxony  free  from  the 
enemy,  and  Tilly  had  retired  into  Brunswick.  To 
have  followed  him  thither  would  have  been  to  re¬ 
new  the  war  in  Lower  Saxony,  which  had  scarcely 
recovered  from  the  ravages  of  the  last.  It  was 
therefore  determined  to  carry  the  war  into  the 
enemy’s  country,  which,  open  and.  defenseless  as 
far  as  Vienna,  invited  attack.  On  their  right, 
they  might  fall  upon  the  territories  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  princes,  or  penetrate,  on  the  left,  into 
the  hereditary  dominions  of  Austria,  and  make 
the  Emperor  tremble  in  his  palace.  Both  plans 
were  resolved  on  ;  and  the  question  that  now  re¬ 
mained  was  to  assign  its  respective  parts.  Gus¬ 
tavus  Adolphus,  at  the  head  of  a  victorious  army, 
had  little  resistance  to  apprehend  in  his  progress 
from  Leipsic  to  Prague,  Vienna,  and  Presburg. 
As  to  Bohemia,  Moravia,  Austria,  and  Hungary, 
they  had  been  stripped  of  their  defenders,  while 
the  oppressed  Protestants  in  these  countries  were 
ripe  for  a  revolt.  Ferdinand  was  no  longer  se¬ 
cure  in  his  capital;  Vienna,  on  the  first  terror 
of  surprise,  would  at  once  open  its  gates.  The 
loss  of  his  territories  would  deprive  the  enemy 
of  the  resources  by  which  alone  the  war  could  be 
maintained  ;  and  Ferdinand  would,  in  all  proba¬ 
bility,  gladly  accede,  on  the  hardest  conditions, 
to  a  peace  which  would  remove  a  formidable 
enemy  from  the  heart  of  his  dominions.  This 
bold  plan  of  operations  was  flattering  to  a  con¬ 
queror,  and  success  perhaps  might  have  justified 
it.  But  Gustavus  Adolphus,  as  prudent  as  he 
was  brave,  and  more  a  statesman  than  a  con¬ 
queror,  rejected  it,  because  he  had  a  higher  end 
in  view,  and  would  not  trust  the  issue  either 
to  bravery  or  good  fortune  alone. 

By  marching  toward  Bohemia,  Franconia  and 
the  Upper  Rhine  would  be  left  to  the  Elector  of 
Saxony.  But  Tilly  had  already  began  to  recruit 
his  shattered  army  from  the  garrisons  in  Lower 
Saxony,  and  was  likely  to  be  at  the  head  of  a 
formidable  force  upon  the  Weser,  and  to  lose  no 
time  in  marching  against  the  enemy.  To  so  expe¬ 
rienced  a  general,  it  would  not  do  to  oppose  an 
Arnheim,  of  whose  military  skill  the  battle  of 
Leipsic  had  afforded  but  equivocal  proof ;  and  of 
what  avail  would  be  the  rapid  and  brilliant 
career  of  the  king  in  Bohemia  and  Austria,  if 
Tilly  should  recover  his  superiority  in  the  Em¬ 
pire,  animating  the  courage  of  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics,  and  disarming,  by  a  new  series  of  victories, 
the  allies  and  confederates  of  the  king?  What 
would  he  gain  by  expelling  the  Emperor  from  his 
hereditary  dominions,  if  Tilly  succeeded  in  con¬ 
quering  for  that  Emperor  the  rest  of  Germany  ? 
Could  he  hope  to  reduce  the  Emperor  more  than 
had  been  done,  twelve  years  before,  by  the  insur- 


183 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


rection  of  Bohemia,  which  had  failed  to  shake  the 
firmness  or  exhaust  the  resources  of  that  prince, 
and  from  which  he  had  risen  more  formidable 
than  ever? 

Less  brilliant,  but  more  solid,  were  the  advan¬ 
tages  which  he  had  to  expect  from  an  incursion 
into  the  territories  of  the  League.  In  this  quar¬ 
ter,  his  appearance  in  arms  would  be  decisive.  At 
this  very  conjuncture,  the  Princes  were  assembled 
in  a  Diet  at  Frankfort,  to  deliberate  upon  the 
Edict  of  Restitution,  where  Ferdinand  employed 
all  his  artful  policy  to  persuade  the  intimidated 
Protestants  to  accede  to  a  speedy  and  disadvan¬ 
tageous  arrangement.  The  advance  of  their  pro¬ 
tector  could  alone  encourage  them  to  a  bold  re¬ 
sistance,  and  disappoint  the  Emperor’s  designs. 
Gustavus  Adolphus  hoped,  by  his  presence,  to 
unite  the  discontented  princes,  or  by  the  terror  of 
his  arms  to  detach  them  from  the  Emperor’s 
party.  Here,  in  the  centre  of  Germany,  he  could 
paralyse  the  nerves  of  the  imperial  power,  which, 
without  the  aid  of  the  League  must  soon  fall — 
here,  in  the  neigborhood  of  France,  he  could 
watch  the  movements  of  a  suspicious  ally  ;  and 
however  important  to  his  secret  views  it  was  to 
cultivate  the  friendship  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
electors,  he  saw  the  necessity  of  making  himself 
first  of  all  master  of  their  fate,  in  order  to  estab¬ 
lish,  by  his  magnanimous  forbearance,  a  claim 
to  their  gratitude. 

He  accordingly  chose  the  route  to  Franconia 
and  the  Rhine  ;  and  left  the  conquest  of  Bohemia 
to  the  Elector  of  Saxony. 


BOOK  III. 

The  glorious  battle  of  Leipsic  effected  a  great 
change  in  the  conduct  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  as 
well  as  in  the  opinion  which  both  friends  and  foes 
entertained  of  him.  Successfully  had  he  con¬ 
fronted  the  ablest  general  of  the  age,  and  had 
matched  the  strength  of  his  tactics  and  the 
courage  of  his  Swedes  against  the  elite  of  the  im¬ 
perial  army,  the  most  experienced  troops  in 
Europe.  From  this  moment  he  felt  a  firm  confi¬ 
dence  in  his  own  powers — self-confidence  has  always 
been  the  parent  of  great  actions.  In  all  his  sub¬ 
sequent  operations  more  boldness  and  decision 
are  observable  ;  greater  determination,  even 
amidst  the  most  unfavorable  circumstances,  a 
more  lofty  tone  toward  his  adversaries,  a  more 
dignified  bearing  toward  his  allies,  and  even  in 
his  clemency,  something  of  the  forbearance  of  a 
conqueror.  His  natural  courage  was  further 
heightened  by  the  pious  ardor  of  his  imagination. 
He  saw  in  his  own  cause  that  of  Heaven,  and  in  the 
defeat  of  Tilly  he  beheld  the  decisive  interference 
of  Providence  against  his  enemies,  and  in  himself 
the  instrument  of  divine  vengeance.  Leaving 
his  crown  and  his  country  far  behind,  he  ad¬ 
vanced  on  the  wings  of  victory  into  the  heart  of 
Germany,  which  for  centuries  had  seen  no  foreign  , 
conqueror  within  its  bosom.  The  warlike  spirit  I 
of  its  inhabitants,  the  vigilance  of  its  numerous 
princes,  the  artful  confederation  of  its  states,  the 
number  of  its  strong  castles,  its  many  and  broad 


rivers,  had  long  restrained  the  ambition  of  its 
neighbors  ;  and  frequently  as  its  extensive  fron¬ 
tier  had  been  attacked,  its  interior  had  been  free 
from  hostile  invasion.  The  Empire  had  hitherto 
enjoyed  the  equivocal  privilege  of  being  its  own 
enemy,  though  invincible  from  without.  Even 
now,  it  was  merely  the  disunion  of  its  members, 
and  the  intolerance  of  religious  zeal,  that  paved 
the  way  for  the  Swedish  invader.  The  bond  of 
union  between  the  states,  which  alone  had  ren¬ 
dered  the  Empire  invincible,  was  now  dissolved  ; 
and  Gustavus  derived  from  Germany  itself  the 
power  by  which  he  subdued  it.  With  as  much 
courage  as  prudence,  he  availed  himself  of  all 
that  the  favorable  moment  afforded  ;  and  equally 
at  home  in  the  cabinet  and  the  field,  he  tore 
asunder  the  web  of  the  artful  policy,  with  as  much 
ease,  as  he  shattered  walls  with  the  thunder  of 
his  cannon.  Uninterruptedly  he  pursued  his  con¬ 
quests  from  one  end  of  Germany  to  the  other, 
without  breaking  the  line  of  posts  which  com¬ 
manded  a  secure  retreat  at  any  moment;  and 
whether  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  or  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Lech,  alike  maintaining  his  commu¬ 
nication  with  his  hereditary  dominions. 

The  consternation  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
League  at  Tilly’s  defeat  at  Leipsic,  was  scarcely 
greater  than  the  surprise  and  embarrassment  of 
the  allies  of  the  King  of  Sweden  at  his  unexpected 
success.  It  was  beyond  both  their  expectations 
and  their  wishes.  Annihilated  in  a  moment  was 
that  formidable  army  which,  while  it  checked  his 
progress  and  set  bounds  to  his  ambition,  rendered 
him  in  some  measure  dependent  on  themselves. 
He  now  stood  in  the  heart  of  Germany,  alone, 
without  a  rival  or  without  an  adversary  who  was 
a  match  for  him.  Nothing  could  stop  his  pro¬ 
gress,  or  check  his  pretensions,  if  the  intoxication 
of  success  should  tempt  him  to  abuse  his  victory. 
If  formerly  they  had  dreaded  the  Emperor’s  irre¬ 
sistible  power,  there  was  no  less  cause  now  to  fear 
every  thing  for  the  Empire,  from  the  violence  of  a 
foreign  conqueror,  and  for  the  Catholic  Church, 
from  the  religious  zeal  of  a  Protestant  king.  The 
distrust  and  jealousy  of  some  of  the  combined 
powers,  which  a  stronger  fear  of  the  Emperor  had 
for  a  time  repressed,  now  revived  ;  and  scarcely 
had  Gustavus  Adolphus  merited,  by  his  courage 
and  success,  their  confidence,  when  they  began 
covertly  to  circumvent  all  his  plans.  Through  a 
continual  struggle  with  the  arts  of  enemies,  and 
the  distrust  of  his  own  allies,  must  his  victories 
henceforth  be  won ;  yet  resolution,  penetration, 
and  prudence  made  their  way  through  all  impedi¬ 
ments.  But  while  his  success  excited  the  jealousy 
of  his  more  powerful  allies,  France  and  Saxony, 
it  gave  courage  to  the  weaker,  and  emboldened 
them  openly  to  declare  their  sentiments  and  join 
his  party.  -  Those  who  could  neither  vie  with  Gus¬ 
tavus  Adolphus  in  importance,  nor  suffer  from  his 
ambition,  expected  the  more  from  the  magna¬ 
nimity  of  their  powerful  ally,  who  enriched  them 
with  the  spoils  of  their  enemies,  and  protected 
,  them  against  the  oppression  of  their  stronger 
1  neighbors.  His  strength  covered  their  weakness, 
and,  inconsiderable  in  themselves,  they  acquired 
weight  and  influence  from  their  union  with  the 
Swedish  hero.  This  was  the  case  with  most  of 


184 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


the  free  cities,  and  particularly  with  the  weaker 
Protestant  states.  It  was  these  that  introduced 
the  king-  into  the  heart  of  Germany  ;  these  co¬ 
vered  his  rear,  supplied  his  tro,ops  with  necessa¬ 
ries,  received  them  into  their  fortresses,  while  they 
exposed  their  own  lives  in  his  battles.  His  pru¬ 
dent  regard  to  their  national  pride,  his  popular 
deportment,  some  brilliant  acts  of  justice,  and  his 
respect  for  the  laws,  were  so  many  ties  by  which 
he  bound  the  German  Protestants  to  his  cause  ; 
while  the  crying  atrocities  of  the  Imperialists,  the 
Spaniards,  and  the  troops  of  Lorraine,  powerfully 
contributed  to  set  his  own  conduct  and  that  of 
his  army  in  a  favorable  light.  | 

If  Gustavus  Adolphus  owed  his  success  chiefly 
to  his  own  genius,  at  the  same  time,  it  must  be 
owned,  he  was  greatly  favored  by  fortune  and  by 
circumstances.  Two  great  advantages  gave  him 
a  decided  superiority  over  the  enemy.  While  he 
removed  the  scene  of  war  into  the  lands  of  the 
League,  drew  their  youth  as  recruits,  enriched 
himself  with  booty,  and  used  the  revenues  of  their 
fugitive  princes  as  his  own,  he  at  once  took  from 
the  enemy  the  means  of  effectual  resistance,  and 
maintained  an  expensive  war  with  little  cost  to 
himself.  And,  moreover,  while  his  opponents,  the 
princes  of  the  League,  divided  among  themselves, 
and  governed  by  different  and  often  conflicting 
interests,  acted  without  unanimity,  and  therefore 
without  energy ;  while  their  generals  were  defi¬ 
cient  in  authority,  their  troops  in  obedience,  the 
operations  of  their  scattered  armies  without  con¬ 
cert  ;  while  the  general  was  separated  from  the 
lawgiver  and  the  statesman  ;  these  several  func¬ 
tions  were  united  in  Gustavus  Adolphus,  the  only 
source  from  which  authority  flowed,  the  sole  ob¬ 
ject  to  which  the  eye  of  the  warrior  turned  ;  the 
soul  of  his  party,  the  inventor  as  well  as  the  exe¬ 
cutor  of  his  plans.  In  him,  therefore,  the  Pro¬ 
testants  had  a  centre  of  unity  and  harmony,  which 
was  altogether  wanting  to  their  opponents.  No 
wonder,  then,  if  favored  by  such  advantages,  at 
the  head  of  such  an  army,  with  such  a  genius  to 
direct  it,  and  guided  by  such  political  prudence, 
Gustavus  Adolphus  was  irresistible. 

With  the  sword  in  one  hand,  and  mercy  in  the 
other,  he  traversed  Germany  as  a  conqueror,  a 
lawgiver,  and  a  judge,  in  as  short  a  time  almost 
as  the  tourist  of  pleasure.  The  keys  of  towns  and 
fortresses  were  delivered  to  him,  as  if  to  the  na¬ 
tive  sovereign.  No  fortress  was  inaccessible  ;  no 
river  checked  his  victorious  career.  He  con¬ 
quered  by  the  very  terror  of  his  name.  The  Swe¬ 
dish  standards  were  planted  along  the  whole 
stream  of  the  Maine  :  the  Lower  Palatinate  was 
free,  the  troops  of  Spain  and  Lorraine  had  fled 
across  the  Rhine  and  the  Moselle.  The  Swedes 
and  Hessians  poured  like  a  torrent  into  the  terri¬ 
tories  of  Mentz,  of  Wurtzburg,  and  Bamberg,  and 
th  ree  fugitive  bishops,  at  a  distance  from  their 
sees,  suffered  dearly  for  their  unfortunate  attach¬ 
ment  to  the  Emperor.  It  was  now  the  turn  for 
Maximilian,  the  leader  of  the  League,  to  feel  in 
his  own  dominions  the  miseries  he  had  inflicted 
upon  others.  Neither  the  terrible  fate  of  his 
allies,  nor  the  peaceful  overtures  of  Gustavus, 
who,  in  the  midst  of  conquest,  ever  held  out  the 
hand  of  friendship,  could  conquer  the  obstinacy 


of  this  prince.  The  torrent  of  war  now  poured 
into  Bavaria.  Like  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  those 
of  the  Lech  and  the  Donau  were  crowded  with 
Swedish  troops.  Creeping  into  his  fortresses,  the 
defeated  Elector  abandoned  to  the  ravages  of  the 
foe  his  dominions,  hitherto  unscathed  by  war,  and 
on  which  the  bigoted  violence  of  the  Bavarians 
seemed  to  invite  retaliation.  Munich  itself  opened 
its  gates  to  the  invincible  monarch,  and  the  fugi¬ 
tive  Palatine,  Frederick  V.,  in  the  forsaken  resi¬ 
dence  of  his  rival,  consoled  himself  for  a  time  for 
the  loss  of  his  dominions. 

While  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  thus  extending 
his  conquests  in  the  south,  his  generals  and  allies 
were  gaining  similar  triumphs  in  the  other  prov¬ 
inces.  Lower  Saxony  shook  off  the  yoke  of  Aus¬ 
tria,  the  enemy  abandoned  Mecklenburg,  and  the 
imperial  garrisons  retired  from  the  banks  of  the 
Weser  and  the  Elbe.  In  Westphalia  and  the 
Upper  Rhine,  William,  Landgrave  of  Hesse,  ren¬ 
dered  himself  formidable;  the  Duke  of  Weimar 
in  Thuringia,  and  the  French  in  the  Electorate 
of  Treves  ;  while  to  the  eastward,  the  whole  king¬ 
dom  of  Bohemia  wras  conquered  by  the  Saxons. 
The  Turks  were  preparing  to  attack  Hungary, 
and  in  the  heart  of  Austria  a  dangerous  insurrec¬ 
tion  wTas  threatened.  In  vain  did  the  Emperor 
look  around  to  the  courts  of  Europe  for  support ; 
in  vain  did  he  summon  the  Spaniards  to  his  assist¬ 
ance,  for  the  bravery  of  the  Flemings  afforded 
them  ample  employment  beyond  the  Rhine;  iii 
vain  did  he  call  upon  the  Roman  court  and  the 
whole  church  to  come  to  his  rescue.  The  offended 
Pope  sported  in  pompous  processions  and  idle 
anathemas,  with  the  embarrassments  of  Ferdinand, 
and  instead  of  the  desired  subsidy  he  was  shown 
the  devastation  of  Mantua. 

On  all  sides  of  his  extensive  monarchy  hostile 
arms  surrounded  him.  With  the  states  of  the 
League,  now  overrun  by  the  enemy,  those  ram¬ 
parts  were  thrown  down,  behind  which  Austria 
had  so  long  defended  herself,  and  the  embers  of 
war  were  now  smouldering  upon  her  unguarded 
frontiers.  His  most  zealous  allies  were  disarmed  ; 
Maximilian  of  Bavaria,  his  firmest  support,  was 
scarce  able  to  defend  himself.  His  armies,  weak¬ 
ened  by  desertion  and  repeated  defeat,- and  dis¬ 
pirited  by  continued  misfortunes,  had  unlearned, 
under  beaten  generals,  that  warlike  impetuosity 
which,  as  it  is  the  consequence,  so  it  is  the  guar¬ 
antee  of  success.  The  danger  was  extreme,  and 
extraordinary  means  alone  could  raise  the  im¬ 
perial  power  from  the  degradation  into  which  it 
was  fallen. 

The  most  urgent  want  was  that  of  a  general ; 
and  the  only  one  from  whom  he  could  hope  for  the 
revival  of  his  former  splendor,  had  been  removed 
from  his  command  by  an  envious  cabal.  So  low 
had  the  Emperor  now  fallen,  that  he  was  forced  to 
make  the  most  humiliating  proposals  to  his  in¬ 
jured  subject  and  servant,  and  meanly  to  press 
upon  the  imperious  Duke  of  Friedland  the  accept¬ 
ance  of  the  powers  which  no  less  meanly  had  been 
taken  from  him.  A  new  spirit  began  from  this 
moment  to  animate  the  expiring  body  of  Aus-- 
tria  ;  and  a  sudden  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs 
bespoke  the  firm  hand  which  guided  them.  To 
the  absolute  king  of  Sweden,  a  general  equally  ab- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


185 


solute  was  now  opposed ;  and  one  victorious  hero 
was  confronted  with  another.  Both  armies  were 
again  to  engage  in  the  doubtful  struggle;  and  the 
prize  of  victory,  already  almost  secured  in  the 
hands  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  was  to  be  the  object 
of  another  and  a  severer  trial.  The  storm  of  war 
gathered  around  Nuremberg;  before  its  walls  the 
hostile  armies  encamped ;  gazing  on  each  other  with 
dread  and  respect,  longing  for,  and  yet  shrinking 
from,  the  moment  that  was  to  close  them  together 
in  the  shock  of  battle.  The  eyes  of  Europe 
turned  to  the  scene  with  curiosity  and  alarm, 
while  Nuremberg,  in  dismay,  expected  soon  to 
lend  its  name  to  a  more  decisive  battle  than  that 
of  Leipsic.  Suddenly  the  clouds  broke,  and  the 
storm  rolled  off  toward  Franconia,  to  burst 
upon  the  plains  of  Saxony.  Near  Lutzen  fell 
the  thunder  that  had  menaced  Nuremberg  ; 
the  victory,  half  lost,  was  purchased  by  the 
death  of  the  king.  Fortune,  which  had  never  for¬ 
saken  him  in  his  lifetime,  favored  the  King  of 
Sweden  even  in  his  death,  with  the  rare  privilege 
of  falling  in  the  fullness  of  his  glory  and  an  untar¬ 
nished  fame.  By  a  timely  death,  his  protecting 
genius  rescued  him  from  the  inevitable  fate  of 
man — that  of  forgetting  moderation  in  the  intoxi¬ 
cation  of  success,  and  justice  in  the  plenitude 
of  power.  It  may  be  doubted  whether,  had  he 
lived  longer,  he  would  still  have  deserved  the 
tears  which  Germany  shed  over  his  grave,  or 
maintained  his  title  to  the  admiration  with  which 
posterity  regards  him,  as  the  first  and  only  just 
conqueror  that  the  world  has  produced.  The  un¬ 
timely  fall  of  their  great  leader  seemed  to  threaten 
the  ruin  of  his  party;  but  to  the  Power  which 
rules  the  world,  no  loss  of  a  single  man  is  irre¬ 
parable.  As  the  helm  of  war  dropped  from  the 
hand  of  the  falling  hero,  it  was  seized  by  two 
great  statesmen,  Oxenstiern  and  Bichelieu.  Des¬ 
tiny  still  pursued  its  relentless  course,  and  for 
full  sixteen  years  longer  the  flames  of  war  blazed 
over  the  ashes  of  the  long-forgotten  king  and 
soldier. 

I  may  now  be  permitted  to  take  a  cursory  retro¬ 
spect  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  in  his  victorious  ca¬ 
reer  ;  glance  at  the  scene  in  which  he  alone  was 
the  great  actor ;  and  then,  when  Austria  becomes 
reduced  to  extremity  by  the  success  of  the  Swedes, 
and  by  a  series  of  disasters  is  driven  to  the  most 
humiliating  and  desperate  expedients,  to  return  to 
the  history  of  the  Emperor. 

As  soon  as  the  plan  of  operations  had  been  con¬ 
certed  at  Halle,  between  the  King  of  Sweden  and 
the  Elector  of  Saxony ;  as  soon  as  the  alliance  had 
been  concluded  with  the  neighboring  princes  of 
Weimar  and  Anhalt,  and, preparations  made  for 
the  recovery  of  the  bishopric  of  Magdeburg,  the 
king  began  his  march  into  the  empire.  He  had 
here  no  despicable  foe  to  contend  with.  Within 
the  empire,  the  Emperor  was  still  powerful ; 
throughout  Franconia,  Swabia,  and  the  Palatinate, 
imperial  garrisons  were  posted,  with  whom  the 
possession  of  every  place  of  importance  must  be 
disputed  sword  in  hand.  On  the  Rhine  he  was 
opposed  by  the  Spaniards,  who  had  overrun  the 
territory  of  the  banished  Elector  Palatine,  seized 
all  its  strong  places,  and  would  everywhere  dispute 
with  him  the  passage  over  that  river.  On  his  rear 


was  Tilly,  who  was  fast  recruiting  his  force,  and 
would  soon  be  joined  by  the  auxiliaries  from  Lor¬ 
raine.  Every  Papist  presented  an  inveterate  foe, 
while  his  connection  with  France  did  not  leave  him 
at  liberty  to  act  with  freedom  against  the  Roman 
Catholics.  Gustavus  had  foreseen  all  these  ob¬ 
stacles,  but  at  the  same  time  the  means  by  which 
they  were  to  be  overcome.  The  strength  of  the 
Imperialists  was  broken  and  divided  among  differ¬ 
ent  garrisons,  while  he  would  bring  against  them 
one  by  one  his  whole  united  force.  If  he  was  to 
be  opposed  by  the  fanaticism  of  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics,  and  the  awe  in  which  the  lesser  states  regarded 
the  Emperor’s  power,  he  might  depend  on  the  ac¬ 
tive  support  of  the  Protestants,  and  their  hatred 
to  Austrian  oppression.  The  ravages  of  the  Im¬ 
perialist  and  Spanish  troops  also  powerfully  aided 
him  in  these  quarters  ;  where  the  ill-treated  hus¬ 
bandman  and  citizen  sighed  alike  for  a  deliverer, 
and  where  the  mere  change  of  yoke  seemed  to  pro¬ 
mise  a  relief.  Emissaries  were  dispatched  to  gain 
over  to  the  Swedish  side  the  principal  free  cities, 
particularly  Nuremberg  and  Frankfort.  The  first 
that  lay  in  the  king’s  march,  and  which  he  could 
not  leave  unoccupied  in  his  rear,  was  Erfurt.  Here 
the  Protestant  party  among  the  citizens  opened 
to  him,  without  a  blow,  the  gates  of  the  town  and 
the  citadel.  From  the  inhabitants  of  this,  as  of 
every  important  place  which  afterward  submitted, 
he  exacted  an  oath  of  allegiance,  while  he  secured 
its  possession  by  a  sufficient  garrison.  To  his  ally, 
Duke  William  of  Weimar,  he  intrusted  the  com¬ 
mand  of  an  army  to  be  raised  in  Thuringia.  He 
also  left  his  queen  in  Erfurt,  and  promised  to’  in¬ 
crease  its  privileges.  The  Swedish  army  now 
crossed  the  Thuringian  forest  in  two  columns,  by 
Gotha  and  Arnstadt,  and  having  delivered,  in  its 
march,  the  county  of  Henneberg  from  the  Impe¬ 
rialists,  formed  a  junction  on  the  third  day  near 
Koenigshofen,  on  the  frontiers  of  Franconia. 

Francis,  Bishop  of  Wurtzburg,  the  bitter  enemy 
of  the  Protestants,  and  the  most  zealous  member 
of  the  League,  was  the  first  to  feel  the  indignation 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  A  few  threats  gained  for 
the  Swedes  possession  of  his  fortress  of  Koenigs¬ 
hofen,  and  with  it  the  key  of  the  whole  province. 
At  the  news  of  this  rapid  conquest,  dismay  seized 
all  the  Roman  Catholic  towns  of  the  circle.  The 
Bishops  of  Wurtzburg  and  Bamberg  trembled  in 
their  castles  ;  they  already  saw  their  sees  tottering, 
their  churches  profaned,  and  their  religion  de¬ 
graded.  The  malice  of  his  enemies  had  circulated 
the  most  frightful  representations  of  the  persecut¬ 
ing  spirit  and  the  mode  of  warfare  pursued  by  the 
Swedish  king  and  his  soldiers,  which  neither  the 
repeated  assurances  of  the  king,  nor  the  most 
splendid  examples  of  humanity  and  toleration,  ever 
entirely  effaced.  Many  feared .  to  suffer  at  the 
hands  of  another  what  in  similar  circumstances 
they  were  conscious  of  inflicting  themselves. 
Many  of  the  richest  Roman  Catholics  hastened  to 
secure  by  flight  their  property,  their  religion,  and 
their  persons,  from  the  sanguinary  fanaticism  of 
the  Swedes.  The  bishop  himself  set  the  example. 
In  the  midst  of  the  alarm,  which  his  bigoted  zeal 
had  caused,  he  abandoned  his  dominions,  and  fled 
to  Paris,  to  excite,  if  possible,  the  French  ministry 
against  the  common  enemy  of  religion. 


186 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


The  further  progress  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  in 
the  ecclesiastical  territories  agreed  with  this  bril¬ 
liant  commencement.  Schweinfurt,  and  soon  after¬ 
ward  Wurtzburg,  abandoned  by  their  Imperial 
garrisons,  surrendered  ;  but  Marienberg  he  was 
obliged  to  carry  by  storm.  In  this  place,  which 
was  believed  to  be  impregnable,  the  enemy  had 
collected  a  large  store  of  provisions  and  ammuni¬ 
tion,  all  of  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Swedes. 
The  king  found  a  valuable  prize  in  the  library  of 
the  Jesuits,  which  he  sent  to  Upsal,  while  his  sol¬ 
diers  found  a  still  more  agreeable  one  in  the  pre- 
latefs  well-tilled  cellars ;  his  treasures  the  bishop 
had  in  good  time  removed.  The  whole  bishopric 
followed  the  example  of  the  capital,  ahd  submitted 
to  the  Swedes.  The  king  compelled  all  the  bishop’s 
subjects  to  swear  allegiance  to  himself;  and,  in 
the  absence  of  the  lawful  sovereign,  appointed  a 
regency,  one  half  of  whose  members  were  Pro¬ 
testants.  In  every  Roman  Catholic  town  which 
Gustavus  took,  he  opened  the  churches  to  the 
Protestant  people,  but  without  retaliating  on  the 
Papists  the  cruelties  which  they  had  practiced  on 
the  former.  On  ■such  only  as  sword  in  hand  re¬ 
fused  to  submit,  were  the  fearful  rights  of  war  en¬ 
forced  ;  and  for  the  occasional  acts  of  violence 
committed  by  a  few  of  the  more  lawless  soldiers, 
in  the  blind  rage  of  the  first  attack,  their  humane 
leader  is  not  justly  responsible.  Those  who  were 
peaceably  disposed,  or  defenseless,  were  treated 
with  mildness.  It  was  a  sacred  principle  of  Gus¬ 
tavus  to  spare  the  blood  of  his  enemies,  as  well  as 
that  of  his  own  troops. 

On  the  first  news  of  the  Swedish  irruption,  the 
Bishop  of  Wurtzburg,  without  regarding  the  treaty 
which  he  had  entered  into  with  the  King  of  Swe¬ 
den,  had  earnestly  pressed  the  general  of  the 
League  to  hasten  to  the  assistance  of  the  bishop¬ 
ric.  That  defeated  commander  had,  in  the  mean 
time,  collected  on  the  Weser  the  shattered  rem¬ 
nant  of  his  army,  reinforced  himself  from  the  gar¬ 
risons  of  Lower  Saxony,  and  effected  a  junction 
in  Hesse  with  Altringer  and  Fugger,  who  com¬ 
manded  under  him.  Again  at  the  head  of  a  con¬ 
siderable  force,  Tilly  burned  with  impatience  to 
wipe  out  the  stain  of  his  first  defeat  by  a  splendid 
victory.  From  his  camp  at  Fulda,  whither  he 
had  marched  with  his  army,  he  earnestly  requested 
permission  from  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  to  give  bat¬ 
tle  to  Gustavus  Adolphus.  But,  in  the  event  of 
Tilly’s  defeat,  the  League  had  no  second  army  to 
fall  back  upon,  and  Maximilian  was  too  cautious 
to  risk  again  the  fate  of  his  party  on  a  single  bat¬ 
tle.  With  tears  in  his  eyes,  Tilly  reads  the  com¬ 
mands  of  his  superior,  which  compelled  him  to  in¬ 
activity.  Thus  his  march  to  Franconia  was  de¬ 
layed,  and  Gustavus  Adolphus  gained  time  to 
overrun  the  whole  bishopric.  It  was  in  vain  that 
Tilly,  reinforced  at  Aschaffenburg  by  a  body  of 
12,000  men  from  Lorraine,  marched  with  an  over¬ 
whelming  force  to  the  relief  of  Wurtzburg.  The 
town  and  citadel  were  already  in  the  hands  of  the 
Swedes,  and  Maximilian  of  Bavaria  was  generally 
blamed  (and  not  without  cause,  perhaps)  for  hav¬ 
ing,  by  his  scruples,  occasioned  the  loss  of  the 
bishopric.  Commanded  to  avoid  a  battle,  Tilly 
contented  himself  with  checking  the  further  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  enemy ;  but  he  could  save  only  a  few 


of  the  towns  from  the  impetuosity  of  the  Swedes- 
Baffled  in  an  attempt  to  reinforce  the  weak  garri* 
son  of  Ilanau,  which  it  was  highly  important  to 
the  Swedes  to  gain,  he  crossed  the  Maine,  near 
Seligenstadt,  and  took  the  direction  of  the  Berg- 
strasse,  to  protect  the  Palatinate  from  the  con¬ 
queror: 

Tilly,  however,  was  not  the  sole  enemy  whom 
Gustavus  Adolphus  met  in  Franconia,  and  drove 
before  him.  Charles,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  cele¬ 
brated  in  the  annals  of  the  time  for  his  unsteadi¬ 
ness  of  character,  his  vain  projects,  and  his  mis¬ 
fortunes,  ventured  to  raise  a  weak  arm  against 
the  Swedish  hero,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  from 
the  Emperor  the  electoral  dignity.  Deaf  to  the 
suggestions  of  a  rational  policy,  he  listened  only 
to  the  dictates  of  heated  ambition  ;  by  supporting 
the  Emperor,  he  exasperated  France,  his  formida¬ 
ble  neighbor;  and  in  the  pursuit  of  a  visionary 
phantom  in  another  country,  left  undefended  his 
own  dominions,  which  were  instantly  overrun  by 
a  French  army.  Austria  willingly  conceded  to 
him,  as  well  as  to  the  other  princes  of  the  League, 
the  honor  of  being  ruined  in  her  cause.  Intoxi¬ 
cated  wTith  vain  hopes,  this  prince  collected  a 
force  of  17,000  men,  which  he  proposed  to  lead  in 
person  against  the  Swedes.  If  these  troops  were 
deficient  in  discipline  and  courage,  they  were  at 
least  attractive  by  the  splendor  of  their  accoutre¬ 
ments;  and  however  sparing  they  were  of  their 
prowess  against  the  foe,  they  were  liberal  enough 
with  it  against  the  defenseless  citizens  and  pea¬ 
santry,  whom  they  were  summoned  to  defend 
against  the  bravery  and  the  formidable  discipline 
of  the  Swedes.  This  splendidly  attired  army, 
however,  made  no  long  stand.  On  the  first  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  Swedish  cavalry  a  panic  seized  them, 
and  they  were  driven  without  difficulty  from  their 
cantonments  in  Wurtzburg;  the  defeat  of  a  few 
regiments  occasioned  a  general  rout,  and  the 
scattered  remnant  sought  a  covert  from  the  Swe¬ 
dish  valor  in  the  towns  beyond  the  Rhine.  Loaded 
with  shame  and  ridicule,  the  duke  hurried  home 
by  Strasburg,  too  fortunate  in  escaping,  by  a  sub¬ 
missive  written  apology,  the  indignation  of  his  con¬ 
queror,  who  had  first  beaten  him  out  of  the  field, 
and  then  called  upon  him  to  account  for  his  hos¬ 
tilities.  It  is  related  upon  this  occasion  that,  in 
a  village  on  the  Rhine,  a  peasant  struck  the  horse 
of  the  duke  as  he  rode  past,  exclaiming,  “  Haste, 
sir,  you  must  go  quicker  to  escape  the  great  King 
of  Sweden  !” 

The  example  of  his  neighbors’  misfortunes  had 
taught  the  Bishop  of  Bamberg  prudence.  To 
avert  the  'plundering  of  his  territories,  he  made 
offers  of  peace,  though  these  were  intended  only 
to  delay  the  king’s  course  till  the  arrival  of  as¬ 
sistance.  Gustavus  Adolphus,  too  honorable  him¬ 
self  to  suspect  dishonesty  in  another,  readily  ac¬ 
cepted  the  bishop’s  proposals,  and  named  the 
conditions  on  which  he  was  willing  to  save  his 
territories  from  hostile  treatment.  He  was  the 
more  inclined  to  peace,  as  he  had  no  time  to  lose 
in  the  conquest  of  Bamberg,  and  his  other  designs 
called  him  to  the  Rhine.  The  rapidity  with  which 
he  followed  up  these  plans,  cost  him  the  loss  of 
those  pecuniary  supplies  which,  by  a  longer  resi¬ 
dence  in  Franconia,  he  might  easily  have  extorted 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


187 


from  the  weak  and  terrified  bishop.  This  artful 
prelate  broke  off  the  negotiation  the  instant  the 
storm  of  war  passed  away  from  his  own  territo¬ 
ries.  No  sooner  had  Gustavus  marched  onward 
than  he  threw  himself  under  the  protection  of 
Tilly,  and  received  the  troops  of  the  Emperor  into 
the  very  towns  and  fortresses,  which  shortly  be¬ 
fore  he  had  shown  himself  ready  to  open  to  the 
Swedes.  By  this  stratagem,  however,  he  only  de¬ 
layed  for  a  brief  interval  the  ruin  of  his  bishopric. 
A  Swedish  general  who  had  been  left  in  Franco¬ 
nia,  undertook  to  punish  the  perfidy  of  the  bishop  : 
and  the  ecclesiastical  territory  became  the  seat  of 
war,  and  was  ravaged  alike  by  friends  and  foes. 

The  formidable  presence  of  the  Imperialists  had 
hitherto  been  a  check  upon  the  Franconian  States ; 
but  their  retreat,  and  the  humane  conduct  of  the 
Swedish  king,  emboldened  the  nobility  and  other 
inhabitants  of  this  circle  to  declare  in  his  favor. 
Nuremberg  joyfully  committed  itself  to  his  pro¬ 
tection  ;  and  the  Franconian  nobles  were  won  to 
his  cause  by  flattering  proclamations,  in  which  he 
condescended  to  apologize  for  his  hostile  ap¬ 
pearance  in  their  dominions.  The  fertility  of 
Franconia,  and  the  rigorous  honesty  of  the  Swe¬ 
dish  soldiers  in  their  dealings  with  the  inhabitants, 
brought  abundance  to  the  camp  of  the  king.  The 
high  esteem  which  the  nobility  of  the  circle  felt 
for  Gustavus,  the  respect  and  admiration  with 
which  they  regarded  his  brilliant  exploits,  the 
promises  of  rich  booty  which  the  service  of  this 
monarch  held  out,  greatly  facilitated  the  recruit¬ 
ing  of  his  troops  ;  a  step  which  was  made  neces¬ 
sary  by  detaching  so  many  garrisons  from  the 
main  body.  At  the  sound  of  his  drums,  recruits 
flocked  to  his  standard  from  all  quarters. 

The  king  had  scarcely  spent  more  time  in  con¬ 
quering  Franconia,  than  he  would  have  required 
to  cross  it.  Fie  now  left  behind  him  Gustavus 
Horn,  one  of  his  best  generals,  with  a  force  of 
8,000  men,  to  complete  and  retain  his  conquest. 
He  himself  with  his  main  army,  reinforced  by  the 
late  recruits,  hastened  toward  the  Rhine  in  order 
to  secure  this  frontier  of  the  empire  from  the 
Spaniards  ;  to  disarm  the  ecclesiastical  electors, 
and  to  obtain  from  their  fertile  territories  new 
resources  for  the  prosecution  of  the  war.  Fol¬ 
lowing  the  course  of  the  Maine,  he  subjected,  in 
the  course  of  his  march,  Seligenstadt,  Aschaffen- 
burg,  Steinheim,  the  whole  territory  on  both  sides 
of  the  river.  The  imperial  garrisons  seldom 
awaited  his  approach,  and  never  attempted  re¬ 
sistance.  In  the  mean  while  one  of  his  colonels 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  take  by  surprise  the 
town  and  citadel  of  Hanau,  for  whose  preserva¬ 
tion  Tilly  had  shown  such  anxiety.  Eager  to  be 
free  of  the  oppressive  burden  of  the  Imperialists, 
the  Count  of  Hanau  gladly  placed  himself  under 
the  milder  yoke  of  the  King  of  Sweden. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  now  turned  his  whole  atten¬ 
tion  to  Frankfort,  for  it  was  his  constant  maxim 
to  cover  his  rear  by  the  friendship  and  possession 
of  the  more  important  towns.  Frankfort  was 
among  the  free  cities  which,  even  from  Saxony, 
he  had  endeavored  to  prepare  for  his  reception  : 
and  he  now  called  upon  it,  by  a  summons  from 
Offenbach,  to  allow  him  a  free  passage,  and  to 
admit  a  Swedish  garrison.  Willingly  would  this 


city  have  dispensed  with  the  necessity  of  choosing 
between  the  King  of  Sweden  and  the  Emperor ; 
for,  whatever  party  they  might  embrace,  the  in¬ 
habitants  had  a  like  reason  to  fear  for  their  privi¬ 
leges  and  trade.  The  Emperor’s  vengeance  would 
certainly  fall  heavily  upon  them,  if  they  were  in  a 
hurry  to  submit  to  the  King  of  Sweden,  and 
afterward  he  should  prove  unable  to  protect  his 
adherents  in  Germanv.  But  still  more  ruinous  for 
them  would  be  the  displeasure  of  an  irresistible 
conqueror,  who,  with  a  formidable  army,  was 
already  before  their  gates,  and  who  might  punish 
their  opposition  by  the  ruin  of  their  commerce  and 
prosperity.  In  vain  did  their  deputies  plead  the 
danger  which  menaced  their  fairs,  their  privileges, 
perhaps  their  constitution  itself,  if,  by  espousing  the 
party  of  the  Swedes,  they  were  to  incur  the  Em¬ 
peror’s  displeasure.  Gustavus  Adolphus  expressed 
to  them  his  astonishment  that,  when  the  liberties 
of  Germany  and  the  Protestant  religion  were  at 
stake,  the  citizens  of  Frankfort  should  talk- of  their 
annual  fairs,  and  postpone  for  temporal  interests 
tl^e  great  cause  of  their  country  and  their  con¬ 
science.  He  had,  he  continue*!,  in  a  menacing 
tone,  found  the  keys  of  every  town  and  fortress, 
from  the  Isle  of  Rugen  to  the  Maine,  and  knew 
also  where  to  find  a  key  to  Frankfort  ;  the  safety 
of  Germany,  and  the  freedom  of  the  Protestant 
Church,  were,  he  assured  them,  the  sole  objects 
of  his  invasion  ;  conscious  of  the  justice  of  his 
cause,  he  was  determined  not  to  allow  any  obsta¬ 
cle  to  impede  his  progress.  “  The  inhabitants  of 
Frankfort,  he  was  well  aware,  wished  to  stretch 
out  only  a  finger  to  him,  but  he  must  have  the 
whole  hand  in  order  to  have  something  to  grasp.” 
At  the  head  of  the  army,  he  closely  followed  the 
deputies  as  they  carried  back  his  answer,  and  in 
order  of  battle  awaited,  near  Saxenhausen,  the 
decision  of  the  council. 

If  Frankfort  hesitated  to  submit  to  the  Swedes, 
it  was  solely  from  fear  of  the  Emperor  ;  their  own 
inclinations  did  not  allow  them  a  moment  to  doubt 
between  the  oppressor  of  Germany  and  its  protec¬ 
tor.  The  menacing  preparations  amidst  which 
Gustavus  Adolphus  now  compelled  them  to  de¬ 
cide,  would  lessen  the  guilt  of  their  revolt  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Emperor,  and  by  an  appearance  of 
compulsion  justify  the  step  which  they  willingly 
took.  The  gates  were  therefore  opened  to  the 
King  of  Sweden,  who  marched  his  army  through 
this  imperial  town  in  magnificent  procession,  and 
in  admirable  order.  A  garrison  of  six  hundred 
men  was  left  in  Saxenhausen  ;  while  the  king 
himself  advanced  the  same  evening,  with  the  rest 
of  his  army,  against  the  town  of  Hoechst  in  Mentz, 
which  surrendered  to  him  before  night. 

While  Gustavus  was  thus  extending  his  con¬ 
quests  along  the  Maine,  fortune  crowned  also  the 
efforts  of  his  generals  and  allies  in  the  north  of 
Germany.  Rostock,  Wismar,  and  Doemitz,  the 
only  strong  places  in  the  Duchy  of  Mecklenburg 
which  still  sighed  under  the  yoke  of  the  Imperial¬ 
ists,  were  recovered  by  their  legitimate  sovereign, 
the  Duke  John  Albert,  under  the  Swedish  gene¬ 
ral,  Achatius  Tott.  In  vain  did  the  imperial 
general,  Wolf  Count  von  Mansfeld,  endeavor  to 
recover  from  the  Swedes  the  territories  of  Hal- 
berstadt,  of  which  they  had  taken  possession  im- 


188 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


mediately  upon  the  victory  of  Leipsic ;  he  was 
even  compelled  to  leave  Magdeburg-  itself  in  their 
hands.  The  Swedish  general,  Banner,  who  with 
eight  thousand  men  remained  upon  the  Elbe, 
closely  blockaded  that  city,  and  had  defeated  seve¬ 
ral  imperial  regiments  which  had  been  sent  to  its 
relief.  Count  Mansfeld  defended  it  in  person  with 
great  resolution  ;  but  his  garrison  being  too  weak 
to  oppose  for  any  length  of  time  the  numerous 
force  of  the  besiegers,  he  was  already  about  to 
surrender  on  conditions,  when  Pappenheim  ad¬ 
vanced  to  his  assistance,  and  gave  employment 
elsewhere  to  the  Swedish  arms.  Magdeburg, 
however,  or  rather  the  wretched  huts  that  peeped 
out  miserably  from  among  the  ruins  or  that  once 
great  town,  was  afterward  voluntarily  abandoned 
by  the  Imperialists,  and  immediately  taken  pos¬ 
session  of  by  the  Swedes. 

Even  Lower  Saxony,  encouraged  by  the  pro¬ 
gress  of  the  king,  ventured  to  raise  its  head  from 
the  disasters  of  the  unfortunate  Danish  war.  They 
held  a  congress  at  Hamburg,  and  resolved  upon 
raising  three  regiments,  which  they  hoped  would 
be  sufficient  to  free  them  from  the  oppressive  gar¬ 
risons  of  the  Imperialists.  The  Bishop  of  Bre¬ 
men,  a  relation  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  was  not 
content  even  with  this  ;  but  assembled  troops  of 
his  own,  and  terrified  the  unfortunate  monks  and 
priests  of  the  neighborhood,  but  was  quickly  com¬ 
pelled  by  the  imperial  general,  Count  Gronsfeld, 
to  lay  down  his  arms.  Even  George,  Duke  of 
Lunenburg,  formerly  a  colonel  in  the  Emperor’s 
service,  embraced  the  party  of  Gustavus,  for  whom 
he  raised  several  regiments,  and  by  occupying  the 
attention  of  the  Imperialists  in  Lower  Saxony, 
materially  assisted  him. 

But  more  important  service  was  rendered  to  the 
king  by  the  Landgrave  William  of  Hesse  Cassel, 
whose  victorious  arms  struck  with  terror  the 
greater  part  of  Westphalia  and  Lower  Saxony, 
the  bishopric  of  Fulda,  and  even  the  Electorate 
of  Cologne.  It  has  been  already  stated  that  im¬ 
mediately  after  the  conclusion  of  the  alliance  be¬ 
tween  the  Landgrave  and  Gustavus  Adolphus  at 
Werben,  two  imperial  generals,  Fugger  and  Al- 
tringer,  were  ordered  by  Tilly  to  march  into  Hesse, 
to  punish  the  Landgrave  for  his  revolt  from  the 
Emperor.  But  this  prince  had  as  firmly  withstood 
the  arms  of  his  enemies,  as  his  subjects  had  the 
proclamations  of  Tilly  inciting  them  to  rebellion, 
and  the  battle  of  Leipsic  presently  relieved  him 
of  their  presence.  He  availed  himself  of  their 
absence  with  courage  and  resolution  ;  in  a  short 
time,  Vach,  Minden  and  Hoexter  surrendered  to 
him,  while  his  rapid  advance  alarmed  the  bishop- 
pries  of  Fulda,  Paderborn,  and  the  ecclesiastical 
territories  which  bordered  on  Hesse.  The  terri¬ 
fied  states  hastened  by  a  speedy  submission  to  set 
limits  to  his  progress,  and  by  considerable  contri¬ 
butions  to  purchase  exemption  from  plunder. 
After  these  successful  enterprises,  the  Landgrave 
united  his  victorious  army  with  that  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  and  concerted  with  him  at  Frankfort 
their  future  plan  of  operations. 

In  this  city,  a  number  of  princes  and  ambassa¬ 
dors  were  assembled  to  congratulate  Gustavus  on 
his  success,  and  either  to  conciliate  his  favor  or 
to  appease  his  indignation.  Among  them  was  the 


fugitive  King  of  Bohemia,  the  Palatine  Frederick 
V.,  who  had  hastened  from  Holland  to  throw 
himself  into  the  arms  of  his  avenger  and  protector. 
Gustavus  gave  him  the  unprofitable  honor  of 
greeting  him  as  a  crowned  head,  and  endeavored, 
by  a  respectful  sympathy,  to  soften  his  sense  of 
his  misfortunes.  But  great  as  the  advantages 
were,  which  Frederick  had  promised  himself  from 
the  power  and  good  fortune  of  his  protector;  and 
high  as  were  the  expectations  he  had  built  on  his 
justice  and  magnanimity,  the  chance  of  this  un¬ 
fortunate  prince’s  reinstatement  in  his  kingdom 
was  as  distant  as  ever.  The  inactivitv  and  con 
tradictory  politics  of  the  English  court  had  abated 
the  zeal  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  an  irritability 
which  he  could  not  always  repress,  made  him  on 
this  occasion  forget  the  glorious  vocation  of  pro¬ 
tector  of  the  oppressed,  in  which,  on  his  invasion 
of  Germany,  he  had  so  loudly  announced  himself. 

The  terrors  of  the  king’s  irresistible  strength, 
and  the  near  prospect  of  his  vengeance,  had  also 
compelled  George,  Landgrave  of  Hesse  D’arm- 
stadt,  to  a  timely  submission.  His  connection 
with  the  Emperor,  and  his  indifference  to  the 
Protestant  cause,  were  no  secret  to  the  king,  but 
he  was  satisfied  with  laughing  at  so  impotent  an 
enemy.  As  the  Landgrave  knew  his  own  strength 
and  the  political  situation  of  Germany  so  little, 
as  to  offer  himself  as  mediator  between  the  con¬ 
tending  parties,  Gustavus  used  jestingly  to  call 
him  the  peacemaker.  He  was  frequently  heard 
to  say,  when  at  play  he  was  winning  from  the 
Landgrave,  “that  the  money  afforded  double 
satisfaction,  as  it  was  Imperial  coin.”  To  his 
affinity  with  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  whom  Gus¬ 
tavus  had  cause  to  treat  with  forbearance,  the 
Landgrave  was  indebted  for  the  favorable  terms 
he  obtained  from  the  king,  who  contented  him¬ 
self  with  the  surrender  of  his  fortress  of  Russel- 
heim,  and  his  promise  of  observing  a  strict  neu¬ 
trality  during  the  war.  The  Counts  of  W esterwald 
and  Wetteran  also  visited  the  king  in  Frankfort, 
to  offer  him  their  assistance  against  the  Spaniards, 
and  to  conclude  an  alliance,  which  wras  afterward 
of  great  service  to  him.  The  town  of  Frankfort 
itself  had  reason  to  rejoice  at  the  presence  of  this 
monarch,  wrho  took  their  commerce  under  his 
protection,  and  by  the  most  effectual  measures 
restored  the  fairs,  which  had  been  greatly  inter¬ 
rupted  by  the  war. 

The  Swedish  army  was  now  reinforced  by  ten 
thousand  Hessians,  which  the  Landgrave  of  Oasse 
commanded.  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  already  in¬ 
vested  Konigstein  ;  Kostheim  and  Fliershain  sur¬ 
rendered  after  a  short  siege  ;  he  wras  in  command 
of  the  Maine  ;  and  transports  were  preparing  with 
all  speed  at  Hoechst  to  carry  his  troops  across 
the  Rhine.  These  preparations  filled  the  Elector 
of  Mentz,  Aiselm  Casimir,  with  consternation  ; 
and  he  no  longer  doubted  but  that  the  storm  of 
war  wmuld  next  fall  upon  him.  As  a  partisan  of 
the  Emperor,  and  one  of  the  most  active  members 
of  the  League,  he  could  expect  no  better  treat¬ 
ment  than  his  confederates,  the  Bishops  of  Wurtz- 
burg  and  Bamberg,  had  already  experienced.  The 
situation  of  his  territories  upon  the  Rhine  made 
it  necessary  for  the  enemy  to  secure  them,  while 
the  fertility  afforded  an  irresistible  temptation  to 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


189 


a  necessitous  army.  Miscalculating  bis  own 
strength  and  that  of  his  adversaries,  the  Elector 
flattered  himself  that  he  was  able  to  repel  force 
by  force,  and  weary  out  the  valor  of  the  Swedes 
by  the  strength  of  his  fortresses.  He  ordered  the 
fortifications  of  his  capital  to  be  repaired  with  all 
diligence,  provided  it  with  every  necessary  for 
sustaining  a  long  siege,  and  received  into  the 
town  a  garrison  of  two  thousand  Spaniards,  under 
Don  Philip  de  Sylva.  To  prevent  the  approach 
of  the  Swedish  transports,  he  endeavored  to  close 
the  mouth  of  the  Maine  by  driving  piles,  and 
sinking  large  heaps  of  stones  and  vessels.  He 
himself,  however,  accompanied  by  the  Bishop  of 
Worms,  and  carrying  with  him  his  most  precious 
effects,  took  refuge  in  Cologne,  and  abandoned  his 
capital  and  territories  to  the  rapacity  of  a  tyran¬ 
nical  garrison.  But  these  preparations,  which 
bespoke  less  of  true  courage  than  of  weak  and 
overweening  confidence,  did  not  prevent  the 
Swedes  from  marching  against  Mentz,  and  making 
serious  preparations  for  an  attack  upon  the  city. 
While  one  body  of  their  troops  poured  into  the 
Rheingau,  routed  the  Spaniards  who  remained 
there,  and  levied  contributions  on  the. inhabitants, 
another  laid  the  Roman  Catholic  towns  in  Wes- 
terwald  and  Wetteran  under  similar  contributions. 
The  main  army  had  encamped  at  Cassel,  opposite 
Mentz;  and  Bernhard,  Duke  of  Weimar,  made 
himself  master  of  the  Mausethurm  and  the  Castle 
of  Ehrenfels,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine. 
Gustavus  was  now  actively  preparing  to  cross  the 
river,  and  to  blockade  the  town  on  the  land  side, 
when  the  movements  of  Tilly  in  Franconia  sud¬ 
denly  called  him  from  the  siege,  and  obtained  for 
the  Elector  a  short  repose. 

The  danger  of  Nuremberg,  which,  during  the 
absence  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  on  the  Rhine,  Tilly 
had  made  a  show  of  besieging,  and,  in  the  event 
of  resistance,  threatened  with  the  cruel  fate  of 
Magdeburg,  occasioned  the  king  suddenly  to  re¬ 
tire  from  before  Mentz.  Lest  he  should  expose 
himself  a  second  time  to  the  reproaches  of  Ger¬ 
many,  and  the  disgrace  of  abandoning  a  confede¬ 
rate  city  to  a  ferocious  enemy,  he  hastened  to  its 
relief  by  forced  marches.  On  his  arrival  at  Frank¬ 
fort,  however,  he  heard  of  its  spirited  resistance, 
and  of  the  retreat  of  Tilly,  and  lost  not  a  moment 
in  prosecuting  his  designs  against  Mentz.  Failing 
in  an  attempt  to  cross  the  Rhine  at  Cassel,  under 
the  cannon  of  the  besieged,  he  directed  his  march 
toward  the  Bergstrasse,  with  a  view  of  approach¬ 
ing  the  town  from  an  opposite  quarter.  Here  he 
quickly  made  himself  master  of  all  the  places  of 
importance,  and  at  Stockstadt,  between  Gernsheim 
and  Oppenheim,  appeared  a  second  time  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine.  The  whole  of  the  Bergstrasse 
was  abandoned  by  the  Spaniards,  who  endeavored 
obstinately  to  defend  the  other  bank  of  the  river. 
For  this  purpose,  they  had  burned  or  sunk  all  the 
vessels  in  the  neighborhood,  and  arranged  a  formi¬ 
dable  force  on  the  banks,  in  case  the  king  should 
attempt  the  passage  at  that  place. 

On  this  occasion,  the  king’s  impetuosity  exposed 
him  to  great  danger  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  In  order  to  reconnoitre  the  opposite  bank, 
he  crossed  the  river  in  a  small  boat ;  he  had 
scarcely  landed  when  he  was  attacked  by  a  party 


of  Spanish  horse,  from  whose  hands  he  only  saved 
himself  by  a  precipitate  retreat.  Having  at  last, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  neighboring  fisherman, 
succeeded  in  procuring  a  few  transports,  he  dis¬ 
patched  two  of  them  across  the  river,  bearing 
Count  Brahe  and  three  hundred  Swedes.  Scarcely 
had  this  officer  time  to  intrench  himself  on  the 
opposite  bank,  when  he  was  attacked  by  fourteen 
squadrons  of  Spanish  dragoons  and  cuirassiers. 
Superior  as  the  enemy  was  in  number,  Count 
Brahe,  with  his  small  force,  bravely  defended  him¬ 
self,  and  gained  time  for  the  king  to  support  him 
with  fresh  troops.  The  Spaniards  at  last  retired 
with  the  loss  of  six  hundred  men,  some  taking  re¬ 
fuge  in  Oppenheim,  and  others  in  Mentz.  A  lion 
of  marble  on  a  high  pillar,  holding  a  naked  sword 
in  his  paw,  and  a  helmet  on  his  head,  was  erected 
seventy  years  after  the  event,  to  point  out  to  the 
traveler  the  spot  where  the  immortal  monarch 
crossed  the  great  river  of  Germany. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  now  conveyed  his  artillery 
and  the  greater  part  of  his  troops  over  the  river, 
and  laid  siege  to  Oppenheim,  which,  after  a  brave 
resistance,  was,  on  the  8th  December,  1631,  car¬ 
ried  by  storm.  Five  hundred  Spaniards,  who  had 
so  courageously  defended  the  place,  fell  indiscrimi¬ 
nately  a  sacrifice  to  the  fury  of  the  Swedes.  The 
crossing  of  the  Rhine  by  Gustavus  struck  terror 
into  the  Spaniards  and  Lorrainers,  who  had 
thought  themselves  protected  by  the  river  from 
the  vengeance  of  the  Swedes.  Rapid  flight  was 
now  their  only  security  ;  every  place  incapable  of 
an  effectual  defense  was  immediately  abandoned. 
After  a  long  train  of  outrages  on  the  defenseless 
citizens,  the  troops  of  Lorraine  evacuated  Worms, 
which,  before  their  departure,  they  treated  with 
wanton  cruelty.  The  Spaniards  hastened  to  shut 
themselves  up  in  Frankenthal,  where  they  hoped 
to  defy  the  victorious  arms  of  Gustavus  Adolphus. 

The  king  lost  no  time  in  prosecuting  his  designs 
against  Mentz,  into  which  the  flower  of  the  Span¬ 
ish  troops  had  thrown  themselves.  While  he  ad¬ 
vanced  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine,  the  Land¬ 
grave  of  Hesse  Cassel  moved  forward  on  the 
other,  reducing  several  strong  places  on  his  march. 
The  besieged  Spaniards,  though  hemmed  in  on  both 
sides,  displayed  at  first  a  bold  determination,  and 
threw,  for  several  days,  a  shower  of  bombs  into 
the  Swedish  camp,  which  cost  the  king  many  of 
his  bravest  soldiers.  But  notwithstanding,  the 
Swedes  continually  gained  ground,  and  had  at  last 
advanced  so  close  to  the  ditch  that  they  prepared 
seriously  for  storming  the  place.  The  courage  of 
the  besieged  now  began  to  droop.  They  trembled 
before  the  furious  impetuosity  of  the  Swedish 
soldiers,  of  which  Marienberg,  in  Wurtzburg,  had 
afforded  so  fearful  an  example.  The  same  dread¬ 
ful  fate  awaited  Mentz,  if  taken  by  storm;  and 
the  enemy  might  even  be  easily  tempted  to  re¬ 
venge  the  carnage  of  Magdeburg  on  this  rich 
and  magnificent  residence  of  a  Roman  Catholic 
prince.  To  save  the  town,  rather  than  their  own 
lives,  the  Spanish  garrison  capitulated  on  the 
fourth  day,  and  obtained  from  the  magnanimity  of 
Gustavus  a  safe  conduct  to  Luxembourg;  the 
greater  part  of  them,  however,  following  the  ex. 
ample  of  many  others,  enlisted  in  the  service  of 
|  Sweden. 


190 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS1  WAR. 


On  the  13th  December,  1631,  the  king1  made  his 
entry  into  the  conquered  town,  and  fixed  his  quar¬ 
ters  in  the  palace  of  the  Elector.  Eighty  pieces 
of  cannon  fell  into  his  hands,  and  the  citizens 
were  obliged  to  redeem  their  property  from  pil¬ 
lage,  by  a  payment  of  80,000  florins.  The  bene¬ 
fits  of  this  redemption  did  not  extend  to  the  Jews 
and  the  clergy,  who  were  obliged  to  make  large 
and  separate  contributions  for  themselves.  The 
library  of  the  Elector  was  seized  by  the  king  as 
his  share,  and  presented  by  him  to  his  chancellor, 
Oxenstiern,  who  intended  it  for  the  Academy  of 
Westerrah,  but  the  vessel  in  which  it  was  shipped 
to  Sweden  foundered  at  sea.  | 

After  the  loss  of  Mentz,  misfortune  still  pur¬ 
sued  the  Spaniards  on  the  Rhine.  Shortly  before 
the  capture  of  that  city,  the  Landgrave  of  Hesse 
Cassel  had  taken  Falkenstein  and  Reifenberg, 
and  the  fortress  of  Konigstein  surrendered  to 
the  Hessians.  The  Rhinegrave,  Otto  Louis,  one 
of  the  king’s  generals,  defeated  nine  Spanish 
squadrons  who  were  on  their  march  for  Franken- 
thal,  and  made  himself  master  of  the  most  impor¬ 
tant  towns  upon  the  Rhine,  from  Boppart  to  Ba- 
charach.  After  the  capture  of  the  fortress  of 
Braunfels,  which  was  effected  by  the  Count  of 
Wetterau,  with  the  co-operation  of  the  Swedes, 
the  Spaniards  quickly  lost  every  place  in  Wet¬ 
terau,  while  in  the  Palatinate  they  retained  few 
places  beside  Frankenthal.  Landau  and  Ivron- 
weisenberg  openly  declared  for  the  Swedes  ;  Spires 
offered  troops  for  the  king’s  service  ;  Manheim  was 
gained  through  the  prudence  of  the  Duke  Bernard 
of  Weimar,  and  the  negligence  of  its  governor, 
who,  for  this  misconduct,  was  tried  before  the 
council  of  war,  at  Heidelberg,  and  beheaded. 

The  king  had  protracted  the  campaign  into  the 
depth  of  winter,  and  the  severity  of  the  season 
was  perhaps  one  cause  of  the  advantage  his 
soldiers  gained  over  those  of  the  enemy.  But  the 
exhausted  troops  now  stood  in  need  of  the  repose 
of  winter  quarters,  which,  after  the  surrender  of 
Mentz,  Gustavus  assigned  to  them,  in  its  neigh¬ 
borhood.  He  himself  employed  the  interval  of 
inactivity  in  the  field,  which  the  season  of  the 
year  enjoined,  in  arranging,  with  his  chancellor, 
the  affairs  of  his  cabinet,  in  treating  for  a  neu¬ 
trality  with  some  of  his  enemies,  and  adjusting 
some  political  disputes  which  had  sprung  up  with 
a  neighboring  ally.  He  chose  the  city  of  Mentz 
for  his  winter  quarters,  and  the  settlement  of  these 
state  affairs,  and  showed  a  greater  partiality  for 
this  town  than  seemed  consistent  with  the  inter¬ 
ests  of  the  German  princes,  or  the  shortness 
of  his  visit  to  the  Empire.  Not  content  with 
strongly  fortifying  it,  he  erected  at  the  opposite 
angle  which  the  Maine  forms  with  the  Rhine,  a 
new  citadel,  which  was  named  Gustavusburg  from 
its  founder,  but  which  is  better  known  under  the 
title  of  Pfaffenraub  or'Pfaffenzwang.* 

While  Gustavus  Adolphus  made  himself  master 
of  the  Rhine,  and  threatened  the  three  neighbor¬ 
ing  electorates  with  his  victorious  arms,  his  vigi¬ 
lant  enemies  in  Paris  and  St.  Germain’s  made  use 
of  every  artifice  to  deprive  him  of  the  support  of 

*  Priests’  plunder;  alluding  to  the  menus  by  which  the 
expense  of  its  erection  had  been  defrayed. 


France,  and,  if  possible,  to  involve  him  in  a  war 
with  that  power.  By  his  sudden  and  equivocal 
march  to  the  Rhine,  he  had  surprised  his  friends, 
and  furnished  his  enemies  with  the  means  of  ex¬ 
citing  a  distrust  of  his  intentions.  -After  the 
conquest  of  Wurtzburg,  and  of  the  greater  part 
of  Franconia,  the  road  into  Bavaria  and  Austria 
lay  open  to  him  through  Bamberg  and  the  Upper 
Palatinate ;  and  the  expectation  was  as  general, 
as  it  was  natural,  that  he  would  not  delay  to  at¬ 
tack  the  Emperor  and  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  in  the 
very  centre  of  their  power,  and,  by  the  reduction 
of  his  two  principal  enemies,  bring  the  war  imme¬ 
diately  to  an  end.  But  to  the  surprise  of  both 
parties,  Gustavus  left  the  path  which  general  ex¬ 
pectation  had  thus  marked  out  for  him  ;  and  in¬ 
stead  of  advancing  to  the  right,  turned  to  the  left, 
to  make  the  less  important  and  more  innocent 
princes  of  the  Rhine  feel  his  power,  while  he  gave 
time  to  his  more  formidable  opponents  to  recruit 
their  strengh.  Nothing  but  the  paramount  de¬ 
sign  of  reinstating  the  unfortunate  Palatine, 
Frederick  V.,  in  the  possession  of  his  territories, 
by  the  expulsion  of  the  Spaniards,  could  seem  to 
account  for  this  strange  step;  and  the  belief  that 
Gustavus  was  about  to  effect  that  restoration, 
silenced  for  a  while  the  suspicions  of  his  friends 
and  the  calumnies  of  his  enemies.  But  the  lower 
Palatinate  was  now  almost  entirely  cleared  of  the 
enemy  ;  and  yet  Gustavus  contined  to  form  new 
schemes  of  conquest  on  the  Rhine,  and  to  with¬ 
hold  the  reconquered  country  from  the  Palatinate, 
its  rightful  owner.  In  vain  did  the  English  am¬ 
bassador  remind  him  of  what  justice  demanded, 
and  what  his  own  solemn  engagement  made  a 
duty  of  honor ;  Gustavus  replied  to  these  de¬ 
mands  with  bitter  complaints  of  the  inactivity  of 
the  English  court,  and  prepared  to  carry  his 
victorious  standard  into  Alsace,  and  even  into 
Lorraine. 

A  distrust  of  the  Swedish  monarch  was  now 
loud  and  open,  while  the  malice  of  his  enemies 
busily  circulated  the  most  injurious  reports  as  to 
his  intentions.  Richelieu,  the  minister  of  Louis 
XIII.,  had  long  witnessed  with  anxiety  the  king’s 
progress  toward  the  French  frontier,  and  the  sus¬ 
picious  temper  of  Louis  rendered  hirn  but  too  ac¬ 
cessible  to  the  evil  surmises  which  the  occasion 
gave  rise  to.  France  was  at  this  time  involved 
in  a  civil  war  with  her  Protestant  subjects,  and 
the  fear  was  not  altogether  groundless,  that  the 
approach  of  a  victorious  monarch  of  their  party 
might  revive  their  drooping  spirit,  and  encourage 
them  to  a  more  desperate  resistance.  This  might 
be  the  case,  even  if  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  far 
from  showing  a  disposition  to  encourage  them,  or 
to  act  unfaithfully  toward  his  ally,  the  King  of 
France.  But  the  vindictive  Bishop  of  Wurtz¬ 
burg,  who  was  anxious  to  avenge  the  loss  of  his 
dominions,  by  the  envenomed  rhetoric  of  the  Je¬ 
suits  and  the  active  zeal  of  the  Bavarian  minister, 
represented  this  dreaded  alliance  between  the 
Huguenots  and  Swedes  as  an  undoubted  fact, 
and  filled  the  timid  mind  of  Louis  with  the  most 
alarming  fears.  Not  merely  chimerical  politi¬ 
cians,  but  many  of  the  best  informed  Roman  Ca¬ 
tholics,  fully  believed  that  the  king  was  on  the 
point  of  breaking  into  the  heart  of  France,  to 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


191 


make  common  cause  with  the  Huguenots,  and  to 
overturn  the  Catholic  religion  within  the  kingdom. 
Fanatical  zealots  already  saw  him,  with  his  army, 
crossing  the  Alps,  and  dethroning  the  Vicegerent 
of  Christ  in  Italy.  Such  reports  no  doubt  soon 
refute  themselves;  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
Gustavus,  by  his  manoeuvres  on  the  Rhine,  gave 
a  dangerous  handle  to  the  malice  of  his  enemies, 
and  in  some  measure  justified  the  suspicion  that 
he  directed  his  arms,  not  so  much  against  the 
Emperor  and  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  as  against  the 
Roman  Catholic  Religion  itself. 

The  general  clamor  of  discontent  which  the 
Jesuits  raised  in  all  the  Catholic  courts,  against 
the  alliance  between  France  and  the  enemy  of  the 
church,  at  last  compelled  Cardinal  Richelieu  to 
take  a  decisive  step  for  the  security  of  his  reli¬ 
gion,  and  at  once  to  convince  the  Roman  Catholic 
world  of  the  zeal  of  France,  and  of  the  selfish 
policy  of  the  ecclesiastical  states  of  Germany. 
Convinced  that  the  views  of  the  King  of  Sweden, 
like  his  own,  aimed  solely  at  the  humiliation  of 
the  power  of  Austria,  he  hesitated  not  to  promise 
to  the  princes  of  the  League,  on  the  part  of  Swe¬ 
den,  a  complete  neutrality,  immediately  they  aban¬ 
doned  their  alliance  with  the  Emperor  and  with¬ 
drew  their  troops.  Whatever  the  resolution  these 
princes  should  adopt,  Richelieu  would  equally  at¬ 
tain  his  object.  By  their  separation  from  the 
Austrian  interest,  Ferdinand  would  be  exposed  to 
the  combined  attack  of  France  and  Sweden  :  and 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  freed  from  his  other  enemies 
in  Germany,  would  be  able  to  direct  his  undivided 
force  against  the  hereditary  dominions  of  Aust  ria. 
In  that  event,  the  fall  of  Austria  was  inevitable, 
and  this  great  object  of  Richelieu’s  policy  would 
be  gained  without  injury  to  the  church.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  princes  of  the  League  per¬ 
sisted  in  their  opposition,  and  adhered  to  the  Aus¬ 
trian  alliance,  the  result  would  indeed  be  more 
doubtful,  but  still  France  would  have  sufficiently 
proved  to  all  Europe  the  sincerity  of  her  attach¬ 
ment  to  the  Catholic  cause,  and  performed  her 
duty  as  a  member  of  the  Roman  Church.  The 
princes  of  the  League  would  then  appear  the 
sole  authors  of  those  evils,  which  the  continuance 
of  the  war  would  unavoidably  bring  upon  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholics  of  Germany;  they  alone,  by  their 
willful  and  obstinate  adherence  to  the  Emperor, 
would  frustrate  the  measures  employed  for  their 
protection,  involve  the  church  in  danger,  and 
themselves  in  ruin. 

Richelieu  pursued  this  plan  with  greater  zeal, 
the  more  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  repeated  de¬ 
mands  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  for  assistance 
from  France ;  for  this  prince,  as  already  stated, 
when  he  first  began  to  entertain  suspicions  of  the 
Emperor,  entered  immediately  into  a  secret  alli¬ 
ance  with  France,  by  which,  in  the  event  of  any 
change  in  the  Emperor’s  sentiments,  he  hoped  to 
secure  the  possession  of  the  Palatinate.  But 
though  the  origin  of  the  treaty  clearly  showed 
against  what  enemy  it  was  directed,  Maximilian 
now  thought  proper  to  make  use  of  it  against  the 
King  of  Sweden,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  demand 
from  France  that  assistance  against  her  ally,  which 
she  had  simply  promised  against  Austria.  Riche¬ 
lieu,  embarrassed  by  this  conflicting  alliance  with 


two  hostile  powers,  had  no  resource  left  but  to  en¬ 
deavor  to  put  a  speedy  termination  to  their  hos¬ 
tilities  ;  and  as  little  inclined  to  sacrifice  Bavaria, 
as  he  was  disabled,  by  his  treaty  with  Sweden, 
from  assisting  it,  he  set  himself,  with  all  diligence, 
to  bring  about  a  neutrality,  as  the  only  means  of 
fulfilling  his  obligations  to  both.  For  this  purpose, 
the  Marquis  of  Breze  was  sent,  as  his  plenipoten¬ 
tiary,  to  the  King  of  Sweden  at  Mentz,  to  learn 
his  sentiments  on  this  point,  and  to  procure  from 
him  favorable  conditions  for  the  allied  princes. 
But  if  Louis  XIII.  had  powerful  motives  for  wish¬ 
ing  for  this  neutrality,  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  as 
grave  reasons  for  desiring  the  contrary.  Con¬ 
vinced  by  numerous  proofs  that  the  hatred  of  the 
princes  of  the  League  to  the  Protestant  religion 
was  invincible,  their  aversion  to  the  foreign  power 
of  the  Swedes  inextinguishable,  and  their  attach¬ 
ment  to  the  House  of  Austria  irrevocable,  he  ap¬ 
prehended  less  danger  from  their  open  hostility, 
than  from  a  neutrality  which  was  so  little  in  unison 
with  their  real  inclinations  ;  and,  moreover,  as  he 
was  constrained  to  carry  on  the  war  in  Germany 
at  the  expense  of  the  enemy,  he  manifestly  sus¬ 
tained  great  loss  if  he  diminished  their  number 
without  increasing  that  of  his  friends.  It  was  not 
surprising,  therefore,  if  Gustavus  evinced  little  in¬ 
clination  to  purchase  the  neutrality  of  the  League, 
by  which  he  was  likely  to  gain  so  little,  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  the  advantages  he  had  already  obtained. 

The  conditions,  accordingly,  upon  which  he  of¬ 
fered  to  adopt  the  neutrality  toward  Bavaria  were 
severe,  and  suited  to  these  views.  He  required 
of  the  whole  League  a  full  and  entire  cessation 
from  all  hostilities  ;  the  recall  of  their  troops  from 
the  imperial  army,  from  the  conquered  towns,  and 
from  all  the  Protestant  countries  ;  the  reduction 
of  their  military  force  ;  the  exclusion  of  the  impe¬ 
rial  armies  from  their  territories,  and  from  supplies 
either  of  men,  provisions,  or  ammunition.  Hard 
as  the  conditions  were,  which  the  victor  thus  im¬ 
posed  upon  the  vanquished,  the  French  mediator 
flattered  himself  he  should  be  able  to  induce  the 
Elector  of  Bavaria  to  accept  them.  In  order  to 
give  time  for  an  accommodation,  Gustavus  had 
agreed  to  a  cessation  of  hostilities  for  a  fortnight 
But  at  the  very  time  when  this  monarch  was  re¬ 
ceiving  from  the  French  agents  repeated  assur¬ 
ances  of  the  favorable  progress  of  the  negotiation, 
an  intercepted  letter  from  the  Elector  to  Pappen- 
heim,  the  imperial  general  in  Westphalia,  revealed 
the  perfidy  of  that  prince,  as  having  no  other  ob¬ 
ject  in  view  by  the  whole  negotiation,  than  to  gain 
time  for  his  measures  of  defense.  Far  from  in¬ 
tending  to  fetter  his  military  operations  by  a  truce 
with  Sweden,  the  artful  prince  hastened  his  prepa¬ 
rations,  and  employed  the  leisure  which  his  enemy 
afforded  him,  in  making  the  most  active  disposi¬ 
tions  for  resistance.  The  negotiation  accordingly 
failed,  and  served  only  to  increase  the  animosity 
of  the  Bavarians  and  the  Swedes. 

Tilly’s  augmented  force,  with  which  he  threat¬ 
ened  to  overrun  Franconia,  urgently  required  the 
king’s  presence  in  that  circle ;  but  it  was  neces¬ 
sary  to  expel  previously  the  Spaniards  from  the 
Rhine,  and  to  cut  off  their  means  of  invading 
Germany  from  the  Netherlands.  With  this  view. 
Gustavus  Adolphus  had  made  an  offer  of  neu- 


192 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THiRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


trality  to  the  Elector  of  Treves,  Philip  von  Zel- 
tern,  on  condition  that  the  fortress  of  Herman- 
stein  should  be  delivered  up  to  him,  and  a  free 
passage  granted  to  bis  troops  through  Coblentz. 
But  unwillingly  as  the  Elector  had  beheld  the 
Spaniards  within  his  territories,  he  was  still  less 
disposed  to  commit  his  estates  to  the  suspicious 
protection  of  a  heretic,  and  to  make  the  Swedish 
conqueror  master  of  his  destinies.  Too  weak  to 
maintain  his  independence  between  two  such  pow¬ 
erful  competitors,  he  took  refuge  in  the  protection 
of  France.  With  his  usual  prudence,  Richelieu 
profited  by  the  embarrassments  of  this  prince  to 
augment  the  power  of  France,  and  to  gain  for  her 
an  important  ally  on  the  German  frontier.  A 
numerous  French  army  was  dispatched  to  protect 
the  territory  of  Treves,  and  a  French  garrison 
was  received  into  Ehrenbreitstein.  But  the  ob¬ 
ject  which  had  moved  the  Elector  to  this  bold 
step  was  not  completely  gained,  for  the  offended 
pride  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  not  appeased 
till  he  had  obtained  a  free  passage  for  his  troops 
through  Treves. 

Pending  these  negotiations  with  Treves  and 
France,  the  king’s  generals  had  entirely  cleared 
the  territory  of  Mentz  of  the  Spanish  garrisons, 
and  Gustavus  himself  completed  the  conquest  of 
this  district  by  the  capture  of  Kreutznach.  To 
protect  these  conquests,  the  chancellor  Oxenstiern 
was  left  with  a  division  of  the  army  upon  the 
Middle  Rhine,  while  the  main  body,  under  the 
king  himself,  began  its  march  against  the  enemy 
in  Franconia. 

The  possession  of  this  circle  had,  in  the  mean 
time,  been  disputed  with  variable  success,  between 
Count  'filly  and  the  Swedish  General  Horn,  whom 
Gustavus  had  loft  there  with  8,000  men  ;  and  the 
Bishopric  of  Bamberg,  in  particular,  was  at  once 
the  prize  and  the  scene  of  their  struggle.  Called 
away  to  the  Rhine  by  his  other  projects,  the  king 
had  left  to  his  general  the  chastisement  of  the 
bishop,  whose  perfidy  had  excited  his  indignation, 
and  the  activity  of  Horn  justified  the  choice.  In 
a  short  time,  he  subdued  the  greater  part  of  the 
bishopric;  and  the  capital  itself,  abandoned  by 
its  imperial  garrison,  was  carried  by  storm.  The 
banished  bishop  urgently  demanded  assistance 
from  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  who  was  at  length 
persuaded  to  put  an  end  to  Tilly’s  inactivity. 
Fully  empowered  by  his  master’s  order  to  restore 
the  bishop  to  his  possessions,  this  general  col¬ 
lected  his  troops,  who  were  scattered  over  the 
Upper  Palatinate,  and  with  an  army  of  20,000 
men  advanced  upon  Bamberg.  Firmly  resolved 
to  maintain  his  conquest  even  against  this  over¬ 
whelming  force,  Horn  awaited  the  enemy  within 
the  Avails  of  Bamberg;  but  was  obliged  to  yield 
to  the  vanguard  of  Tilly  what  he  had  thought  to 
be  able  to  dispute  with  his  whole  army.  A  panic 
which  suddenly  seized  his  troops,  and  which  no 
presence  of  mind  of  their  general  could  check, 
opened  the  gates  to  the  enemy,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  troops,  baggage,  and  artillery, 
were  saved.  The  reconquest  of  Bamberg  was  the 
fruit  of  this  victory ;  but  Tilly,  with  all  his  acti¬ 
vity,  was  unable  to  overtake  the  Swedish  general, 
who  retired  in  good  order  behind  the  Maine.  The 
king’s  appearance  in  Franconia,  and  his  junction 


with  Gustavus  Horn  at  Kitzengen,  put  a  stop  to 
Tilly’s  conquests,  and  compelled  him  to  provide 
for  his  oavii  safety  by  a  rapid  retreat. 

The  king  made  a  general  revieAV  of  his  troops  at 
Aschaffenburg.  After  his  junction  with  Gustavus 
Horn,  Banner,  and  Duke  William  of  Weimar, 
they  amounted  to  nearly  40,000  men.  His  pro¬ 
gress  through  Franconia  was  uninterrupted  ;  for 
Tilly,  far  too  weak  to  encounter  an  enemy  so  su¬ 
perior  in  numbers,  had  retreated,  by  rapid  marches, 
toward  the  Danube.  Bohemia  and  Bavaria  were 
now  equally  near  to  the  king,  and,  uncertain 
whither  his  victorious  course  might  be  directed, 
Maximilian  could  form  no  immediate  resolution. 
The  choice  of  the  king,  and  the  fate  of  both  pro¬ 
vinces,  noAv  depended  on  the  road  that  should  be 
left  open  to  Count  Tilly.  It  was  dangerous, 
during  the  approach  of  so  formidable  an  enemy, 
to  leave  Bavaria  undefended,  in  order  to  protect 
Austria;  still  more  dangerous,  by  receiving  Tilly 
into  Bavaria,  to  draw  thither  the  enemy  also,  and 
to  render  it  the  seat  of  a  destructive  war.  The 
cares  of  the  sovereign  finally  overcame  the  scru¬ 
ples  of  the  statesman,  and  Tilly  received  orders, 
at  all  hazards,  to  cover  the  frontiers  of  Bavaria 
with  his  army. 

Nuremberg  received  with  triumphant  joy  the 
protector  of  the  Protestant  religion  and  German 
freedom,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  citizens  ex¬ 
pressed  itself  on  his  arrival  in  loud  transports  of 
admiration  and  joy.  Even  Gustavus  could  not 
contain  his  astonishment,  to  see  himself  in  this 
city,  which  was  the  very  centre  of  Germany, 
Avhere  he  had  never  expected  to  be  able  to  pene¬ 
trate.  The  noble  appearance  of  his  person,  com¬ 
pleted  the  impression  produced  by  his  glorious 
exploits,  and  the  condescension  with  which  he  re¬ 
ceived  the  congratulations  of  this  free  city  won 
all  hearts.  He  now  confirmed  the  alliance  he 
had  concluded  with  it  on  the  shores  of  the  Baltic, 
and  excited  the  citizens  to  zealous  activity  and 
fraternal  unity  against  the  common  enemy.  After 
a  short  stay  in  Nuremberg,  he  followed  his  army 
to  the  Danube,  and  appeared  unexpectedly  before 
the  frontier  town  of  Donauwerth.  A  numerous 
Bavarian  garrison  defended  the  place  ;  and  their 
commander,  Rodolph  Maximilian,  Duke  of  Saxe 
Lauenburg,  showed  at  first  a  resolute  determina¬ 
tion  to  defend  it  till  the  arrival  of  Tilly.  But  the 
vigor  with  which  Gustavus  Adolphus  prosecuted 
the  siege,  soon  compelled  him  to  take  measures 
for  a  speedy  and  secure  retreat,  which  amidst  a 
tremendous  fire  from  the  Swedish  artillery  he 
successfully  executed. 

The  conquest  of  Donauwerth  opened  to  the 
king  the  further  side  of  the  Danube,  and  now  the 
small  river  Lech  alone  separated  him  from  Ba¬ 
varia.  ’The  immediate  danger  of  his  dominions 
aroused  all  Maximilian’s  activity;  and  however 
little  he  had  hitherto  disturbed  the  enemy’s  pro¬ 
gress  to  his  frontier,  he  now  determined  to  dispute 
as  resolutely  the  remainder  of  their  course.  On 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  Lech,  near  the  small 
town  of  Rain,  Tilly  occupied  a  strongly  fortified 
camp,  which,  surrounded  by  three  rivers,  bade 
defiance  to  all  attack.  All  the  bridges  over  the 
Lech  were  destroyed  ;  the  whole  course  of  the 
stream  protected  by  strong  garrisons  as  far  as 


2— G.  p.  232. 


2— E.  p.  192. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


193 


Augsburg;  and  that  town  itself,  which  had  long 
betrayed  its  impatience  to  follow  the  example  of 
Nuremberg  and  Frankfort,  secured  by  a  Bavarian 
garrison,  and  the  disarming  of  its  inhabitants. 
The  Elector  himself,  with  all  the  troops  he  could 
collect,  threw  himself  into  Tilly’s  camp,  as  if  all 
his  hopes  centred  on  this  single  point,  and  here 
the  good  fortune  of  the  Swedes  was  to  suffer  ship¬ 
wreck  for  ever. 

Gustavus  Adolphus,  after  subduing  the  whole 
territory  of  Augsburg,  on  his  own  side  of  the 
river,  and  opening  to  his  troops  a  rich  supply  of 
necessaries  from  that  quarter,  soon  appeared  on 
the  bank  opposite  the  Bavarian  intrenchments. 
It,  was  now  the  month  of  March,  when  the  river, 
swollen  by  frequent  rains,  and  the  melting  of  the 
snow  from  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol,  flowed  full 
and  rapid  between  its  steep  banks.  Its  boiling 
current  threatened  the  rash  assailants  with  certain 
destruction,  while  from  the  opposite  side  the  ene¬ 
my’s  cannon  showed  their  murderous  mouths. 
If,  in  despite  of  the  fury  both  of  fire  and  water, 
they  should  accomplish  this  almost  impossible 
passage,  a  fresh  and  vigorous  enemy  awaited  the 
exhausted  troops  in  an  impregnable  camp  ;  and 
when  they  needed  repose  and  refreshment  they 
must  prepare  for  battle.  With  exhausted  powers 
they  must  ascend  the  hostile  intrenchments, 
whose  strength  seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  every 
assault.  A  defeat  sustained  upon  this  shore 
would  be  attended  with  inevitable  destruction, 
since  the  same  stream  which  impeded  their  ad¬ 
vance  would  also  cut  off  their  retreat,  if  fortune 
should  abandon  them. 

The  Swedish  council  of  war,  which  the  king 
now  assembled,  strongly  urged  upon  him  all  these 
considerations,  in  order  to  deter  him  from  this 
dangerous  undertaking.  The  most  intrepid  were 
appalled,  and  a  troop  of  honorable  warriors,  who 
had  grown  gray  in  the  field,  did  not  hesitate  to 
express  their  alarm.  But  the  king’s  resolution 
was  fixed.  “What!”  said  he  to  Gustavus  Horn, 
who  spoke  for  the  rest,  “  have  we  crossed  the 
Baltic,  and  so  many  great  rivers  of  Germany,  and 
shall  we  now  be  checked  by  a  brook  like  the 
Lech?”  Gustavus  had  already,  at  great  personal 
risk,  reconnoitred  the  whole  country,  and  dis¬ 
covered  that  his  own  side  of  the  river  was  higher 
than  the  other,  and  consequently  gave  a  consi¬ 
derable  advantage  to  the  fire  of  the  Swedish  artil- 
tillery  over  that  of  the  enemy.  With  great  pre¬ 
sence  of  mind  he  determined  to  profit  by  this  cir¬ 
cumstance.  At  the  point  where  the  left  bank  of 
the  Lech  forms  an  angle  with  the  right,  he  imme¬ 
diately  caused  three  batteries  to  be  erected,  from 
which  seventy-two  field  pieces  maintained  a  cross 
fire  upon  the  enemy.  While  this  tremendous  can¬ 
nonade  drove  the  Bavarians  from  the  opposite 
bank,  he  caused  to  be  erected  a  bridge  over  the 
river  with  all  possible  rapidity.  A  thick  smoke, 
kept  up  by  burning  wood  and  wet  straw,  concealed 
for  some  time  the  progress  of  the  work  from  the 
enemy,  while  the  continued  thunder  of  the  cannon 
overpowered  the  noise  of  the  axes.  He  kept  alive 
by  his  own  example  the  courage  of  his  troops,  and 
discharged  more  than  sixty  cannon  w'ith  his  own 
hand.  The  cannonade  was  returned  by  the  Bava¬ 
rians  with  equal  vivacity  for  two  hours,  though 
Vol.  II.— 13 


with  less  effect,  as  the  Swedish  batteries  swept 
the  lower  opposite  bank,  while  their  height  served 
as  a  breast-work  to  their  own  troops.  In  vain, 
therefore,  did  the  Bavarians  attempt  to  destroy 
these  works ;  the  superior  fire  of  the  Swedes 
threw  them  into  disorder,  aud  the  bridge  was 
completed  under  their  very  eyes.  On  this  dread¬ 
ful  day,  Tilly  did  every  thing  in  his  power  to  en¬ 
courage  his  troops;  and  no  danger  could  drive 
him  from  the  bank.  At  length  he  found  the 
death  which  he  sought,- — a  cannon  ball  shattered 
his  leg;  and  Altringer,  his  brave  companion-in- 
arms,  was,  soon  after,  dangerously  wounded  in 
the  head.  Deprived  of  the  animating  presence 
of  their  two  generals,  the  Bavarians  gave  way  at 
last,  and  Maximilian,  in  spite  of  his  own  judg¬ 
ment,  was  driven  to  adopt  a  pusillanimous  resolve. 
Overcome  by  the  persuasions  of  the  dying  Tilly, 
whose  wonted  firmness  was  overpowered  by  the 
near  approach  of  death,  he  gave  up  his  impregna¬ 
ble  position  for  lost;  and  the  discovery  by  the 
Swedes  of  a  ford,  by  which  their  cavalry  were  on 
the  point  of  passing,  accelerated  his  inglorious 
retreat.  The  same  night,  before  a  single  soldier 
of  the  enemy  had  crossed  the  Lech,  he  broke  up 
his  camp,  and,  without  giving  time  for  the  king 
to  harass  him  in  his  march,  retreated  in  good 
order  to  Neuburg  and  Ingolstadt.  With  astonish¬ 
ment,  did  Gustavus  Adolphus,  who  completed  the 
passage  of  the  river  on  the  following  day.  behold 
the  hostile  camp  abandoned  :  and  the  Elector’s 
flight  surprised  him  still  more,  when  he  saw  the 
strength  of  the  position  he  had  quitted.  “  Had  I 
been  the  Bavarian,”  said  he,  “though  a  cannon 
ball  had  carried  away  my  beard  and  chin,  never 
would  I  have  abandoned  a  position  like  this,  and 
laid  open  my  territory  to  my  enemies.” 

Bavaria  now  lay  exposed  to  the  conqueror  ;  and, 
for  the  first  time,  the  tide  of  war,  which  had  hith¬ 
erto  only  beat  against  its  frontier,  now  flowed  over 
its  long  spared  and  fertile  fields.  Before,  however, 
the  king  proceeded  to  the  conquest  of  these  pro¬ 
vinces,  he  delivered  the  town  of  Augsburg  from 
the  yoke  of  Bavaria  ;  exacted  an  oath  of  allegi¬ 
ance  from  the  citizens ;  and  to  secure  its  observ¬ 
ance,  left  a  garrison  in  the  town.  He  then  ad¬ 
vanced,  by  rapid  marches,  against  Ingolstadt,  in 
order,  by  the  capture  of  this  important  fortress, 
which  the  Elector  covered  with  the  greater  part 
of  his  army,  to  secure  his  conquests  in  Bavaria, 
and  obtain  a  firm  footing  on  the  Danube. 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of  the  Swedish 
King  before  Ingolstadt,  the  wounded  Tilly,  after 
experiencing  the  caprice  of  unstable  fortune,  ter¬ 
minated  his  career  within  the  walls  of  that  town. 
Conquered  by  the  superior  generalship  of  Gusta¬ 
vus  Adolphus,  he  lost,  at  the  close  of  his  days,  all 
the  laurels  of  his  earlier  victories,  and  appeased, . 
by  a  series  of  misfortunes,  the  demands  of  justice, 
and  the  avenging  manes  of  Magdeburg.  In  his 
death,  the  Imperial  army  and  that  of  the  League 
sustained  an  irreparable  loss  ;  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion  was  deprived  of  its  most  zealous  defender, 
and  Maximilian  of  Bavaria  of  the  most  faithful  of 
his  servants,  who  sealed  his  fidelity  by  his  death, 
and  even  in  his  dying  moments  fulfilled  the  duties 
of  a  general.  His  last  message  to  the  Elector  was 
an  urgent  advice  to  take  possession  of  Ratisbou, 


194 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS1  WAR. 


in  order  to  maintain  tlie  command  of  the  Danube, 
and  to  keep  open  the  communication  with  Bohe¬ 
mia. 

With  the  confidence  which  was  the  natural  fruit 
of  so  many  victories,  Gustavus  Adolphus  com¬ 
menced  the  siege  of  Ingolstadt,  hoping  to  gain  the 
town  by  the  fury  of  his  first  assault.  But  the 
strength  of  its  fortifications,  and  the  bravery  of  its 
garrison,  presented  obstacles  greater  than  any  he 
had  had  to  encounter  since  the  battle  of  Breitcn- 
feld,  and  the  walls  of  Ingolstadt  were  near  putting 
an  end  to  his  career.  While  reconnoitring  the 
works,  a  twenty-four  pounder  killed  his  horse  un¬ 
der  him,  and  lie  fell  to  the  ground,  while  almost 
immediately  afterward  another  ball 'struck  his'  fa¬ 
vorite,  the  young  Margrave  of  Baden,  by  his  side. 
With  perfect  self-possession  the  king  rose,  and 
quieted  the  fears  of  his  troops  by  immediately 
mounting  another  horse. 


The  occupation  of  Ratisbon  by  the  Bavarians, 
who,  by  the  advise  of  Tilly,  had  surprised  this 
town  by  stratagem,  and  placed  in  it  a  strong  gar¬ 
rison,  quickly  changed  the  king’s  plan  of  opera¬ 
tions.  He  had  flattered  himself  with  the  hope  of 
gaining  this  town,  which  favored  the  Protestant 
cause,  and  to  find  in  it  an  ally  as  devoted  to  him 
as  Nuremberg,  Augsburg,  and  Frankfort.  Its 
seizure  by  the  Bavarians  seemed  to  postpone  for 
a  long  time  the  fulfillment  of  his  favorite  project 
of  making  himself  master  of  the  Danube,  and 
cutting  olf  his  adversaries’  supplies  from  Bohe¬ 
mia.  He  suddenly  raised  the  siege  of  Ingol¬ 
stadt,  before  which  he  had  wasted  both  his  time 
and  his  troops,  and  penetrated  into  the  interior  of 
Bavaria,  in  order  to  draw  the  Elector  into  that 
quarter  for  the  defense  of  his  territories,  and  thus 
to  strip  the  Danube  of  its  defenders. 

The  whole  country,  as  far  as  Munich,  now  lay 
open  to  the  conqueror.  Mosburg,  Landshut,  and 
the  whole  territory  of  Freysinger,  submitted; 
nothing  could  resist  his  arms.  But  if  he  met  with 
no  regular  force  to  oppose  his  progress,  he  had  to 
contend  against  a  still  more  implacable  enemy  in 
the  heart  of  every  Bavarian — religious  fanaticism. 
Soldiers  who  did  not  believe  in  the  Pope  were, 
in  this  country,  a  new  and  unheard-of  phenome¬ 
non  ;  the  blind  zeal  of  the  priests  represented 
them  to  the  peasantry  as  monsters,  the  children 
of  hell,  and  their  leader  an  Antichrist.  No  won¬ 
der,  then,  if  they  thought  themselves  released 
from  all  the  ties  of  nature  and  humanity  toward 
this  brood  of  Satan,  and  justified  in  committing 
the  most  savage  atrocities  upon  them.  Woe  to 
the  Swedish  soldier  who  fell  into  their  hands ! 
All  the  torments  which  inventive  malice  could 
dt-.vise  were  exercised  upon  these  unhappy  vic¬ 
tims  ;  and  the  sight  of  their  mangled  bodies  exas¬ 
perated  the  army  to  a  fearful  retaliation.  Gus¬ 
tavus  Adolphus,  alone,  sullied  the  lustre  of  his 
heroic  character  by  no  act  of  revenge  ;  and  the 
aversion  which  the  Bavarians  felt  toward  his  re¬ 
ligion,  far  from  making  him  depart  from  the  obli¬ 
gations  of  humanity  toward  that  unfortunate 
people,  seemed  to  impose  upon  him  the  stricter 
duty  to  honor  his  religion  by  a  more  constant  cle¬ 
mency. 


The  approach  of  the  king  spread  terror  and 
consternation  in  the  capital,  which,  stripped  of  its 


defenders,  and  abandoned  by  its  principal  inhabi¬ 
tants,  placed  all  its  hopes  in  the  magnanimity  of 
the  conqueror.  By  an  unconditional  and  volun¬ 
tary  surrender,  it  hoped  to  disarm  his  vengeance  ; 
and  sent  deputies  even  to  Frankfort  to  lay  at  his 
feet  the  keys  of  the  city.  Strongly  as  the  king 
might  have  been  tempted  by  the  inhumanity  of 
the  Bavarians,  and  the  hostility  of  thbir  sove¬ 
reign,  to  make  a  dreadful  use  of  the  rights  of  vic¬ 
tory  ;  pressed  as  he  was  by  Germans  to  avenge ' 
the  fate  of  Magdeburg  on  the  capital  of  its  de¬ 
stroyer,  this  great  prince  scorned  this  mean  re¬ 
venge  ;  and  the  very  helplessness  of  his  enemies 
disarmed- his  severity.  Contented  with  the  more 
noble  triumph  of  conducting  the  Palatine  Frede¬ 
rick  with  the  pomp  of  a  victor  in  the  very  palace 
of  the  prince  who  had  been  the  chief  instrument 
of  his  ruin,  and  the  usurper  of  his  territories,  he 
heightened  the  brilliancy  of  his  triumphal  entry 
by  the  brighter  splendor  of  moderation  and  cle¬ 
mency. 

The  king  found  in  Munich  only  a  forsaken  pa¬ 
lace,  for  the  Elector’s  treasures  had  been  trans¬ 
ported  to  Werfen.  The  magnificence  of  the 
building  astonished  him  ;  and  he  asked  the  guide 
who  showed  the  apartments  who  was  the  archi¬ 
tect.  “No  other,”  replied  he,  “  than  the  Elector 
himself.”  “  I  wish,”  said  the  king,  “  I  had  this 
architect  to  send  to  Stockholm.”  “That,”  he 
was  answered,  “  the  architect  will  take  care  to 
prevent.”  When  the  arsenal  was  examined,  they 
found  nothing  but  carriages,  stripped  of  their 
cannon.  The  latter  had  been  so  artfully  concealed 
under  the  floor,  that  no  traces  of  them  remained ; 
and  but  for  the  treachery  of  a  workman,  the  de¬ 
ceit  would  not  have  been  detected.  “  Rise  up 
from  the  dead,”  said  the  king,  “  and  come  to 
judgment.”  The  floor  was  pulled  up,  and  one 
hundred  and  forty  pieces  of  cannon  discovered, 
some  of  extraordinary  calibre,  which  had  been 
principally  taken  in  the  Palatinate  and  Bohemia. 
A  treasure  of  thirty  thousand  gold  ducats,  con¬ 
cealed  in  one  of  the  largest,  completed  the  plea¬ 
sure  which  the  king  received  from  this  valuable 
acquisition. 

A  far  more  welcome  spectacle  still  would  have 
been  the  Bavarian  army  itself ;  for  his  march  into 
the  heart  of  Bavaria  had  been  undertaken  chiefly 
with  the  view  of  luring  them  from  their  intrench- 
ments.  In  this  expectation  he  was  disappointed. 
No  enemy  appeared  ;  no  entreaties,  however  ur¬ 
gent,  on  the  part  of  his  subjects,  could  induce  the 
Elector  to  risk  the  remainder  of  his  army  to  the 
chances  of  a  battle.  Shut  up  in  Ratisbon,  he 
awaited  the  reinforcements  which  Wallenstein 
was  bringing  from  Bohemia  ;  and  endeavored,  in 
the  mean  time,  to  amuse  his  enemy  and  keep  him 
inactive,  by  reviving  the  negotiation  for  a  neu¬ 
trality.  But  the  king’s  distrust,  too  often  and 
too  justly  excited  by  his  previous  conduct,  frus¬ 
trated  this  design  ;  and  the  intentional  delay  of 
Wallenstein  abandoned  Bavaria  to  the  Swedes. 

Thus  far  had  Gustavus  advanced  from  victory 
to  victory,  without  meeting  with  an  enemy  able  to 
cope  with  him.  A  part  of  Bavaria  and  Swabia, 
the  Bishoprics  of  Franconia,  the  Lower  Palati¬ 
nate,  and  the  Archbishopric  of  Mentz,  lay  con¬ 
quered  in  his  rear.  An  uninterrupted  career  of 


195 


HISTORY  OF  THE  TI 

conquest  had  conducted  him  to  the  threshold  of 
Austria;  and  the  most  brilliant  success  had  fully 
justified  the  plan  of  operations  which  he  had 
formed  after  the  battle  of  Breitenfeld.  If  he  had 
not  succeeded  to  his  wish  in  promoting  a  confede¬ 
racy  among  the  Protestant  States,  he  had  at  least 
disarmed  or  weakened  the  League,  carried  on  the 
war  chiefly  at  its  expense,  lessened  the  Emperor’s 
resources,  emboldened  the  weaker  states,  and 
while  he  laid  under  contribution  the  allies  of  the 
Emperor,  forced  a  way  through  their  territories 
into  Austria  itself.  Where  arms  were  unavailing, 
the  greatest  service  was  rendered  by  the  friend¬ 
ship  of  the  free  cities,  whose  affections  he  had 
gained,  by  the  double  ties  of  policy  and  religion  ; 
and,  as  long  as  he  should  maintain  his  superiority 
in  the  field,  he  might  reckon  on  every  thing  from 
their  zeal.  By  his  conquests  on  the  Rhine,  the 
Spaniards  were  cut  off  from  the  Lower  Palati¬ 
nate.  even  if  the  state  of  the  war  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands  left  them  at  liberty  to  iuterfere  in  the  affairs 
of  Germany.  The  Duke  of  Lorraine,  too,  after 
his  unfortunate  campaign,  had  been  glad  to  adopt 
a  neutrality.  Even  the  numerous  garrisons  he 
had  left  behind  him,  in  his  progress  through 
Germany,  had  not  diminished  his  army ;  and,  fresh 
aud  vigorous  as  when  he  first  began  his  march, 
he  now  stood  in  the  centre  of  Bavaria,  deter¬ 
mined  and  prepared  to  carry  the  war  into  the  heart 
of  Austria. 

While  Gustavus  Adolphus  thus  maintained  his 
superiority  within  the  empire,  fortune,  in  another 
quarter,  had  been  no  less  favorable  to  his  ally, 
the  Elector  of  Saxony.  By  the  arrangement  con¬ 
certed  between  these  princes  at  Halle,  after  the 
battle  of  Leipsic,  the  conquest  of  Bohemia  was 
intrusted  to  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  while  the 
king  reserved  for  himself  the  attack  upon  the 
territories  of  the  League.  The  first  fruits  which 
the  Elector  reaped  from  the  battle  of  Breitenfeld, 
was  the  reconquest  of  Leipsic,  which  was  shortly 
followed  by  the  expulsion  of  the  Austrian  garri¬ 
sons  from  the  entire  circle.  Reinforced  by  the 
troops  who  deserted  to  him  from  the  hostile  garri¬ 
sons,  the  Saxon  General,  Arnheim,  marched  to¬ 
ward  Lusatia,  which  had  been  overrun  by  an  Im¬ 
perial  General,  Rudolph  von  Tiefenbach,  in  order 
to  chastise  the  Elector  for  embracing  the  cause 
of  the  enemy.  He  had  already  commenced  in  this 
weakly-defended  province  the  usual  course  of  de¬ 
vastation,  taken  several  towns,  and  terrified  Dres¬ 
den  itself  by  his  approach,  when  his  destructive 
progress  was  suddenly  stopped,  by  an  express 
mandate  from  the  Emperor  to  spare  the  posses¬ 
sions  of  the  King  of  Saxony. 

Ferdinand  had  perceived  too  late  the  errors  of 
that  policy,  which  reduced  the  Elector  of  Saxony 
to  extremities,  and  forcibly  drove  this  powerful 
monarch  into  an  alliance  with  Sweden.  By  mod¬ 
eration  equally  ill-timed,  he  now  wished  to  repair 
if  possible  the  consequences  of  his  haughtiness  ; 
and  thus  committed  a  second  error  in  endeavoring 
to  repair  the  first.  To  deprive  his  enemy  of  so 
powerful  an  ally,  he  had  opened,  through  the 
intervention  of  Spain,  a  negotiation  with  the 
Elector ;  and  in  order  to  facilitate  an  accommo¬ 
dation,  Tiefenbach  was  ordered  immediately  to  re¬ 
tire  from  Saxony.  But  these  concessions  of  the 


[IRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 

Emperor,  far  from  producing  the  desired  effect, 
only  revealed  to  the  Elector  the  embarrassment 
of  his  adversary  and  his  own  importance,  and  em¬ 
boldened  him  the  more  to  prosecute  the  advantages 
he  had  already  obtained.  How  could  he,  more¬ 
over,  without  becoming  chargeable  with  the  most 
shameful  ingratitude,  abandon  an  ally  to  whom  he 
had  given  the  most  solemn  assurances  of  fidelity, 
and  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  the  preserva¬ 
tion  of  his  dominions,  and  even  of  his  Electoral 
dignity  ? 

The  Saxon  army,  now  relieved  from  the  neces 
sity  of  marching  into  Lusatia,  advanced  toward 
Bohemia,  where  a  6ombination  of  favorable  cir¬ 
cumstances  seemed  to  insure  them  an  easy  vic¬ 
tory.  In  this  kingdom,  the  first  scene  of  this 
fatal  war,  the  flames  of  dissension  still  smouldered 
beneath  the  ashes,  while  the  discontent  of  the  in¬ 
habitants  was  fomented  by  daily  acts  of  oppres¬ 
sion  and  tyranny.  On  every  side,  this  unfortunate 
country  showed  signs  of  a  mournful  change. 
Whole  districts  had  changed  their  proprietors,  aud 
groaned  under  the  hated  yoke  of  Roman  Catholic 
masters,  whom  the  favor  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
Jesuits  had  enriched  with  the  plunder  and  pos¬ 
sessions  of  the  exiled  Protestants.  Others,  taking 
advantage  themselves  of  the  general  distress,  had 
purchased  at  a  low  rate,  the  confiscated  estates. 
The  blood  of  the  most  eminent  champions  of 
liberty  had  been  shed  upon  the  scaffold;  and 
such  as  by  a  timely  flight  avoided  that  fate,  were 
wandering  in  misery  far  from  their  native  land, 
while  the  obsequious  slaves  of  despotism  enjoyed 
their  patrimony.  Still  more  insupportable  than 
the  oppression  of  these  petty  tyrants,  was  the  re¬ 
straint  of  conscience  which  was  imposed  without 
distinction  on  all  the  Protestants  of  that  king¬ 
dom.  No  external  danger,  no  opposition  on  the 
part  of  the  nation,  not  even  the  fearful,  however 
steadfast,  lessons  of  past  experience,  could  check 
in  the  Jesuits  the  rage  of  proselytism  :  where  fair 
means  were  ineffectual,  recourse  was  had  to  mili¬ 
tary  force  to  bring  the  deluded  wanderers  within 
the  pale  of  the  church.  The  inhabitants  of  Jo- 
achimsthal,  on  the  frontiers  between  Bohemia  aud 
Meissen,  were  the  chief  sufferers  from  this  vio¬ 
lence.  Two  imperial  commissaries,  accompanied 
by  as  many  Jesuits,  and  supported  by  fifteen  mus¬ 
keteers,  made  their  appearance  in  this  peaceful 
valley  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  heretics. 
Where  the  rhetoric  of  the  former  was  ineffectual, 
the  forcibly  quartering  the  latter  upon  the 
houses,  and  threats  of  banishment  and  fines  were 
tried.  But  on  this  occasion,  the  good  cause  pre¬ 
vailed,  and  the  bold  resistance  of  this  small  dis¬ 
trict  compelled  the  Emperor  disgracefully  to  re¬ 
call  his  mandate  of  conversion.  The  example  of 
the  court  had,  however,  afforded  a  precedent  to 
the  Roman  Catholics  of  the  empire,  and  seemed 
to  justify  every  act  of  oppression  which  their  in¬ 
solence  tempted  them  to  wreak  upon  the  Pro¬ 
testants.  It  is  not  surprising,  then,  if  this  per¬ 
secuted  party  was  favorable  to  a  revolution, 
and  saw  with  pleasure  their  deliverers  on  the  fron¬ 
tiers. 

The  Saxon  army  was  already  on  its  march  to¬ 
ward  Prague;  the  imperial  garrisons  everywhere 
retired  before  them  ;  Schloekenau,  Tetschen,  Aus- 


196 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS7  WAR. 


sig,  Leutmeritz,  soon  fell  into  the  enemy’s  hands, 
and  every  Roman  Catholic  place  was  abandoned 
to  plunder.  Consternation  seized  all  the  Papists 
of  the  Empire  ;  and  conscious  of  the  outrages 
which  they  themselves  had  committed  on  the  Pro¬ 
testants,  they  did  not  venture  to  abide  the  venge¬ 
ful  arrival  of  a  Protestant  army.  All  the  Roman 
Catholics  who  had  any  thing  to  lose,  fled  hastily 
from  the  country  to  the  capital,  which  again  they 
presently  abandoned.  Prague  was  unprepared 
for  an  attack,  and  was  too  weakly  garrisoned  to 
sustain  a  long  siege.  Too  late  had  the  Emperor 
resolved  to  dispatch  Field-Marshal  Tiefenbach  to 
the  defense  of  this  capital.  Before  the  imperial 
orders  could  reach  the  head-quarters  of  that  gene¬ 
ral  in  Silesia,  the  Saxons  were  already  close  to 
Prague,  the  Protestant  inhabitants  of  which 
showed  little  zeal,  while  the  weakness  of  the  gar¬ 
rison  left  no  room  to  hope  a  long  resistance.  In 
this  fearful  state  of  embarrassment,  the  Roman 
Catholics  of  Prague  looked  for  security  to  Wal¬ 
lenstein,  who  now  lived  in  that  city  as  a  private 
individual.  But  far  from  lending  his  military  ex¬ 
perience,  and  the  weight  of  his  name  toward  its 
defense,  he  seized  the  favorable  opportunity  to 
satiate  his  thirst  for  revenge.  If  he  did  not  ac¬ 
tually  invite  the  Saxons  to  Prague,  at  least  his 
conduct  facilitated  its  capture.  Though  unpre¬ 
pared,  the  town  might  still  hold  out  until  succors 
could  arrive ;  and  an  imperial  colonel,  Count 
Maradas,  showed  serious  intentions  of  undertaking 
its  defense.  But  without  command  and  author¬ 
ity,  and  having  no  support  but  his  own  zeal  and 
courage,  he  did  not  dare  to  venture  upon  such  a 
step  without  the  advice  of  a  superior.  He  there¬ 
fore  consulted  the  Duke  of  Friedland,  whose  ap¬ 
probation  might  supply  the  want  of  authority 
from  the  Emperor,  and  to  whom  the  Bohemian 
generals  were  referred  by  an  express  edict  of  the 
court  in  the  last  extremity.  He,  however,  art¬ 
fully  excused  himself,  on  the  plea  of  holding  no 
official  appointment,  and  his  long  retirement  from 
the  political  world  ;  while  he  weakened  the  resolu¬ 
tion  of  the  subalterns  by  the  scruples  which  he 
suggested,  and  painted  in  the  strongest  colors.  At 
last,  to  render  the  consternation  general  and  com¬ 
plete,  he  quitted  the  capital  with  his  whole  court, 
however  little  he  had  to  fear  from  its  capture  ; 
and  the  city  was  lost,  because,  by  his  departure, 
he  showed  that  he  despaired  of  its  safety.  His 
example  was  followed  by  all  the  Roman  Catholic 
nobility,  the  generals  with  their  troops,  the  clergy, 
and  all  the  officers  of  the  crown.  All  night  the 
people  were  employed  in  saving  their  persons  and 
effects.  The  roads  to  Vienna  were  crowded  with 
fugitives,  who  scarcely  recovered  from  their  con¬ 
sternation  till  they  reached  the  imperial  city. 
Maradas  himself,  despairing  of  the  safety  of 
Prague,  followed  the  rest,  and  led  his  small  de¬ 
tachment  to  Tabor,  where  he  awaited  the  event. 

Profound  silence  reigned  in  Prague,  when  the 
Saxons  next  morning  appeared  before  it ;  no  pre¬ 
parations  were  made  for  defense  ;  not  a  single 
shot  from  the  walls  announced  an  intention  of  re¬ 
sistance.  On  the  contrary,  a  crowd  of  spectators 
from  the  town,  allured  by  curiosity,  came  flocking 
round,  to  behold  the  foreign  army  ;  and  the  peace¬ 
ful  confidence  with  which  they  advanced,  resem¬ 


bled  a  friendly  salutation,  more  than  a  hostile  re¬ 
ception.  From  the  concurrent  reports  of  these 
people,  the  Swedes  learned  that  the  town  had  been 
deserted  by  the  troops,  and  that  the  government 
had  fled  to  Budweiss.  This  unexpected  and  in¬ 
explicable  absence  of  resistance  excited  Amheim’s 
distrust  the  more,  as  the  speedy  approach  of  the 
Silesian  succors  was  no  secret  to  him,  and  as  he 
knew  that  the  Saxon  army  was  too  indifferently 
provided  with  materials  for  undertaking  a  siege, 
and  by  far  too  weak  in  numbers  to  attempt  to 
take  the  place  by  storm.  Apprehensive  of  stra¬ 
tagem,  he  redoubled  his  vigilance  ;  and  he  con¬ 
tinued  in  this  conviction  uutil  Wallenstein’s 
house-steward,  whom  he  discovered  among  the 
crowd,  confirmed  to  him  this  intelligence.  “  The 
town  is  ours  without  a  blow  !”  exclaimed  he  in  as¬ 
tonishment  to  his  officers,  and  immediately  sum¬ 
moned  it  by  a  trumpeter. 

The  citizens  of  Prague,  thus  shamefully  aban¬ 
doned  by  their  defenders,  had  long  taken  their  re¬ 
solution  ;  all  that  they  had  to  do  was  to  secure 
their  properties  and  liberties  by  an  advantageous 
capitulation.  No  sooner  was  the  treaty  signed  by 
the  Saxon  general,  in  his  master’s  name,  than  the 
gates  were  opened  without  further  opposition ; 
and  upon  the  11th  of  November,  1631,  the  army 
made  their  triumphal  entry.  The  Elector  soon 
after  followed  in  person,  to  receive  the  homage 
of  those  whom  he  had  newly  taken  under  his  pro¬ 
tection  ;  for  it  was  only  in  the  character  of  pro¬ 
tector  that  the  three  towns  of  Prague  had  surren¬ 
dered  to  him.  Their  allegiance  to  the  Austrian 
monarchy  was  not  to  be  dissolved  by  the  steps  they 
had  taken. 

In  proportion  as  the  Papists'  apprehensions  of 
reprisals  on  the  part  of  the  Protestants  had  been 
exaggerated,  so  was  their  surprise  great  at  the 
moderation  of  the  Elector,  and  the  discipline 
of  his  troops.  Field-Marshal  Arnheim  plainly 
evinced,  on  this  occasion,  his  respect  for  Wallen¬ 
stein.  Not  content  with  sparing  his  estates  on 
his  march,  he  now  placed  guards  over  his  palace, 
in  Prague,  to  prevent  the  plunder  of  any  of  his 
effects.  The  Roman  Catholics  of  the  town  were 
allowed  the  fullest  .liberty  of  conscience ;  and  of 
all  the  churches  they  had  wrested  from  the  Protest¬ 
ants,  four  only  were  now  taken  back  from  them. 
From  this  general  indulgence,  none  were  excluded 
but  the  Jesuits,  who  were  generally  considered  as 
the  authors  of  all  past  grievances,  and  thus 
banished  the  kingdom. 

John  George  belied  not  the  submission  and  de¬ 
pendence  with  which  the  terror  of  the  imperial 
name  inspired  him  ;  nor  did  he  indulge  at  Prague, 
in  a  course  of  conduct  which  would  assuredly  be 
retaliated  upon  himself  in  Dresden,  by  imperial 
generals,  such  as  Tilly  or  Wallenstein,  tie  care¬ 
fully  distinguished  between  the  enemy  with  whom 
he  was  at  war,  and  the  head  of  the  Empire  to 
whom  he  owed  obedience.  He  did  not  venture  to 
touch  the  household  furniture  of  the  latter,  while, 
without  scruple,  he  appropriated  and  transported 
to  Dresden  the  cannon  of  the  former.  He  did 
not  take  up  his  residence  in  the  imperial  palace, 
but  the  house  of  Lichtenstein  ;  too  modest  to  use 
the  apartments  of  one  whom  he  had  deprived  of  a 
•  kingdom.  Had  this  trait  been  related  of  a  great 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


197 


man  and  a  hero,  it  would  irresistibly  excite  our 
admiration ;  but  the  character  of  this  prince 
leaves  us  in  doubt  whether  this  moderation  ought 
to  be  ascribed  to  a  noble  self-command,  or  to  the 
littleness  of  a  weak  mind,  which  even  good  for¬ 
tune  could  not  embolden,  and  liberty  itself  could 
not  strip  of  its  habituated  fetters. 

The  surrender  of  Prague,  which  was  quickly 
followed  by  that  of  most  of  the  other  towns,  ef¬ 
fected  a  great  and  sudden  change  in  Bohemia. 
Many  of  the  Protestant  nobility,  who  had  hither¬ 
to  been  wandering  about  in  misery,  now  returned 
to  their  native  country;  and  Count  Thurn,  the 
famous  author  of  the  Bohemian  insurrection,  en¬ 
joyed  the  triumph  of  returning  as  a  conqueror  to 
the  scene  of  his  crime  and  his  condemnation. 
Over  the  very  bridge  where  the  heads  of  his  ad¬ 
herents,  exposed  to  view,  held  out  a  fearful  picture 
of  the  fate  which  had  threatened  himself,  he  now 
made  his  triumphal  entry;  and  to  remove  these 
ghastly  objects  was  his  first  care.  The  exiles 
again  took  possession  of  their  properties,  without 
thinking  of  recompensing  for  the  purchase-money 
the  present  possessors,  who  had  mostly  taken  to 
flight.  Even  though  they  had  received  a  price 
for  their  estates,  they  seized  on  every  thing  which 
had  once  been  their  own  ;  and  many  had  reason 
to  rejoice  at  the  economy  of  the  late  possessors. 
The  lands  and  cattle  had  greatly  improved  in 
their  hands  ;  the  apartments  were  now  decorated 
with  the  most  costly  furniture  ;  the  cellars,  which 
had  been  left  empty,  were  richly  filled  ;  the  stables 
supplied  ;  the  magazines  stored  with  provisions. 
But  distrusting  the  constancy  of  that  good  for¬ 
tune,  which  had  so  unexpectedly  smiled  upon 
them,  they  hastened  to  get  quit  of  these  insecure 
possessions,  and  to  convert  their  immovable  into 
transferable  property. 

The  presence  of  the  Saxons  inspired  all  the 
Protestants  of  the  kingdom  with  courage;  and, 
both  in  the  country  and  the  capital,  crowds  flocked 
to  the  newly  opened  Protestant  churches.  Many, 
whom  fear  alone  had  retained  in  their  adherence 
to  Popery,  now  openly  professed  the  new  doctrine  ; 
and  many  of  the  late  converts  to  Roman  Catholi¬ 
cism  gladly  renounced  a  compulsory  persuasion, 
to  follow  the  earlier  conviction  of  their  conscience. 
All  the  moderation  of  the  new  regency,  could  not 
restrain  the  manifestation  of  that  just  displeasure, 
which  this  persecuted  people  felt  against  their 
oppressors.  They  made  a  fearful  and  cruel  use 
of  their  newly  recovered  rights;  and,  in  many 
parts  of  the  kingdom,  their  hatred  of  the’ religion 
which  they  had  been  compelled  to  profess,  could 
be  satiated  only  by  the  blood  of  its  adherents. 

Meantime  the  succors  which  the  imperial  gene¬ 
rals,  Goetz  and  Tiefenbach,  were  conducting  from 
Silesia,  had  entered  Bohemia,  where  they  were 
joined  by  some  of  Tilly’s  regiments,  from  the  Up¬ 
per  Palatinate.  In  order  to  disperse  them  before 
they  should  receive  any  further  reinforcement, 
Arnheim  advanced  with  part  of  his  army  from 
Prague,  and  made  a  vigorous  attack  on  their  in- 
trenchments  near  Limburg,  on  the  Elbe.  After 
a  severe  action,  not  without  great  loss,  he  drove 
the  enemy  from  their  fortified  camp,  and  forced 
them,  by  his  heavy  fire,  to  recross  the  Elbe,  and 
to  destroy  the  bridge  which  they  had  built  over 


that  river.  Nevertheless,  the  Imperialists  ob¬ 
tained  the  advantage  in  several  skirmishes,  and 
the  Croats  pushed  their  incursions  to  the  very 
gates  of  Prague.  Brilliant  and  promising  as  the 
opening  of  the  Bohemian  campaign  had  been,  the 
issue  by  no  means  satisfied  the  expectations  of 
Gustavus  Adolphus.  Instead  of  vigorously  fol¬ 
lowing  up  their  advantages,  by  forcing  a  passage 
to  the  Swedish  army  through  the  conquered  coun¬ 
try,  and  then,  in  conjunction  with  it,  attacking 
the  imperial  power  in  its  centre,  they  weakened 
themselves  in  a  war  of  skirmishes,  in  which  they 
were  not  always  successful,  while  they  lost  the 
time  which  should  have  been  devoted  to  greater 
undertakings.  But  the  Elector’s  subsequent  con¬ 
duct  betrayed  the  motives  which  had  prevented 
him  from  pushing  his  advantage  over  the  Empe¬ 
ror,  and  by  consistent  measures  promoting  the 
plans  of  the  King  of  Sweden. 

The  Emperor  had  now  lost  the  greater  part  of 
Bohemia,  and  the  Saxons  were  advancing  against 
Austria,  while  the  Swedish  monarch  was  rapidly 
moving  to  the  same  point  through  Franconia, 
Swabia,  and  Bavaria.  A  long  war  had  exhausted 
the  strength  of  the  Austrian  monarchy,  wasted 
the  country,  and  diminished  its  armies.  The  re¬ 
nown  of  its  victories  was  no  more,  as  well  as  the 
confidence  inspired  by  constant  success  ;  its  troops 
had  lost  the  obedience  and  discipline  to  which 
those  of  the  Swedish  monarch  owed  all  their  supe¬ 
riority  in  the  field.  The  confederates  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  were  disarmed,  or  their  fidelity  shaken  by 
the  danger  which  threatened  themselves.  Even  • 
Maximilian  of  Bayaria,  Austria’s  most  powerful 
ally,  seemed  disposed  to  yield  to  the  seductive 
proposition  of  neutrality ;  while  his  suspicious  al¬ 
liance  with  France  had  long  been  a  subject  of 
apprehension  to  the  Emperor.  The  bishops  of 
Wurtzburg  and  Bamberg,  the  Elector  of  Mentz, 
and  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,  were  either  expelled 
from  their  territories,  or  threatened  with  imme¬ 
diate  attack;  Treves  had  placed  himself  under 
the  protection  of  France.  The  bravery  of  the 
Hollanders  gave  full  employment  to  the  Spanish 
arms  in  the  Netherlands ;  while  Gustavus  had 
driven  them  from  the  Rhine.  Poland  was  still 
fettered  by  the  truce  which  subsisted  between 
that  country  and  Sweden.  The  Hungarian  fron¬ 
tier  was  threatened  by  the  Transylvanian  Prince, 
Ragotsky,  a  successor  of  Bethlem  Gabor,  and  the 
inheritor  of  his  restless  mind  ;  while  the  Porte 
was  making  great  preparation  to  profit  by  the 
favorable  conjuncture  for  aggression.  Most  of 
the  Protestant  states,  encouraged  by  their  protec¬ 
tor’s  success,  were  openly  and  actively  declaring 
against  the  Emperor.  All  the  resources  which 
had  been  obtained  by  the  violent  and  oppressive 
extortions  of  Tilly  and  Wallenstein  were  ex¬ 
hausted  ;  all  these  depots,  magazines,  and  rally- 
ing-points,  were  now  lost  to  the  Emperor;  and 
the  war  could  no  longer  be  carried  on  as  before 
at  the  cost  of  others.  To  complete  his  embarrass¬ 
ment,  a  dangerous  insurrection  broke  out  in  the 
territorv  of  the  Ens,  where  the  ill-timed  religious 
zeal  of  the  government  had  provoked  the  Protes¬ 
tants  to  resistance ;  and  thus  fanaticism  lit  its 
torch  within  the  empire,  while  a  foreign  enemy 
was  already  on  its  frontier.  After  so  long  a  con- 


198 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


tinuance  of  good  fortune,  such  brilliant  victories 
and  extensive  conquests,  such  fruitless  effusion  of 
blood,  the  Emperor  saw  himself  a  second  time  on 
the  brink  of  that  abyss,  into  which  he  was  so  near 
falling  at  the  commencement  of  his  reign.  If 
Bavaria  should  embrace  the  neutrality  ;  if  Saxony 
should  resist  the  tempting  offers  he  had  held  out; 
and  F ranee  resolve  to  attack  the  Spanish  power* 
at  the  same  time  in  the  Netherlands,  in  Italy  and 
in  Catalonia,  the  ruin  of  Austria  would  be  com¬ 
plete  ;  the  allied  powers  would  divide  its  spoils, 
and  the  political  system  of  Germany  would  un¬ 
dergo  a  total  change. 

The  chain  of  these  disasters  Jttegan  with  the 
battle  of  Breitenfeld,  the  unfortunate  issue  of 
which  plainly  revealed  the  long  decided  decline 
of  the  Austrian  power,  whose  weakness  had  hith¬ 
erto  been  concealed  under  the  dazzling  glitter  of 
of  a  grand  name.  The  chief  cause  of  the  Swedes’ 
superiority  in  the  field,  was  evidently  to  be  as¬ 
cribed  to  the  unlimited  power  of  their  leader,  who 
concentrated  in  himself  the  whole  strength  of  his 
party  ;  and,  unfettered  in  his  enterprises  by  any 
higher  authority,  was  complete  master  of  every 
favorable  opportunity,  could  control  all  his  means 
to  the  accomplishment  of  his  ends,  and  was  re¬ 
sponsible  to  none  but  himself.  But  since  Wallen¬ 
stein’s  dismissal,  and  ’filly’s  defeat,  the  very  re¬ 
verse  of  this  course  was  pursued  by  the  Emperor 
and  the  League.  The  generals  wanted  authority 
over  their  troops,  and  liberty  of  acting  at  their 
discretion  ;  the  soldiers  were  deficient  in  discipline 
and  obedience  ;  the  scattered  corps  in  combined 
operation  ;  the  states  in  attachment  to  the  cause  ; 
the  leaders  in  harmony  among  themselves,  in 
quickness  to  resolve,  and  firmness  to  execute. 
What  gave  the  Emperor’s  enemy  so  decided  an 
advantage  over  him,  was  not  so  much  their  supe¬ 
rior  power,  as  their  manner  of  using  it.  The 
League  and  the  Emperor  did  not  want  means,  but 
a  mind  capable  of  directing  them  with  energy  and 
effect.  Even  had  Count  Tilly  not  lost  his  old 
renown,  distrust  of  Bavaria  would  not  allow  the 
Emperor  to  place  the  fate  of  Austria  in  the  hands 
of  one  who  had  never  concealed  his  attachment 
to  the  Bavarian  Elector.  The  urgent  want  which 
Ferdinand  felt,  was  for  a  general  possessed  of  suf¬ 
ficient  experience  to  form  and  to  command  an 
army,  and  willing  at  the  same  time  to  dedicate 
h.s  services,  with  blind  devotion,  to  the  Austrian 
mon.frchy. 

This  choice  now  occupied  the  attention  of  the 
Emperor’s  privy  council,  and  divided  the  opinions 
of  its  members.  In  order  to  oppose  one  monarch 
to  another,  and  by  the  presence  of  their'sovereign 
to  animate  the  courage  of  his  troops,  Ferdinand, 
in  the  ardor  of  the  moment,  had  offered  himself 
to  be  the  leader  of  his  army  ;  but  little  trouble 
was  required  to  overturn  a  resolution  which  was 
the  offspring  of  despair  alone,  and  which  yielded 
at  once  to  calm  reflection.  But  the  situation 
which  his  dignity,  and  the  duties  of  administra¬ 
tion,  prevented  the  Emperor  from  holding,  might 
be  filled  by  his  son,  a  youth  of  talents  and  brav¬ 
ery,  and  of  whom  the  subjects  of  Austria  had 
already  formed  great  expectations.  Called  by  his 
birth  to  the  defense  of  a  monarchy,  of  whose 
crowns  he  wore  two  already,  Ferdinand  III., 


King  of  Hungary  and  Bohemia,  united,  with  tlw 
natural  dignity  of  heir  to  the  throne,  the  respect 
of  the  army,  and  the  attachment  of  the  people, 
whose  co-operation  was  indispensable  to  him  in 
the  conduct  of  the  war.  None  but  the  beloved 
heir  to  the  crown  could  venture  to  impose  new 
burdens  on  a  people  already  severely  oppressed  ; 
his  personal  presence  with  the  army  could  alone 
suppress  the  pernicious  jealousies  of  the  several 
leaders,  and  by  the  influence  of  his  name,  restore 
the  neglected  discipline  of  the  troops  to  its  for¬ 
mer  rigor.  If  so  young  a  leader  was  devoid  of 
the  maturity  of  judgment,  prudence,  and  military 
experience,  which  practice  alone  could  impart, 
this  deficiency  might  be  supplied  by  a  judicious 
choice  of  counselors  and  assistants,  who,  under 
the  cover  of  his  name,  might  be  vested  with  su¬ 
preme  authority. 

But  plausible  as  were  the  arguments  with  which 
a  part  of  the  ministry  supported  this  plan,  it  was 
met  by  difficulties  not  less  serious,  arising  from 
the  distrust,  perhaps  even  the  jealousy,  of  the 
Emperor,  and  also  from  the  desperate  state  of  af¬ 
fairs.  How  dangerous  was  it  to  intrust  the  fate 
of  the  monarchy  to  a  youth,  who  was  himself  in 
need  of  counsel  and  support !  How  hazardous  to 
oppose  to  the  greatest  general  of  his  age,  a  tyro, 
whose  fitness  for  so  important  a  post  had  never 
yet  been  tested  by  experience;  whose  name,  as 
yet  unknown  to  fame,  was  far  too  powerless  to  in¬ 
spire  a  dispirited  army  with  the  assurance  of 
future  victory !  What  a  new  burden  on  the 
country,  to  support  the  state  a  royal  leader  was 
required  to  maintain,  and  which  the  prejudices  of 
the  age  considered  as  inseparable  from  his  pres¬ 
ence  with'the  army  !  How  serious  a  consideration 
for  the  prince  himself,  to  commence  his  political 
career,  with  an  office  which  must  make  him  the 
scourge  of  his  people,  and  the  oppressor  of  the 
territories  which  he  was  hereafter  to  rule. 

But  not  only  was  a  general  to  be  found  for  the 
army  ;  an  army  must  also  be  found  for  the  gene¬ 
ral.  Since  the  compulsory  resignation  of  Wallen¬ 
stein,  the  Emperor  had  defended  himself  more  by 
the  assistance  of  Bavaria  and  the  League,  than  by 
his  own  armies  ;  and  it  was  this  dependence  on 
equivocal  allies,  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  es¬ 
cape,  by  the  appointment  of  a  general  of  his  own. 
But  what  possibility  was  there  of  raising  an  army 
out  of  nothing,  without  the  all-powerful  aid  of 
gold,  and  the  inspiriting  name  of  a  victorious 
commander;  above  all,  an  army  which,  by  its 
discipline,  warlike  spirit,  and  activity,  should  be 
fit  to  cope  with  the  experienced  troops  of  the 
northern  conqueror?  In  all  Europe,  there  was 
but  one  man  equal  to  this,  and  that  one  had  been 
mortally  affronted. 

The  moment  had  at  last  arrived,  when  more 
than  ordinary  satisfaction  was  to  be  done  to  the 
wounded  pride  of  the  Duke  of  Friedland.  Fate 
itself  had  been  his  avenger,  and  an  unbroken 
chain  of  disasters,  which  had  assailed  Austria  from 
the  day  of  his  dismissal,  had  wrung  from  the 
Emperor  the  humiliating  confession,  that  with  this 
general  he  had  lost  his  right  arm.  Every  defeat 
of  his  troops  opened  afresh  this  wound  ;  every 
town  which  he  lost,  revived  in  the  mind  of  the  de¬ 
ceived  monarch  the  memory  of  his  own  weakness 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


199 


and  ingratitude.  It  would  2a\e  b-een  well  for 
him,  if,  in  the  offended  general,  he  had  only  lost  a 
leader  of  his  troops,  and  a  defender  of  l^i§  domin¬ 
ions;  but  he  was  destined  to  find  in  him  an 
enemy,  and  the  most  dangerous  of  all,  since  he 
was  least  armed  against  the  stroke  of  treason. 

Removed  from  the  theatre  of  war,  and  con¬ 
demned  to  irksome  inaction,  while  his  rivals 
gathered  laurels  on  the  field  of  glory,  the  haughty 
duke  had  beheld  these  changes  of  fortune  with 
affected  composure,  and  concealed,  under  a  glitter¬ 
ing  and  theatrical  pomp,  the  dark  designs  of  his 
restless  genius.  Torn  by  burning  passions  within, 
while  all  without  bespoke  calmness  and  indiffer¬ 
ence,  he  brooded  over  projects  of  ambition  and 
revenge,  and  slowly,  but  surely,  advanced  toward 
his  end.  All  that  he  owed  to  the  Emperor  was 
effaced  from  his  mind  ;  what  he  himself  had  done 
for  the  Emperor  was  imprinted  in  burning 
characters  on  his  memory.  To  his  insatiable 
thirst  for  power,  the  Emperor’s  ingratitude  was 
welcome,  as  it  seemed  to  tear  in  pieces  the  record 
of  past  favors,  to  absolve  him  from  every  obliga¬ 
tion  toward  his  former  benefactor.  In  the  dis¬ 
guise  of  a  righteous  retaliation,  the  projects  dic¬ 
tated  by  his  ambition  now  appeared  to  him  just 
and  pure.  In  proportion  as  the  external  circle  of 
his  operations  was  narrowed,  the  world  of  hope 
expanded  before  him,  and  his  dreamy  imagination 
reveled  in  boundless  projects,  which,  in  any  mind 
but  such  as  his,  madness  alone  could  have  given 
birth  to.  His  services  had  raised  him  to  the 
proudest  height  which  it  was  possible  for  a  man, 
by  his  own  efforts  to  attain.  Fortune  had  denied 
him  nothing  which  the  subject  and  the  citizen 
could  lawfully  enjoy.  Till  the  moment  of  dismis¬ 
sal,  his  demands  had  met  with  no  refusal,  his  am¬ 
bition  had  met  with  no  check  ;  but  the  blow  which, 
at  the  diet  of  Ratisbon,  humbled  him,  showed  him 
the  difference  between  original  and  deputed 
power,  the  distance  between  the  subject  and  his 
sovereign.  Roused  from  the  intoxication  of  his 
own  greatness  by  this  sudden  reverse  of  fortune, 
he  compared  the  authority  which  he  had  possessed, 
with  that  which  had  deprived  him  of  it;  and  his 
ambition  marked  the  steps  which  it  had  yet  to 
surmount  upon  the  ladder  of  fortune.  From  the 
moment  he  had  so  bitterly  experienced  the  weight 
of  sovereign  power,  his  efforts  were  directed  to 
attain  it  for  himself;  the  wrong  which  he  himself 
had  suffered  made  him  a  robber.  Had  he  not 
been  outraged  by  injustice,  he  might  have 
obediently  moved  in  his  orbit  round  the  majesty 
of  the  throne,  satisfied  with  the  glory  of  being  the 
brightest  of  its  satellites.  It  was  only  when  vio¬ 
lently  forced  from  its  sphere,  that  his  wandering 
star  threw  in  disorder  the  system  to  which  it 
belonged,  and  came  in  destructive  collision  with 
its  sun. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  had  overrun  the  north  of 
Germany  ;  one  place  after  another  was  lost  ;  and 
at  Leipsic,  the  flower  of  the  Austrian  army  had 
fallen.  The  intelligence  of  this  defeat  soon  reached 
the  ears  of  Wallenstein,  who,  in  the  retired  ob¬ 
scurity  of  a  private  station  in  Prague,  contem¬ 
plated  from  a  calm  distance  the  tumult  of  war. 
The  news,  which  filled  the  breasts  of  the  Roman 
Catholics  with  dismay,  announced  to  him  the  re¬ 


turn  of  greatness  and  good  fortune.  For  him  was 
Gustavus  Adolphus  laboring.  Scarce  had  the 
king  begun  to  gain  reputation  by  his  exploits, 
when  Wallenstein  lost  not  a  moment  to  court  his 
friendship,  and  to  make  common  cause  with  this 
successful  enemy  of  Austria.  The  banished  Count 
Thurn,  who  had  long  entered  the  service  of  Swe¬ 
den,  undertook  to  convey  Wallenstein’s  congratu¬ 
lations  to  the  king,  and  to  invite  him  to  a  close 
alliance  with  the  duke.  Wallenstein  required 
fifteen  thousand  men  from  the  king  ;  and  with 
these,  and  the  troops  he  himself  engaged  to  raise, 
he  undertook  to  conquer  Bohemia  and  Moravia, 
to  surprise  Vienna,  and  to  drive  his  master,  the 
Emperor,  before  him  into  Italy.  Strong  as  was 
this  unexpected  proposition,  its  extravagant  pro¬ 
mises  were  naturally  calculated  to  excite  suspi¬ 
cion.  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  too  good  a  judge 
of  merit  to  reject  with  coldness  the  offers  of  one 
who  might  be  so  important  a  friend.  But  when 
Wallenstein,  encouraged  by  the  favorable  recep¬ 
tion  of  his  first  message,  renewed  it  after  the  bat¬ 
tle  of  Breitenfeld,  and  pressed  for  a  decisive  an¬ 
swer,  the  prudent  monarch  hesitated  to  trust  his 
reputation  to  the  chimerical  projects  of  so  daring 
an  adventurer,  and  to  commit  so  large  a  force  to 
the  honesty  of  a  man  who  felt  no  shame  in  openly 
avowing  himself  a  traitor.  He  excused  himself, 
therefore,  on  the  plea  of  the  weakness  of  his  army, 
which,  if  diminished  by  so  large  a  detachment, 
would  certainly  suffer  in  its  march  through  the 
empire  ;  and  thus,  perhaps,  by  excess  of  caution, 
lost  an  opportunity  of  putting  an  immediate  end 
to  the  war.  He  afterward  endeavored  to  renew 
the  negotiation  ;  but  the  favorable  moment  was 
past,  and  Wallenstein’s  offended  pride  never  for¬ 
gave  the  first  neglect. 

But  the  king’s  hesitation,  perhaps,  only  accele¬ 
rated  the  breach,  which  their  characters  made 
inevitable  sooner  or  later.  Both  framed  by  nature 
to  give  laws,  not  to  receive  them,  they  could  not 
long  have  co-operated  in  an  enterprise,  which 
eminently  demanded  mutual  submission  and  sac¬ 
rifices.  Wallenstein  was  nothing  where  he  was 
not  every  tiling ;  he  must  either  act  with  unlimited 
power,  or  not  at  all.  So  cordially,  too,  did  Gus¬ 
tavus  dislike  control,  that  he  had  almost  re¬ 
nounced  his  advantageous  alliance  with  France, 
because  it  threatened  to  fetter  his  own  indepen¬ 
dent  judgment.  Wallenstein  was  lost  to  a  party, 
if  he  could  not  lead  ;  the  latter  was,  if  possible, 
still  less  disposed  to  obey  the  instructions  of  an¬ 
other.  If  the  pretensions  of  a  rival  would  be  so 
irksome  to  the  Duke  of  Friedland,  in  the  conduct 
of  combined  operations,  in  the  division  of  spoil 
they  would  be  insupportable.  The  proud  monarch 
might  condescend  to  accept  the  assistance  of  a 
rebellious  subject  against  the  Emperor,  and  to  re¬ 
ward  his  valuable  services  with  regal  munificence  ; 
but  he  never  could  so  far  lose  sight  of  his  own 
dignity,  and  the  majesty  of  royalty,  as  to  bestow 
the  recompense  which  the  extravagant  ambition 
of  Wallenstein  demanded  ;  and  requite  an  act  of 
treason,  however  useful,  with  a  crown.  In  him, 
therefore,  even  if  all  Europe  should  tacitly  acqui¬ 
esce,  Wallenstein  had  reason  to  expect  the  most 
decided  and  formidable  opponent  to  his  views  on 
the  Bohemian  crown  ;  and  in  all  Europe  he  was 


200 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


the  only  one  who  could  enforce  his  opposition. 
Constituted  Dictator  in  Germany  by  Wallenstein 
himself,  he  might  turn  his  arms  against  him,  and 
consider  himself  bound  by  no  obligations  to  one 
who  was  himself  a  traitor.  There  was  no  room 
for  a  Wallenstein  under  such  an  ally  ;  and  it  was, 
apparently,  this  conviction,  and  not  any  supposed 
designs  upon  the  imperial  throne,  that  he  alluded 
to,  when,  after  the  death  of  the  King  of  Sweden, 
he  exclaimed,  “  It  is  well  for  him  and  me  that  he 
is  gone.  The  German  empire  does  not  require 
two  such  leaders.” 

His  first  scheme  of  revenge  on  the  house  of 
Austria  had  indeed  failed  ;  but  the  purpose  itself 
remained  unalterable;  the  choice  of  means  alone 
was  changed.  What  he  had  failed  in  effecting 
with  the  King  of  Sweden,  he  hoped  to  obtain 
with  less  difficulty  and  more  advantage  from  the 
Elector  of  Saxony.  Him  he  was  as  certain  of 
being  able  to  bend  to  his  views,  as  he  had  always 
been  doubtful  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Having 
always  maintained  a  good  understanding  with  his 
old  friend  Arnheim,  he  now  made  use  of  him  to 
bring  about  an  alliance  with  Saxony,  by  which  he 
hoped  to  render  himself  equally  formidable  to  the 
the  Emperor  and  the  King  of  Sweden.  He  had 
reason  to  expect  that  a  scheme,  which,  if  success¬ 
ful,  would  deprive  the  Swedish  monarch  of  his  in¬ 
fluence  in  Germany,  would  be  welcomed  by  the 
Elector  of  Saxony,  who  he  knew  was  jealous  of 
the  power  and  offended  at  the  lofty  pretensions 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  If  he  succeeded  in  sepa- 
lating  Saxony  from  the  Swedish  alliance,  and  in 
establishing,  conjointly  with  that  power,  a  third 
party  in  the  Empire,  the  fate  of  the  war  would  be 
placed  in  his  hand  ;  and  by  this  single  step  he 
would  succeed  in  gratifying  his  revenge  against 
the  Emperor,  revenging  the  neglect  of  the  Swe¬ 
dish  monarch,  and  on  the  ruin  of  both,  raising  the 
edifice  of  his  own  greatness. 

But  whatever  course  he  might  follow  in  the  pro¬ 
secution  of  his  designs,  he  could  not  carry  them 
into  effect  without  an  army  entirely  devoted  to 
him.  Such  a  force  could  not  be  secretly  raised 
without  its  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  impe¬ 
rial  court,  where  it  would  naturally  excite  suspi¬ 
cion,  and  thus  frustrate  his  design  in  the  very  out¬ 
set.  From  the  army,  too,  the  rebellious  purposes 
for  which  it  was  destined,  must  be  concealed  till 
the  very  moment  of  execution,  since  it  could 
scarcely  be  expected  that  they  would  at  once  be 
prepared  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  a  traitor,  and 
serve  against  their  legitimate  sovereign.  Wallen¬ 
stein,  therefore,  must  raise  it  publicly  and  in  the 
name  of  the  Emperor,  and  be  placed  at  its  head, 
with  unlimited  authority,  by  the  Emperor  himself. 
But  how  could  this  be  accomplished,  otherwise 
than  by  his  being  appointed  to  the  command  of 
the  army,  and  intrusted  with  full  powers  to  con¬ 
duct  the  war.  Yet  neither  his  pride,  nor  his  in¬ 
terest,  permitted  him  to  sue  in  person  for  this 
post,  and  as  a  suppliant  to  accept  from  the  favor 
of  the  Emperor  a  limited  power,  when  an  un¬ 
limited  authority  might  be  extorted  from  his 
fears.  In  order  to  make  himself  the  master  of 
the  terms  on  which  he  would  resume  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  army,  his  course  was  to  wait  until 
ihe  post  should  be  forced  upon  him.  This  was 


the  advice  he  received  from  Arnheim,  and  thij 
the  end  for  which  he  labored  with  profound  policy 
and  restless  activity. 

Convinced  that  extreme  necessity  would  alone 
conquer  the  Emperor’s  irresolution,  and  render 
powerless  the  opposition  of  his  bitter  enemies, 
Bavaria  and  Spain,  he  henceforth  occupied  him¬ 
self  in  promoting  the  success  of  the  enemy,  and 
in  increasing  the  embarrassments  of  his  master. 
It  was  apparently  by  his  instigation  and  ad\ice, 
that  the  Saxons,  when  on  the  route  to  Lusatia 
and  Silesia,  had  turned  their  march  toward  Bohe¬ 
mia,  and  overrun  that  defenseless  kingdom,  where 
their  rapid  conquests  were  partly  the  result  of  his 
measures.  By  the  fears  which  he  affected  to  en¬ 
tertain,  he  paralyzed  every  effort  at  resistance ; 
and  his  precipitate  retreat  caused  the  delivery  of 
the  capital  to  the  enemy.  At  a  conference  with 
the  Saxon  general,  which  was  held  at  Kaunitz 
under  the  pretext  of  negotiating  for  a  peace,  the 
seal  was  put  to  the  conspiracy,  and  the  conquest 
of  Bohemia  was  the  first  fruits  of  this  mutual  un¬ 
derstanding.  While  Wallenstein  was  thus  per¬ 
sonally  endeavoring  to  heighten  the  perplexities 
of  Austria,  and  while  the  rapid  movements  of  the 
Swedes  upon  the  Rhine  effectually  promoted  his 
designs,  his  friends  and  bribed  adherents  in  Vienna 
uttered  loud  complaints  of  the  public  calamities, 
and  represented  the  dismissal  of  the  general  as 
the  sole  cause  of  all  these  misfortunes.  “Had 
Wallenstein  commanded,  matters  would  never 
have  come  to  this,”  exclaimed  a  thousand  voices  ; 
while  their  opinions  found  supporters,  even  in  the 
Emperor’s  privy  council. 

Their  repeated  remonstrances  were  not  needed 
to  convince  the  embarrassed  Emperor  of  his  ge¬ 
neral’s  merits,  and  of  his  own  error.  His  depen¬ 
dence  on  Bavaria  and  the  League  had  soon  be¬ 
come  insupportable;  but  hitherto, this  dependence 
permitted  him  not  to  show  his  distrust,  or  irritate 
the  Elector  by  the  recall  of  Wallenstein.  But 
now  when  his  necessities  grew  every  day  more 
pressing,  and  the  weakness  of  Bavaria  more  appa¬ 
rent,  he  could  no  longer  hesitate  to  listen  to  the 
friends  of  the  duke,  and  to  consider  their  over¬ 
tures  for  his  restoration  to  command.  The  im¬ 
mense  riches  Wallenstein  possessed,  the  universal 
'reputation  he  enjoyed,  the  rapidity  with  which 
six  years  before  he  had  assembled  an  army  of 
40,000  men,  the  little  expense  at  which  he  had 
maintained  this  formidable  force,  the  actions  he 
had  ’performed  at  its  head,  and  lastly,  the  zeal 
and  fidelity  he  had  displayed  for  his  master’s  ho¬ 
nor,  still  lived  in  the  Emperor’s  recollection,  and 
made  W allenstein  seem  to  him  the  ablest  instru¬ 
ment  to  restore  the  balance  between  the  bellige¬ 
rent  powers,  to  save  Austria,  and  preserve  the 
Catholic  religion.  However  sensibly  the  imperial 
pride  might  feel  the  humiliation,  in  being  forced 
to  make  so  unequivocal  an  admission  of  past 
errors  and  present  necessity;  however  painful  it 
was  to  descend  to  humble  entreaties,  from  the 
height  of  imperial  command  ;  however  doubtful 
the  fidelity  of  so  deeply  injured  and  implacable 
a  character;  however  loudly  and  urgently  the 
Spanish  minister  and  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  pro-' 
tested  against  this  step,  the  immediate  pressure 
of  necessity  finally  overcame  every  other  consido- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


201 


ration,  and  the  friends  of  the  duke  were  empow¬ 
ered  to  consult  him  on  the  subject,  and  to  hold 
out  the  prospect  of  his  restoration.  v 

Informed  of  all  that  was  transacted  in  the  Em¬ 
peror’s  cabinet  to  his  advantage,  Wallenstein  pos¬ 
sessed  sufficient  self-command  to  conceal  his  in¬ 
ward  triumph  and  to  assume  the  mask  of  indiffer¬ 
ence.  The  moment  of  vengeance  was  at  last 
come,  and  his  proud  heart  exulted  in  the  prospect 
of  repaying  with  interest  the  injuries  of  the  Em¬ 
peror.  With  artful  eloquence,  he  expatiated 
upon  the  happy  tranquillity  of  a  private  station, 
which  had  blessed  him  since  his  retirement  from 
a  political  stage.  Too  long,  he  said,  had  he 
tasted  the  pleasures  of  ease  and  independence,  to 
sacrifice  to  the  vain  phantom  of  glory  the  uncer¬ 
tain  favor  of  princes.  All  his  desire  of  power 
and  distinction  was  extinct:  tranquillity  and  re¬ 
pose  were  now  the  sole  object  of  his  wishes.  The 
better  to  conceal  his  real  impatience,  he  declined 
the  Emperor's  invitation  to  the  court,  but  at  the 
same  time,  to  facilitate  the  negotiations,  came  to 
Znaim  in  Moravia. 

At  first,  it  was  proposed  to  limit  the  authority 
to  be  intrusted  to  him,  by  the  presence  of  a  su¬ 
perior,  in  order,  by  this  expedient,  to  silence  the 
objections  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  The  im¬ 
perial  deputies,  Questenberg  and  Werdenberg, 
who,  as  old  friends  of  the  duke,  had  been  em¬ 
ployed  in  this  delicate  mission,  were  instructed  to 
propose  that  the  King  of  Hungary  should  remain 
with  the  army,  and  learn  the  art  of  war  under 
Wallenstein.  But  the  very -mention  of  his  name 
threatened  to  put  a  period  to  the  whole  negotia¬ 
tion.  “  No,  never  !  ”  exclaimed  Wallenstein,  “  will 
I  submit  to  a  colleague  in  my  office.  No — not 
even  if  it  were  God  himself,  with  whom  I  should 
have  to  share  my  command.”  But  even  when 
this  obnoxious  point  was  given  up,  Prince  Eggen- 
berg,  the  Emperor’s  minister  and  favorite,  who 
had  always  been  the  steady  friend  and  zealous 
champion  of  Wallenstein,  and  was  therefore  ex¬ 
pressly  sent  to  him,  exhausted  his  eloquence  in 
vain  to  overcome  the  pretended  reluctance  of  the 
duke.  “The  Emperor,”  he  admitted,  “had,  in 
Wallenstein,  thrown  away  the  most  costly  jewel 
in  his  crown  :  but  unwillingly  and  compulsorily 
only  had  he  taken  this  step,  which  he  had  since 
deeply  repented  of ;  while  his  esteem  for  the  duke 
had  remained  unaltered,  his  favor  for  him  undi¬ 
minished.  Of  these  sentiments  he  now  gave  the 
most  decisive  proof,  reposing  unlimited  confi¬ 
dence  in  his  fidelity  and  capacity  to  repair  the 
mistakes  of  his  predecessors,  and  to  change  the 
whole  aspect  of  affairs.  It  would  be  great  and 
noble  to  sacrifice  his  just  indignation  to  the  good 
of  his  country  ;  dignified  and  worthy  of  him  to  re¬ 
fute  the  evil  calumny  of  his  enemies  by  the  double 
warmth  of  his  zeal.  This  victory  over  himself,” 
concluded  the  prince,  “  would  crown  his  other  un¬ 
paralleled  services  to  the  empire,  and  render  him 
the  greatest  man  of  his  age.” 

These  humiliating  confessions,  and  flattering 
assurance,  seemed  at  least  to  disarm  the  anger  of 
the  duke  ;  but  not  before  he  had  disburdened  his 
heart  of  his  reproaches  against  the  Emperor, 
pompously  dwelt  upon  his  own  services,  and  hum¬ 
bled  to  the  utmost  the  monarch  who  solicited  his 


assistance,  did  he  condescend  to  listen  to  the  at¬ 
tractive  proposals  of  the  minister.  As  if  he 
yielded  entirely  to  the  force  of  their  arguments, 
he  condescended  with  a  haughty  reluctance  to 
that  which  was  the  most  ardent  wish  of  his  heart ; 
and  deigned  to  favor  the  ambassadors  with  a  ray 
of  hope.  But  far  from  putting  an  end  to  the 
Emperor’s  embarrassments,  by  giving  at  once  a 
full  and  unconditional  consent,  he  only  acceded  to 
a  part  of  his  demands,  that  he  might  exalt  the 
value  of  that  which  still  remained,  and  was  of 
most  importance.  He  accepted  the  command, 
but  only  for  three  months;  merely  for  the  purpose 
of  raising,  but  not  of  leading,  an  army.  He  wished 
only  to  show  his  power  and  ability  in  its  organiza¬ 
tion,  and  to  display  before  the  eyes  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  the  greatness  of  that  assistance  which  he 
still  retained  in  his  hands.  Convinced  that  an 
army  raised  by  his  name  alone,  would,  if  deprived 
of  its  creator,  soon  sink  again  into  nothing,  he  in¬ 
tended  it  to  serve  only  as  a  decoy  to  draw  more 
important  concessions  from  his  master.  And  yet 
Ferdinand  congratulated  himself,  even  in  having 
gained  so  much  as  he  had. 

Wallenstein  did  not  long  delay  to  fulfill  those 
promises  which  all  Germany  regarded  as  chimeri¬ 
cal,  and  which  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  considered 
as  extravagant.  But  the  foundation  for  the 
present  enterprise  had  been  long  laid,  and  he  now 
only  put  in  motion  the  machinery,  which  many 
years  had  been  prepared  for  the  purpose.  Scarcely 
had  the  news  spread  of  Wallenstein’s  levies,  when, 
from  every  quarter  of  the  Austrian  monarchy, 
crowds  of  soldiers  repaired  to  try  their  fortunes 
under  this  experienced  general.  Many,  who  had 
before  fought  under  his  standards,  had  been  ad¬ 
miring  eye-witnesses  of  his  great  actions,  and 
experienced  his  magnanimity,  came  forward  from 
their  retirement,  to  share  with  him  the  second 
time  both  booty  and  glory.  The  greatness  of  the 
pay  he  promised,  attracted  thousands,  and  the 
plentiful  supplies  the  soldier  was  likely  to  enjoy 
at  the  cost  of  the  peasant,  was  to  the  latter  an 
irresistible  inducement  rather  at  once  to  embrace 
the  military  life,  instead  of  being  the  victim  of  its 
oppression.  All  the  Austrian  provinces  were 
compelled  to  assist  in  equipment.  No  class  was 
exempt  from  taxation- — no  dignity  or  privilege 
from  capitation.  The  Spanish  court,  as  well  as 
the  King  of  Hungary,  agreed  to  contribute  a  con¬ 
siderable  sum.  The  ministers  made  large  presents, 
while  Wallenstein  himself  advanced  200,000  dol¬ 
lars  from  his  own  income  to  hasten  the  armament. 
The  poorer  officers  he  supported  out  of  his  own 
revenues  ;  and,  by  his  own  example,  by  brilliant 
promotions,  and  still  more  brilliant  promises,  he 
induced  all,  who  were  able,  to  raise  troops  at  their 
own  expense.  Whoever  raised  a  corps  at  his  own 
cost  was  to  be  its  commander.  In  the  appoint¬ 
ment  of  officers,  religion  made  no  difference. 
Riches,  bravery,  and  experience  were  more  re¬ 
garded  than  creed.  By  this  uniform  treatment  of 
different  religious  sects,  and  still  more  by  his 
express  declaration,  that  his  present  levy  had 
nothing  to  do  with  religion,  the  Protestant  sub¬ 
jects  of  the  empire  were  tranquilized,  and  recon¬ 
ciled  to  bear  their  share  of  the  public  burdens 
The  duke,  at  the  same  time,  did  not  omit  to  treat 


202 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


in  liis  own  name,  with  foreign  states  for  men  and 
money.  He  prevailed  on  the  Duke  of  Lorraine, 
a  second  time,  to  espouse  the  cause  of  the  Em¬ 
peror.  Poland  was  urged  to  supply  him  with 
Cossacks,  and  Italy  with  warlike  necessaries. 
Before  the  three  months  were  expired,  the  army 
which  was  assembled  in  Moravia,  amounted  to  no 
'.ess  than  40,000  men,  chiefly  drawn  from  the  un¬ 
conquered  parts  of  Bohemia,  from  Moravia,  Si¬ 
lesia,  and  the  German  provinces  of  the  House  of 
Austria.  What  to  every  one  had  appeared  im¬ 
practicable,  Wallenstein,  to  the  astonishment  of 
all  Europe,  had  in  a  short  time  effected.  The 
charm  of  his  name,  his  treasures,  afid  his  genius, 
had  assembled  thousands  in  arms,  where  before 
Austriahad  only  looked  for  hundreds.  Furnished, 
even  to  superfluity,  with  all  necessaries,  command¬ 
ed  by  experienced  officers,  and  inflamed  by  enthu¬ 
siasm  which  assured  itself  of  victory,  this  newly 
created  army  only  awaited  the  signal  of  their 
leader  to  show  themselves,  by  the  bravery  of  their 
deeds,  worthy  of  his  choice. 

The  duke  had  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  the 
troops  were  ready  to  take  the  field  ;  he  then  re¬ 
tired,  and  left  to  the  Emperor  to  choose  a  com¬ 
mander.  But  it  would  have  been  as  easy  to  raise 
a  second  army  like  the  first,  as  to  find  any  other 
commander  for  it  than  Wallenstein.  This  pro¬ 
mising  army,  the  last  hope  of  the  Emperor,  was 
nothing  but  an  illusion,  as  soon  as  the  charm  was 
dissolved  which  had  called  it  into  existence ;  by 
Wallenstein  it  had  been  raised,  and,  without  him, 
it  sank  like  a  creation  of  magic  into  its  original 
nothingness.  Its  officers  were  either  bound  to 
him  as  his  debtors,  or,  as  his  creditors,  closely 
connected  with  his  interests,  and  the  preserva¬ 
tion  of  his  power.  The  regiments  he  had  intrusted 
to  his  own  relations,  creatures,  and  favorites.  He, 
and  he  alone,  could  discharge  to  the  troops  the 
extravagant  promises  by  which  they  had  been 
lured  into  his  service.  His  pledged  word  was  the 
only  security  on  which  their  bold  expectations 
rested  ;  a  blind  reliance  on  his  omnipotence,  the 
only  tie  which  linked  together  in  one  common  life 
and  soul  the  various  impulses  of  their  zeal.  There 
was  an  end  of  the  good  fortune  of  each  individual, 
if  he  retired,  who  alone  was  the  voucher  of  its 
fulfillment. 

However  little  Wallenstein  was  serious  in  his 
refusal,  he  successfully  employed  this  means  to 
terrify  the  Emperor  into  consenting  to  his  ex¬ 
travagant  conditions.  The  progress  of  the  enemy 
every  day  increased  the  pressure  of  the  Empe¬ 
ror’s  difficulties,  while  the  remedy  was  also  close 
at  hand ;  a  word  from  him  might  terminate  the 
general  embarrassment.  Prince  Eggenberg  at 
length  received  orders,  for  the  third  and  last  time, 
at  any  cost  and  sacrifice,  to  induce  his  friend, 
Wallenstein,  to  accept  the  command. 

He  found  him  at  Znaim,  in  Moravia,  pompously 
surrounded  by  the  troops,  the  possession  of  which 
he  made  the  Emperor  so  earnestly  to  long  for. 
As  a  suppliant,  did  the  haughty  subject  receive 
the  deputy  of  his  sovereign.  “  He  never  could 
trust,”  he  said,  “to  a  restoration  to  command 
which  he  owed  to  the  Emperor’s  necessities,  and 
not  to  his  sense  of  justice.  He  was  now  courted, 
because  the  danger  had  reached  its  height,  and 


safety  was  hoped  for  from  his  arm  only ;  but  hia 
successful  services  would  soon  cause  the  servant 
to  be  forgotten,  and  the  return  of  security  would 
bring  back  renewed  ingratitude.  If  he  deceived 
the  expectations  formed  of  him,  his  long  earned 
renown  would  be  forfeited  ;  even  if  he  fulfilled 
them,  his  repose  and  happiness  must  be  sacrificed. 
Soon  would  envy  be  excited  anew,  and  the  de¬ 
pendent  monarch  would  not  hesitate  a  second 
time  to  make  an  offering  of  convenience  to  a  ser¬ 
vant  whom  he  could  now  dispense  with.  Better 
for  him  at  once,  and  voluntarily,  to  resign  a  post 
from  which  sooner  or  later  the  intrigues  of  his 
enemies  would  expel  him.  Security  and  content 
were  to  be  found  in  the  bosom  of  private  life  ; 
and  nothing  but  the  wish  to  oblige  the  Em¬ 
peror  had  induced  him,  reluctantly  enough,  to  re¬ 
linquish  for  a  time  his  blissful  repose.” 

Tired  of  this  long  farce,  the  minister  at  last  as¬ 
sumed  a  serious  tone,  and  threatened  the  obsti¬ 
nate  duke  with  the  Emperor’s  resentment,  if  he 
persisted  in  his  refusal.  “  Low  enough  had  the 
imperial  dignity,”  he  added,  “stooped  already: 
and  yet,  instead  of  exciting  his  magnanimity  by 
its  condescension,  had  only  flattered  his  pride  and 
increased  his  obstinacy.  If  this  sacrifice  had 
been  made  in  vain,  he  would  not  answer,  but  that 
the  suppliant  might  be  converted  into  the  sove¬ 
reign,  and  that  the  monarch  might  not  avenge  his 
injured  dignity  on  his  rebellious  subject.  How¬ 
ever  greatly  Ferdinand  may  have  erred,  the  Em¬ 
peror  at  least  had  a  claim  to  obedience  ;  the  mail 
might  be  mistaken,  but  the  monarch  could  not 
confess  his  error.  If  the  Duke  of  Friedland  had 
suffered  by  an  unjust  decree,  he  might  yet  be  re¬ 
compensed  far  all  his  losses  ;  the  wound  which  it 
had  itself  inflicted,  the  hand  of  Majesty  might 
heal.  If  he  asked  security  for  his  person  and  his 
dignities,  the  Emperor’s  equity  would  refuse  him 
no  reasonable  demand.  Majesty  contemned,  ad¬ 
mitted  not  of  any  atonement  ;  disobedience  to  its 
commands  canceled  the  most  brilliant  services. 
The  Emperor  required  his  services,  and  as  em¬ 
peror  he  demanded  them.  Whatever  price  Wal¬ 
lenstein  might  set  upon  them,  the  Emperor  would 
readily  agree  to  ;  but  he  demanded  obedience,  or 
the  weight  of  his  indignation  should  crush  the 
refractory  servant.” 

W allenstein,  whose  extensive  possessions  within 
the  Austrian  monarchy  were  momentarily  ex¬ 
posed  to  the  power  of  the  Emperor,  was  keenly 
sensible  that  this  was  no  idle  threat ;  yet  it  wa3 
not  fear  that  at  last  overcame  his  affected  reluct¬ 
ance.  This  imperious  tone  of  itself,  was  to  his 
mind  a  plain  proof  of  the  weakness  and  despair 
which  dictated  it,  while  the  Emperor’s  readiness 
to  yield  all  his  demands,  convinced  him  that  he 
had  attained  the  summit  of  his  wishes.  He  now 
made  a  show  of  yielding  to  the  persuasions  of  Eg¬ 
genberg  ;  and  left  him,  in  order  to  write  down 
the  conditions  on  which  he  accepted  the  com¬ 
mand. 

Not  without  apprehension,  did  the  minister  re¬ 
ceive  the  writing,  in  which  the  proudest  of  sub¬ 
jects  had  prescribed  laws  to  the  proudest  of  sove¬ 
reigns.  But  however  little  confidence  he  had  in 
j  the  moderation  of  his  friend,  the  extravagant 
contents  of  his  writing  surpassed  even  his  worst 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


203 


expectations.  Wallenstein  required  the  uncon¬ 
trolled  command  over  all  the  German  armies  of 
Austria  and  Spain,  with  unlimited  powers  to  re¬ 
ward  and  punish.  Neither  the  King  of  Hungary 
nor  the  Emperor  himself,  were  to  appear  in  the 
army,  still  less  to  exercise  any  act  of  authority 
over  it.  No  commission  in  the  army,  no  pension 
or  letter  of  grace,  was  to  be  granted  by  the  Em¬ 
peror  without  Wallenstein’s  approval.  All  the 
conquests  and  confiscations  that  should  take 
place,  were  to  be  placed  entirely  at  Wallenstein’s 
disposal,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  tribunal. 
For  his  ordinary  pay,  an  imperial  hereditary  es¬ 
tate  was  to  be  assigned  him,  with  another  of  the 
conquered  estates  within  the  empire  for  his  extra¬ 
ordinary  expenses.  Every  Austrian  province  was 
to  be  opened  to  him  if  he  required  it  in  case  of  re¬ 
treat.  He  further  demanded  the  assurance  of  the 
possession  of  the  Duchy  of  Mecklenburg,  in  the 
event  of  a  future  peace  ;  and  a  formal  and  timely 
intimation,  if  it  should  be  deemed  necessary  a 
second  time  to  deprive  him  of  the  command. 

In  vain  the  minister  entreated  him  to  moderate 
his  demands,  which,  if  granted,  would  deprive  the 
Emperor  of  all  authority  over  his  own  troops,  and 
make  him  absolutely  dependent  on  his  general. 
The  value  placed  on  his  services  had  been  too 
plainly  manifested  to  prevent  him  dictating  the 
price  at  which  they  were  to  be  purchased.  If  the 
pressure  of  circumstances  compelled  the  Emperor 
to  grant  demands,  it  was  something  more  than  a 
mere  feeling  of  haughtiness mnd  desire  of  revenge 
which  induced  the  duke  to  make  them.  His  plans 
of  rebellion  were  formed  ;  to  its  success,  every  one 
of  the  conditions  for  which  Wallenstein  stipulated 
in  this  treaty  with  the  court,  was  indispensable. 
Those  plans  required  that  the  Emperor  should  be 
deprived  of  all  authority  in  Germany,  and  be 
placed  at  the  mercy  of  his  general ;  and  this  ob¬ 
ject  would  be  attained,  the  moment  Ferdinand 
subscribed  the  required  conditions.  The  use 
which  Wallenstein  intended  to  make  of  his  army, 
•  (widely  different  indeed  from  that  for  which  it  was 
intrusted  to  him,)  brooked  not  of  a  divided  power, 
and  still  less  of  an  authority  superior  to  his  own. 
To  be  the  sole  master  of  the  will  of  his  troops,  he 
must  also  be  the  sole  master  of  their  destinies  ;  in¬ 
sensibly  to  supplant  liis  sovereign,  and  to  transfer 
permanently  to  his  own  person  the  rights  of  sove¬ 
reignty,  which  were  only  lent  to  him  for  a  time  by 
a  higher  authority,  he  must  cautiously  keep  the 
latter  out  of  the  view  of  the  army.  Hence  his  ob¬ 
stinate  refusal  to  allow  any  prince  of  the  house  of 
Austria  to  be  present  with  the  army.  The  liberty 
of  free  disposal  of  all  the  conquered  and  confis¬ 
cated  estates  in  the  empire,  would  also  afford  him 
fearful  means  of  purchasing  dependents  and  instru¬ 
ments  of  his  plans,  and  of  acting  the  dictator  in 
Germany  more  absolutely  than  ever  any  Emperor 
did  in  time  of  peace.  By  the  right  to  use  any  of 
the  Austrian  provinces  as  a  place  of  refuge,  in  case 
of  need,  he  had  full  power  to  hold  the  Emperor  a 
prisoner  by  means  of  his  own  forces,  and  within 
his  own  dominions ;  to  exhaust  the  strength  and 
resources  of  these  countries,  and  to  undermine  the 
power  of  Austria  in  its  very  foundation. 

Whatever  might  be  the  issue,  he  had  equally  se¬ 
cured  his  own  advantage,  by  the  conditions  he  had 


extorted  from  the  Emperor.  If  circumstances 
proved  favorable  to  his  daring  project,  this  treaty 
with  the  Emperor  facilitated  its  execution ;  if  on 
the  contrary,  the  course  of  things  ran  counter  to 
it,  it  would  at  least  afford  him  a  brilliant  compen¬ 
sation  for  the  failure  of  his  plans.  But  how  could 
he  consider  an  agreement  valid,  which  was  ex¬ 
torted  from  him  and  based  upon  treason?  How 
could  he  hope  to  bind  the  Emperor  by  a  written 
agreement,  in  the  face  of  a  law  which  condemned 
to  death  every  One  who  should  have  the  presump¬ 
tion  to  impose  conditions  upon  him  ?  But  this 
criminal  was  the  most  indispensable  man  in  the 
empire,  and  Ferdinand,  well  practiced  in  dissimu¬ 
lation,  granted  him  for  the  present  all  he  required. 

At  last,  then,  the  imperial  army  had  found  a 
commander-in-chief  worthy  of  the  name.  Every 
other  authority  in  the  army,  even  that  of  the  Em¬ 
peror  himself,  ceased  from  the  moment  Wallen¬ 
stein  assumed  the  commander’s  baton,  and  every 
act  was  invalid  which  did  not  proceed  from  him. 
From  the  banks  of  the  Danube,  to  those  of  the 
Weser  and  the  Oder,  was  felt  the  life-giving  dawn¬ 
ing  of  this  new  star  ;  a  new  spirit  seemed  to  inspire 
the  troops  of  the  Emperor,  a  new  epoch  of  the  war 
began.  The  Papists  form  fresh  hopes,  the  Pro¬ 
testant  beholds  with  anxiety  the  changed  course 
of  affairs. 

The  greater  the  price  at  which  the  services  of 
the  new  general  had  been  purchased,  the  greater, 
justly,  were  the  expectations  from  them  which  the 
court  of  the  Emperor  entertained.  But  the  duke 
was  in  no  hurry  to  fulfill  these  expectations.  Al- 
,  ready  in  the  vicinity  of  Bohemia,  and  at  the  head 
of  a  formidable  force,  he  had  but  to  show  himself 
there,  in  order  to  overpower  the  exhausted  force 
of  the  Saxons,  and  brilliantly  to  commence  his  new 
career  by  the  reconquest  of  that  kingdom.  But, 
contented  with  harassing  the  enemy  with  indeci¬ 
sive  skirmishes  of  his  Croats,  he  abandoned  the 
best  part  of  that  kingdam  to  be  plundered,  and 
moved  calmly  forward  in  pursuit  of  his  own  selfish 
plans.  His  design  was,  not  to  conquer  the  Sax¬ 
ons,  but  to  unite  with  them.  Exclusively  occupied 
with  this  important  object,  he  remained  inactive, 
in  the  hope  of  conquering  more  surely  by  means 
of  negotiation.  He  left  no  expedient  untried,  to 
detach  this  prince  from  the  Swedish  alliance  ;  and 
Ferdinand  himself,  ever  inclined  to  an  accommo¬ 
dation  with  this  prince,  approved  of  this  proceed¬ 
ing.  But  the  great  debt  which  Saxony  owed  to 
Sweden,  was  as  yet  too  freshly  remembered  to  al¬ 
low  of  such  an  act  of  perfidy ;  and  even  had  the 
Elector  been  disposed  to  yield  to  the  temptation, 
the  equivocal  character  of  Wallenstein,  and  the 
bad  character  of  Austrian  policy,  precluded  any 
reliance  in  the  integrity  of  its  promises.  Noto¬ 
rious  already  as  a  treacherous  statesman,  he  met 
not  with  faith  upon  the  very  occasion  when  per¬ 
haps  he  intended  to  act  honestly ;  and,  moreover, 
was  denied,  by  circumstances,  the  opportunity  of 
proving  the  sincerity  of  his  intentions,  by  the  dis 
closure  of  his  real  motives. 

He,  therefore,  unwillingly  resolved  to  extort, 
by  force  of  arms,  what  he  could  not  obtain  by 
negotiation.  Suddenly  assembling  his  troops,  he 
appeared  before  Prague  ere  the  Saxons  had  time 
>  to  advance  to  its  relief.  After  a  short  resist- 


204 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS7  WAR. 


ance,  the  treachery  of  some  Capuchins  opens  the 
gates  to  one  of  his  regiments;  and  the  garrison, 
who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  citadel,  soon  laid 
down  their  arms  upon  disgraceful  conditions. 
Master  of  the  capital,  he  hoped  to  carry  on  more 
successfully  his  negotiations  at  the  Saxon  court  ; 
but  even  while  he  was  renewing  his  proposals  to 
Arnheim,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  give  them  weight 
by  striking  a  decisive  blow.  He  hastened  to  seize 
the  narrow  passes  between  Aussig  and  Pirna, 
with  a  view  of  cutting  off  the  retreat  of  the  Sax¬ 
ons  into  their  own  country ;  but  the  rapidity  of 
Arnheim’s  operations  fortunately  extricated  them 
from  the  danger.  After  the  retreat  /of  this  gene¬ 
ral,  Egra  and  Leutmeritz,  the  last  strongholds  of 
the  Saxons,  surrendered  to  the  conqueror :  and 
the  whole  kingdom  was  restored  to  its  legitimate 
sovereign,  in  less  time  than  it  had  been  lost. 

Wallenstein,  less  occupied  with  the  interests  of 
his  master,  than  with  the  furtherance  of  his  own 
plans,  now  purposed  to  carry  the  war  into  Saxony, 
and  by  ravaging  his  territories,  compel  the  Elector 
to  enter  into  a  private  treaty  with  the  Emperor, 
or  rather  with  himself.  But,  however  little  accus¬ 
tomed  he  was  to  make  his  will  bend  to  circum¬ 
stances,  he  now  perceived  the  necessity  of  post¬ 
poning  his  favorite  scheme  for  a  time*  to  a  more 
pressing  emergency.  While  he  was  driving  the 
Saxons  from  Bohemia,  Gustavus  Adolphus  had 
been  gaining  the  victories,  already  detailed,  on  the 
Rhine  and  the  Danube,  and  carried  the  war 
through  Franconia  and  Lusatia,  to  the  frontiers 
of  Bavaria.  Maximilian,  defeated  on  the  Lech, 
and  deprived  by  death  of  Count  Tilly,  his  best 
support,  urgently  solicited  the  Emperor  to  send 
with  all  speed  the  Duke  of  Friedland  to  his  assist¬ 
ance,  from  Bohemia,  and  by  the  defense  of  Bava¬ 
ria,  to  avert  the  danger  from  Austria  itself.  He 
also  made  the  same  request  to  Wallenstein,  and 
entreated  him,  till  he  could  himself  come  with  the 
main  force,  to  dispatch  in  the  mean  time  a  few  re¬ 
giments  to  his  aid.  Ferdinand  seconded  the  re¬ 
quest  with  all  his  influence,  and  one  messenger 
after  another  was  sent  to  Wallenstein,  urging  him 
to  move  toward  the  Danube. 

It  now  appeared  how  completely  the  Emperor 
had  sacrificed  his  authority,  in  surrendering  to 
another  the  supreme  command  of  his  troops.  In¬ 
different  to  Maximilian’s  entreaties,  and  deaf  to 
the  Emperor’s  repeated  commands,  Wallenstein 
remained  inactive  in  Bohemia,  and  abandoned  the 
Elector  to  his  fate.  The  remembrance  of  the  evil 
service  which  Maximilian  had  rendered  him  with 
the  Emperor,  at  the  Diet  at  Ratisbon,  was  deeply 
engraved  on  the  implacable  mind  of  the  duke,  and 
the  Elector’s  late  attempts  to  prevent  his  rein¬ 
statement,  were  no  secret  to  him.  The  moment 
of  revenging  this  affront  had  now  arrived,  and 
Maximilian  was  doomed  to  pay  dearly  for  his  folly, 
in  provoking  the  most  revengeful  of  men.  Wal¬ 
lenstein  maintained,  that  Bohemia  ought  not  to  be 
left  exposed,  and  that  Austria  could  not  be  better 
protected,  than  by  allowing  the  Swedish  army  to 
waste  its  strength  before  the  Bavarian  fortress. 
Thus,  by  the  arm  of  the  Swedes,  he  chastised  his 
enemy ;  and  while  one  place  after  another  fell  into 
their  hands,  he  allowed  the  Elector  vainly  to  await 
ius  ai  rival  in  Ratisbon.  It  was  only  when  the 


complete  subjugation  of  Bohemia  left  him  without 
excuse,  and  the  conquests  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
in  Bavaria  threatened  Austria  itself,  that  he  yielded 
to  the  pressing  entreaties  of  the  Elector  and  the 
Emperor,  and  determined  to  effect  the  long-ex¬ 
pected  union  with  the  former  ;  an  event,  which, 
according  to  the  general  anticipation  of  the  Roman 
Catholics,  would  decide  the  fate  of  the  campaign. 

Gustavus  Adolphus,  too  weak  in  numbers  to  cope 
even  with  Wallenstein’s  force  alone,  naturally 
dreaded  the  junction  of  sufih  powerful  armies,  and 
the  little  energy  he  used  to  prevent  it,-  was  the  oc¬ 
casion  of  great  surprise.  Apparently  he  reckoned 
too  much  on  the  hatred  which  alienated  the  lead¬ 
ers,  and  seemed  to  render  their  effectual  co-opera¬ 
tion  improbable  :  when  the  event  contradicted  his 
views,  it  was  too  late  to  repair  his  error.  On  the 
first  certain  intelligence  he  received  of  their 
designs,  he  hastened  to  the  Upper  Palatinate,  for 
the  purpose  of  intercepting  the  Elector;  but  the 
latter  had  already  arrived  there,  and  the  junction 
had  been  effected  at  Egra. 

This  frontier  town  had  been  chosen  by  Wallen¬ 
stein,  for  the  scene  of  his  triumph  over  his  former 
rival.  Not  content  with  having  seen  him,  as  it 
were,  a  suppliant  at  his  feet,  he  imposed  upon  him 
the  hard  condition  of  leaving  his  territories  in  his 
rear  exposed  to  the  enemy,  and  declaring  by  this 
long  march  to-  meet  him,  the  necessity  and  dis¬ 
tress  to  which  he  was  reduced.  Even  to  this 
humiliation,  the  haughty  prince  patiently  sub¬ 
mitted.  It  had  cost  him  a  severe  struggle  to  ask 
for  protection  of  the  man  who,  if  his  own  wishes  had 
been  consulted,  would  never  have  had  the  power 
of  granting  it :  but  .having  once  made  up  his  mind 
to  it,  he  was  ready  to  bear  all  the  annoyances 
which  were  inseparable  from  that  resolvd,  and 
sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  put  up  with 
petty  grievances,  when  an  important  end  was  in 
view. 

But  whatever  pains  it  had  cost  to  effect  this 
junction,  it  was  equally  difficult  to  settle  the  con¬ 
ditions  on  \vhich  it  was  to  be  maintained.  The 
united  army  must  be  placed  under  the  command 
of  one  individual,  if  any  object  was  to  be  gained 
by  the  union,  and  each  general  was  equally  averse 
to  yield  to  the  superior  authority  of  the  other. 
If  Maximilian  rested  his  claim  on  his  electoral 
dignity,  the  nobleness  of  his  descent,  and  his  in¬ 
fluence  in  the  empire,  Wallenstein’s  military 
renown,  and  the  unlimited  command  conferred  on 
him  by  the  Emperor,  gave  an  equally  strong  title 
to  it.  If  it  was  deeply  humiliating  to  the  pride  of 
the  former  to  serve  under  an  imperial  subject,  the 
idea  of  imposing  laws  on  so  imperious  a  spirit, 
flattered  in  the  same  degree  the  haughtiness  of 
Wallenstein.  An  obstinate  dispute  ensued,  which, 
however,  terminated  in  a  mutual  compromise  to 
Wallenstein’s  advantage.  To  him  was  assigned 
the  unlimited  command  of  both  armies,  particu¬ 
larly  in  battle,  while  the  Elector  was  deprived  of 
all  power  of  altering  the  order  of  battle,  or  even 
the  route  of  the  army.  He  retained  only  the  bare 
right  of  punishing  and  rewarding  his  own  troops, 
and  the  free  use  of  these,  when  not  acting  in  con¬ 
junction  with  the  Imperialists. 

After  these  preliminaries  were  settled,  the  two 
generals  at  last  ventured  upon  an  interview ;  but 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


205 


not  until  they  had  mutually  promised  to  bury  the 
past  in  oblivion,  and  all  the  outward  formalities  of 
a  reconciliation  had  been  settled.  According  to 
agreement,  they  publicly  embraced  in  the  sight  of 
their  troops,  and  made  mutual  professions  of  friend¬ 
ship,  while  in  reality  the  hearts  of  both  were  over¬ 
flowing  with  malice.  Maximilian  well  versed  in 
dissimulation,  had  sufficient  command  over  himself, 
not  to  betray  in  a  single  feature  his  real  feelings  ; 
but  a  malicious  triumph  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of 
Wallenstein,  and  the  constraint  which  was  visible 
in  all  his  movements,  betrayed  the  violence  of  the 
emotion  which  overpowered  his  proud  soul. 

The  combined  Imperial  and  Bavarian  armies 
amounted  to  nearly  60,000  men,  chiefly  veterans. 
Before  this  force,  the  King  of  Sweden  was  not  in 
a  condition  to  keep  the  field.  As  his  attempt  to 
prevent  their  junction  had  failed,  he  commenced  a 
rapid  retreat  into  Franconia,  and  awaited  there 
for  some  decisive  moment  on  the  part  of  the 
enemy,  in  order  to  form  his  own  plans.  The  posi¬ 
tion  of  the  combined  armies  between  the  frontiers 
of  Saxony  and  Bavaria,  left  it  for  some  time 
doubtful  whether  they  would  remove  the  war  into 
the  former,  or  endeavor  to  drive  the  Swedes  from 
the  Danube,  and  deliver  Bavaria.  Saxony  had 
been  stripped  of  troops  by  Arnheim,  who  was 
pursuing  his  conquests  in*  Silesia :  not  without  a 
secret  design,  it  was  generally  supposed,  of  favor¬ 
ing  the  entrance  of  the  Duke  of  Friedland  into 
that  electorate,  and  of  thus  driving  the  irresolute 
John  George  into  peace  with  the  Emperor.  Gus- 
tavus  Adoiphus  himself,  fully  persuaded  that 
Wallenstein’s  views  were  directed  against  Saxony, 
hastily  dispatched  a  strong  reinforcement  to  the 
assistance  of  his  confederate,  with  the  intention, 
as  soon  as  circumstances  would  allow,  of  following 
with  the  main  body.  But  the  movements  of  Wal¬ 
lenstein’s  army  soon  led  him  to  suspect  that  he 
himself  was  the  object  of  attack  ;  and  the  Duke’s 
march  through  the  Upper  Palatinate,  placed  the 
matter  beyond  a  doubt.  The  question  now  was, 
how  to  provide  for  his  own  security,  and  the  prize 
was  no  longer  his  supremacy,  but  his  very  exist¬ 
ence.  His  fertile  genius  must  now  supply  the 
means,  not  of  conquest,  but  of  preservation.  The 
approach  of  the  enemy  had  surprised  him  before 
he  had  time  to  concentrate  his  troops,  which  were 
scattered  all  over  Germany,  or  to  summon  his  allies 
to  his  aid.  Too  weak  to  meet  the  enemy  in  the 
field,  he  had  no  choice  left,  but  either  to  throw 
himself  into  Nuremberg,  and  run  the  risk  of  being 
shut  up  in  its  walls,  or  to  sacrifice  that  city,  and 
await  a  reinforcement  under  the  cannon  of  Donau- 
werth.  Indifferent  to  danger  or  difficulty,  while 
he  obeyed  the  call  of  humanity  or  honor,  he  chose 
the  first  without  hesitation,  firmly  resolved  to  bury 
himself  with  his  whole  army  under  the  ruins  of 
Nuremberg,  rather  than  to  purchase  his  own  safety 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  confederates. 

Measures  were  immediately  taken  to  surround 
the  city  and  suburbs  with  redoubts,  and  to  form 
an  intrenched  camp.  Several  thousand  workmen 
immediately  commenced  this  extensive  work,  and 
an  heroic  determination  to  hazard  life  and  pro¬ 
perty  in  the  common  cause,  animated  the  inhabi¬ 
tants  of  Nuremburg.  A  trench,  eight  feet  deep 


and  twelve  broad,  surrounded  the  whole  fortifica¬ 
tion  ;  the  lines  were  defended  by  redoubts  and 
batteries,  the  gates  by  half  moons.  The  river 
Pegnitz,  which  flows  through  Nuremberg,  divided 
the  whole  camp  into  two  semicircles,  whose  com¬ 
munications  was  secured  by  several  bridges. 
Above  three  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  defended 
the  town  walls  and  the  intrenchments.  The 
peasantry  from  the  neighboring  villages,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  Nuremberg,  assisted  the  Swedish 
soldiers  so  zealously,  that  oh  the  seventh  day  the 
army  was  able  to  enter  the  camp,  and,  in  a  fort¬ 
night,  this  great  work  was  completed. 

While  these  operations  were  carried  on  without 
the  walls,  the  magistrates  of  Nuremberg  were 
busily  occupied  in  filling  the  magazines  writh  pro¬ 
vision  and  ammunition  for  a  long  siege.  Measures 
were  taken,  at  the  same  time,  to  secure  the  health 
of  the  inhabitants,  which  was  likely  to  be  endan¬ 
gered  by  the  conflux  of  so  many  people  ;  cleanli¬ 
ness  was  enforced  by  the  strictest  regulations. 
In  order,  if  necessary,  to  support  the  king,  the 
youth  of  the  city  were  embodied  and  trained  to 
arms,  the  militia  of  the  town  considerably  rein¬ 
forced,  and  a  new  regiment  raised,  consisting  of 
four-and-twenty  names,  according  to  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet.  Gustavus  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
called  to  his  assistancehis  allies,  Duke  William  of 
Weimar,  and  the  Landgrave  of  Hesse  Cassel ;  and 
ordered  his  generals  on  the  Bhine,  in  Thuringia, 
and  Lower  Saxony,  to  commence  their  march  im¬ 
mediately,  and  join  him  with  their  troops  in  Nu¬ 
remburg.  His  army,  which  was  encamped  within 
the  lines,  did  not  amount  to  more  than  sixteen 
thousand  men,  scarcely  a  third  of  the  enemy. 

The  Imperialists  had,  in  the  mean  time,  by  slow 
marches,  advanced  to  Neumark,  wdiere  Wallen¬ 
stein  made  a  general  review.  At  the  sight  of  this 
formidable  force,  he  could  not  refrain  from  indulg¬ 
ing  in  a  childish  boast :  “  In  four  days,”  said  he, 
“it  will  be  shown  whether  I  or  the  King  of 
Sweden  is  to  be  master  of  the  world.”  Yet,  not¬ 
withstanding  his  superiority,  he  did  nothing  to 
fulfill  his  promise  ;  and  even  let  slip  the  opportu¬ 
nity  of  crushing  his  enemy,  when  the  latter  had 
the  hardihood  to  leave  his  lines  to  meet  him. 
“  Battles  enough  have  been  fought,”  was  his  an¬ 
swer  to  those  who  advised  him  to  attack  the  king, 
“it  is  now  time  to  try  another  method.”  Wallen¬ 
stein’s  well-founded  reputation  required  not  any 
of  those  rash  enterprises  on  which  younger  soldiers 
rush,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  a  name.  Satisfied 
that  the  enemy’s  despair  would  dearly  sell  a  vic¬ 
tory,  while  a  defeat  would  irretrievably  ruin  the 
Emperor’s  affairs,  he  resolved  to  wear  out  the 
ardor  of  his  opponent  by  a  tedious  blockade,  and 
by  thus  depriving  him  of  every  opportunity  of 
availing  himself  of  his  impetuous  bravery,  take 
from  him  the  very  advantage  which  had  hitherto 
rendered  him  invincible.  Without  making  any 
attack,  therefore,  he  erected  a  strong  fortified 
camp  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pegnitz,  and  oppo¬ 
site  Nuremberg;  and,  by  this  well  chosen  posi¬ 
tion,  cut  off  from  the  city  and  the  camp  of  Gus¬ 
tavus,  all  supplies  from  Franconia,  Swabia,  and 
Thuringia.  Thus  he  held  in  siege  at  once  the 
city  and  the  king,  and  flattered  himself  with  the 


206 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


hope  of  slowly,  but  surely,  wearing  qv&  by  famine 
and  pestilence  the  courage  of  his  opponent  whom 
he  had  no  wish  to  encounter  in  the  field. 

Little  aware,  however,  of  the  resources  and  the 
strength  of  his  adversary,  Wallenstein  had  not 
taken  sufficient  precautions  to  avert  from  himself 
the  fate  he  was  designing  for  others.  From  the 
whole  of  the  neigboring  country,  the  peasantry 
had  fled  with  their  property;  and  what  little  pro¬ 
vision  remained,  must  be  obstinately  contested 
with  the  Swedes.  The  king  spared  the  magazines 
within  the  town,  as  long  as  it  was  possible  to  pro¬ 
vision  his  army  from  without;  and  these  forays 
produced  constant  skirmishes  betweep  the  Croats 
and  the  Swedish  cavalry,  of  which  the  surround¬ 
ing  country  exhibited  the  most  melancholy  traces. 
The  necessaries  of  life  must  be  obtained  sword  in 
hand;  and  the  foraging  parties  could  not  venture 
out  without  a  numerous  escort.  And  when  this 
supply  failed,  the  town  opened  its  magazines  to 
the  king,  but  Wallenstein  had  to  support  his 
troops  from  a  distance.  A  large  convoy  from  Ba¬ 
varia  was  on  its  way  to  him,  with  an  escort  of  a 
thousand  men.  Gustavus  Adolphus  having  re¬ 
ceived  intelligence  of  its  approach,  immediately 
sent  out  a  regiment  of  cavalry  to  intercept  it ; 
and  the  darkness  of  the  night  favored  the  enter¬ 
prise.  The  whole  convoy,  with  the  town  in  which 
it  was,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Swedes  ;  the  Im¬ 
perial  escort  was  cut  to  pieces  ;  about  twelve 
thousand  cattle  carried  off ;  and  a  thousand  wa¬ 
gons,  loaded  with  bread,  which  could  not  be 
brought  away,  were  set  on  fire.  Seven  regiments, 
which  Wallenstein  had  sent  forward  to  Altdorp 
to  cover  the  entrance  of  the  long  and  anxiously 
expected  convoy,  were  attacked  by  the  king,  who 
had,  in  like  manner,  advanced  to  cover  the  retreat 
of  his  cavalry,  and  routed  after  an  obstinate  ac¬ 
tion,  being  driven  back  into  the  Imperial  camp, 
with  the  loss  of  four  hundred  men.  So  many 
checks  and  difficulties,  and  so  firm  and  unex¬ 
pected  a  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  king,  made 
the  Duke  of  Friedland  repent  that  he  had  de¬ 
clined  to  hazard  a  battle.  The  strength  of  the 
Swedish  camp  rendered  an  attack  impracticable  ; 
and  the  armed  youth  of  Nuremberg  served  the 
king  as  a  nursery  from  which  he  could  supply  his 
loss  of  troops.  The  want  of  provisions,  which 
began  to  be  felt  in  the  imperial  camp  as  strongly 
as  in  the  Swedish,  rendered  it  uncertain  which 
party  would  be  first  compelled  to  give  way. 

Fifteen  days  had  the  two  armies  now  remained 
in  view  of  each  other,  equally  defended  by  inac¬ 
cessible  intrenchments,  without  attempting  any¬ 
thing  more  than  slight  attacks  and  unimportant 
skirmishes.  Otf  both  sides,  infectious  diseases, 
the  natural  consequence  of  bad  food,  and  a 
crowded  population,  had  occasioned  a  greater 
loss  than  the  sword.  And  this  evil  daily  increased. 
But  at  length,  the  long  expected  succors  arrived 
in  the  Swedish  camp  ;•  and  by  this  strong  rein¬ 
forcement,  the  king  was  now  enabled  to  obey  the 
dictates  of  his  native  courage,  and  to  break  the 
chains  which  had  hitherto  fettered  him. 

In  obedience  to  his  requisitions,  the  Duke  of 
Weimar  had  hastily  drawn  together  a  corps  from 
the  garrisons  in  Lower  Saxony  and  Thuringia, 
Which,  at  Schweinfurt  in  Franconia,  was  joined 


I  by  four  Saxon  regiments,  and  at  Kitzingeu 
by  the  corps  of  the  Bhine,  which  the  Landgrave 
of  Hesse,  and  the  Palatine  of  Birkenfeld,  dis¬ 
patched  to  the  relief  of  the  king.  The  Chancellor, 
Oxenstiern,  undertook  to  lead  this  force  to  its  des¬ 
tination.  After  being  joined  at  Windsheim  by 
the  Duke  of  Weimar  himself,  and  the  Swedish 
General  Banner,  he  advanced  by  rapid  marches  to 
Pruck  and  Eltersdorf,  where  he  passed  the  Bed- 
nitz,  and  reached  the  Swedish  camp  in  safety. 
This  reinforcement  amounted  to  nearly  fifty  thou¬ 
sand  men,  and  was  attended  by  a  train  of  sixty 
pieces  of  cannon,  and  four  thousand  baggage 
wagons.  Gustavus  now  saw  himself  at  the  head 
of  an  army  of  nearly  seventy  thousand  strong, 
without  reckoning  the  militia  of  Nuremberg, 
which,  in  case  of  necessity,  could  bring  into  the 
field  about  thirty  thousand  fighting  men  ;  a  for¬ 
midable  force,  opposed  to  another  not  less  formid¬ 
able.  The  war  seemed  at  length  compressed  to 
the  point  of  a  single  battle,  which  was  to  decide 
its  fearful  issue.  With  divided  sympathies,  Eu¬ 
rope  looked  with  anxiety  to  this  scene,  where  the 
whole  strength  of  the  two  contending  parties  was 
fearfully  drawn,  as  it  were,  to  a  focus. 

If,  before  the  arrival  of  the  Swedish  succors,  a 
want  of  provisions  had  been  felt,  the  evil  was  now 
fearfully  increased  to  a  dreadful  height  in  both 
camps,  for  Wallenstein  had  also  received  rein¬ 
forcements  from  Bavaria.  Besides  the  one  hun¬ 
dred  and  twenty  thousand  men  confronted  to  each 
other,  and  more  than  fifty  thousand  horses,  in  the 
two  armies,  and  besides  the  inhabitants  of  Nu¬ 
remberg,  whose  number  far  exceeded  the  Swedish 
army,  there  were  in  the  camp  of  W allenstein 
about  fifteen  thousand  women,  with  as  many  dri¬ 
vers,  and  nearly  the  same  number  in  that  of  the 
Swedes.  The  custom  of  the  time  permitted  the 
soldier  to  carry  his  family  with  him  to  the  field. 
A  number  of  prostitutes  followed  the  Imperial¬ 
ists  ;  while,  with  the  view  of  preventing  such  ex¬ 
cesses,  Gustavus’s  care  for  the  morals  of  his  sol¬ 
diers  promoted  marriages.  For  the  rising  gene¬ 
ration,  who  had  this  camp  for  their  home  and 
country,  regular  military  schools  were  established, 
which  educated  a  race  of  excellent  warriors,  by 
which  means  the  army  might  in  a  manner  recruit 
itself  in  the  course  of  a  long  campaign.  No 
wonder,  then,  if  these  wandering  nations  exhausted 
every  territory  in  which  they  encamped,  and  by 
their  immense  consumption  raised  the  necessaries 
of  life  to  an  exorbitant  price.  All  the  mills  of 
Nuremberg  were  insufficient  to  grind  the  corn  re¬ 
quired  for  each  day;  and  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
of  bread,  which  were  daily  delivered  by  the  town 
into  the  Swedish  camp,  excited,  without  allaying, 
the  hunger  of  the  soldiers.  The  laudable  exer¬ 
tions  of  the  magistrates  of  Nuremberg  could  not 
prevent  the  greater  part  of  the  horses  from  dying 
for  want  of  forage,  while  the  increasing  mortality 
in  the  camp  consigned  more  than  a  hundred  men 
daily  to  the  grave. 

To  put  an  end  to  these  distresses,  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  relying  on  his  numerical  superiority, 
left  his  lines  on  the  25th  day,  forming  before  the 
enemy  in  order  of  battle,  while  he  cannonaded  the 
duke’s  camp  from  three  batteries  erected  on  the 
side  of  the  Bednitz.  But  the  duke  remained  immov- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


207 


able  in  his  intrenchments,  and  contented  himself 
with  answering  this  challenge  by  a  distant  fire  of 
cannon  and  musketry.  His  plan  was  to  wear  out 
the  king  by  his  inactivity,  and  by  the  force  of 
famine  to  overcome  his  resolute  determination ; 
and  neither  the  remonstrance  of  Maximilian,  and 
the  impatience  of  his  army,  nor  the  ridicule  of  his 
opponent,  could  shake  his  purpose.  Gmstavus, 
deceived  in  his  hope  of  forcing  a  battle,  and  com¬ 
pelled  by  his  increasing  necessities,  now  attempted 
impossibilities,  and  resolved  to  storm  a  position 
which  art  and  nature  had  combined  to  render  im¬ 
pregnable. 

Intrusting  his  own  camp  to  the  militia  of  Nu¬ 
remberg,  oh  the  fifty-eight  day  of  his  encampment, 
(the  festival  of  S't.  Bartholomew,)  he  advanced  in 
full  order  of  battle,  and  passing  the  Rednitz  at 
Furtli,  easily  drove  the  enemy’s  outposts  before 
him.  The  main  army  of  the  Imperialists  was 
posted  on  the  steep  heights  between  the  Biber  and 
the  Rednitz,  called  the  Old  Fortress  and  Alten- 
berg  ;  while  the  camp  itself,  commanded  by  these 
eminences,  spread  out  immeasurably  along  the 
plain.  On  these  heights,  the  whole  of  the  ar¬ 
tillery  was  placed.  Deep  trenches  surrounded  in¬ 
accessible  redoubts,  while  thick  barricades,  with 
pointed  palisades,  defended  the  approaches  to  the 
heights,  from  the  summits  of  which,  Wallenstein, 
calmly  and  securely,  discharged  the  lightnings 
of  his  artillery  from  amid  the  dark  thunder¬ 
clouds  of  smoke.  A  destructive  fire  of  musketry 
was  maintained  behind  the  breastworks,  and  a 
hundred  pieces  of  cannon  threatened  the  despe¬ 
rate  assailant  with  certain  destruction.  Against 
this  dangerous  post  Gustavus  now  directed  his 
attack  ;  five  hundred  musketeers,  supported  by  a 
few  infantry,  (for  a  greater  number  could  not  act 
in  the  narrow  space,)  enjoyed  the  unenvied  privi¬ 
lege  of  first  throwing  themselves  into  the  open 
jaws  of  death.  The  assault  was  furious,  the  re¬ 
sistance  obstinate.  Exposed  to  the  whole  fire  of  the 
enemy’s  artillery,  and  infuriate  by  the  prospect  of 
inevitable  death,  these  determined  warriors  rushed 
forward  to  storm  the  heights ;  which,  in  an  in¬ 
stant,  converted  into  a  flaming  volcano,  discharged 
on  them  a  shower  of  shot.  At  the  same  moment 
the  heavy  cavalry  rushed  forward  into  the  open¬ 
ings  which  the  artillery  had  made  in  the  close 
ranks  of  the  assailants,  and  divided  them ;  till  the 
intrepid  band,  conquered  by  the  strength  of  na¬ 
ture  and  of  man,  took  to  flight,  leaving  a  hundred 
dead  upon  the  field.  To  Germans  had  Gustavus 
yielded  this  post  of  honor.  Exasperated  at  their 
retreat,  he  now  led  on  his  Finlanders  to  the  at¬ 
tack,  thinking  by  their  northern  courage,  to  shame 
the  cowardice  of  the  Germans.  But  they,  also, 
after  a  similar  hot  reception,  yielded  to  the  supe¬ 
riority  of  the  enemy ;  and  a  third  regiment  suc¬ 
ceeded  them  to  experience  the  same  fate.  This 
was  replaced  by  a  fourth,  a  fifth,  and  a  sixth ;  so 
that,  during  a  ten  hour’s  action,  every  regiment 
was  brought  to  the  attack,  to  retire  with  bloody 
loss  from  the  contest.  A  thousand  mangled 
bodies  covered  the  field ;  yet  Gustavus  undaunt¬ 
edly  maintained  his  attack,  and  Wallenstein  held 
his  position  unshaken. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  sharp  contest  had  taken 
place  between  the  imperial  cavalry  and  the  left 


wing  of  the  Swedes,  which  was  posted  in  a  thicket 
on  the  Rednitz,  with  varying  success,  but  with  equal 
intrepidity  and  loss  on  both  sides.  The  Duke  of 
Friedland  and  Prince  Bernard  of  Weimar  had  each 
a  horse  shot  under  them  ;  the  king  himself  had 
the  sole  of  his  boot  carried  off  by  a  cannon  ball. 
The  combat  was  maintained  with  undiminished 
obstinacy,  till  the  approach  of  night  separated 
the  combatants.  But  the  Swedes  had  advanced 
too  far  to  retreat  without  hazard.  While  the  king 
was.  seeking  an  officer  to  convey  to  the  regiments 
the  order  to  retreat,  he  met  Colonel  Hepburn,  a 
brave  Scotchman,  whose  native  courage  alone  had 
drawn  him  from  the  camp  to  share  in  the  dangers 
of  the  day.  Offended  with  the  king  for  having 
not  long  before  preferred  a  younger  officer  for 
some  post  of  danger,  he  had  rashly  vowed  never 
again  to  draw  his  sword  for  the  king.  To  him 
Gustavus  now  addressed  himself,  praising  his 
courage,  and  requesting  him  to  order  the  regi¬ 
ments  to  retreat.  “  Sire,”  replied  the  brave  sol¬ 
dier,  “  it  is  the  only  service  I  cannot  refuse  to 
your  Majesty;  for  it  is  a  hazardous  one,” — and 
immediately  hastened  to  carry  the  command.  One 
of  the  heights  above  the  old  fortress  had,  in  the 
heat  of  the  action,  been  carried  by  the  Duke  of 
Weimar.  It  commanded  the  hills  and  the  whole 
camp.  But  the  heavy  rain  which  fell  during  the 
night,  rendered  it  impossible  to  draw  up  the 
cannon;  and  this  post,  which  had  been  gained 
with  so  much  bloodshed,  was  also  voluntarily 
abandoned.  Diffident  of  fortune,  which  forsook 
him  on  this  decisive  day,  the  king  did  not  venture 
the  following  morning  to  renew  the  attack  with 
his  exhausted  troops ;  and  vanquished  for  the 
first  time,  even  because  he  was  not  victor,  he  led 
back  his  troops  over  the  Rednitz.  Two  thousand 
dead  which  he  left  behind  him  on  the  field,  tes¬ 
tified  to  the  extent  of  his  loss ;  and  the  Duke 
of  Friedland  remained  unconquered  within  his 
lines. 

For  fourteen  days  after  this  action,  the  two  ar¬ 
mies  still  continued  in  front  of  each  other,  each  in 
the  hope  that  the  other  would  be  the  first  to  give 
way.  Every  day  reduced  their  provisions,  and  as 
scarcity  became  greater,  the  excesses  of  the  sol¬ 
diers,  rendered  furious,  exercised  the  wildest  out¬ 
rages  on  the  peasantry.  The  increasing  distress 
broke  up  all  discipline  and  order  in  the  Swedish 
camp ;  and  the  German  regiments,  in  particular, 
distinguished  themselves  for  the  ravages  they 
practiced  indiscriminately  on  friend  and  foe.  The 
weak  hand  of  a  single  individual  could  not  check 
excesses,  encouraged  by  the  silence,  if  not  the  ac¬ 
tual  example,  of  the  inferior  officers.  These 
shameful  breaches  of  discipline,  on  the  mainte¬ 
nance  of  which  he  had  hitherto  justly  prided  him¬ 
self,  severely  pained  the  king ;  and  the  vehemence 
with  which  he  reproached  the  German  officers  for 
their  negligence,  bespoke  the  liveliness  of  his  emo¬ 
tion.  “  It  is  you  yourselves,  Germans,”  said  he, 
“that  rob  your  native  country,  and  ruin  your  own 
confederates  in  the  faith.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I 
abhor  you,  I  loathe  you ;  my  heart  sinks  within, 
even  when  I  look  upon  you,  Ye  break  my  orders ; 
ye  are  the  cause  that  the  world  curses  me,  that  the 
tears  of  poverty  follow  me,  that  complaints  ring  in 
my  ear — 4  The  king,  our  friend,  does  us  more  harm 


208 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


than  even  our  worst  enemies.’  On  your  account 
I  have  stripped  my  own  kingdom  of  its  treasures, 
and  spent  upon  you  more  than  forty  tons  of  gold*; 
while  from  your  German  empire  I  have  not  re¬ 
ceived  the  least  aid.  I  gave  you  a  share  of  all  that 
God  had  given  to  me ;  and  had  ye  regarded  my 
orders,  I  would  have  gladly  shared  with  you  all  my 
future  acquisitions.  Your  want  of  discipline  con¬ 
vinces  me  of  your  evil  intentions,  whatever  cause 
I  might  otherwise  have  to  applaud  your  bravery.” 

Nuremberg  had  exerted  itself,  almost  beyond  its 
power,  to  subsist  for  eleven  weeks  the  vast  crowd 
which  was  compressed  within  its  boundaries ; 
but  its  means  were  at  length  exhausted,  and  the 
king’s  more  numerous  party  was  obliged  to  deter¬ 
mine  on  a  retreat.  By  the  casualties  of  war  and 
sickness,  Nuremberg  had  lost  more  than  ten  thou¬ 
sand  of  its  inhabitants,  and  Gustavus  Adolphus 
nearly  twenty  thousand  of  his  soldiers.  The  fields 
around  the  city  were  trampled  down,  the  villages 
lay  in  ashes,  the  plundered  peasantry  lay  faint  and 
dying  on  the  highways ;  dead  bodies  infected  the 
air,  and  bad  food,  the  exhalations  from  so  dense  a 
population,  and  so  many  putrifying  carcasses,  to¬ 
gether  with  the  heat  of  the  dog-days,  produced  a 
desolating  pestilence  which  raged  among  men  and 
beasts,  and  long  after  the  retreat  of  both  armies, 
continued  to  load  the  country  with  misery  and  dis¬ 
tress.  Affected  by  the  general  distress,  and  de¬ 
spairing  of  conquering  the  steady  determination 
of  the  Duke  of  Friedland,  the  king  broke  up  his 
camp  on  the  8th  of  September,  leaving  in  Nurem¬ 
berg  a  sufficient  garrison.  He  advanced  in  full 
order  of  battle  before  the  enemy,  who  remained 
motionless,  and  did  not  attempt  in  the  least  to 
harass  bis  retreat.  His  route  lay  by  the  Aisch 
and  Windsheim  toward  Neustadt,  where  he  halted 
five  days  to  refresh  his  troops,  and  also  to  be  near 
to  Nuremberg,  in  case  the  enemy  should  make  an 
attempt  upon  the  town.  But  Wallenstein,  as  ex¬ 
hausted  as  himself,  had  only  awaited  the  retreat 
of  the  Swedes  to  commence  his  own.  Five  days 
afterward,  he  broke  up  his  camp  at  Zirndorf,  and 
set  it  on  fire.  A  hundred  columns  of  smoke, 
rising  from  all  the  burning  villages  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood,  announced  his  retreat,  and  showed  the 
fate  it  had  escaped.  His  march,  which  was  di¬ 
rected  on  Forschiem,  was  marked  by  the  most 
frightful  ravages  ;  but  lie  was  too  far  advanced  to 
be  overtaken  by  the  king.  The  latter  now  divided 
his  army,  which  the  exhausted  country  was  unable 
to  support,  and  leaving  one  division  to  protect 
Franconia,  with  the  other  he  prosecuted  in  person 
his  conquests  in  Bavaria.  i 

In  the  mean  time  the  imperial  Bavarian  army 
had  marched  into  the  Bishopric  of  Bamberg, 
where  the  Duke  of  Friedland  a  second  time  mus¬ 
tered  his  troops.  He  found  this  force,  which  so 
lately  had  amounted  to  60,000  men,  diminished 
by  the  sword,  desertion,  and  disease,  to  about 
24,000,  and  of  these,  a  fourth  were  Bavarians. 
Thus  had  the  encampments  before  Nuremberg 
weakened  both  parties  more  than  two  great  battles 
would  have  done,  apparently  w'ithout  advancing 
the  termination  of  the  war,  or  satisfying,  by  any 

*  A  ton  of  gold  in  Sweden  amounts  to  100,000  rix 
dollars. 


decisive  result,  the  expectations  of  Europe.  Tha 
king’s  conquests  in  Bavaria,  were,  it  is  true, 
checked  for  a  time  by  this  diversion  before  Nu¬ 
remberg,  and  Austria  itself  secured  against  the 
danger  of  immediate  invasion  ;  but  by  the  retreat 
of  the  king  from  that  city,  he  was  again  left  at 
full  liberty  to  make  Bavaria  the  seat  of  war.  In¬ 
different  toward  the  fate  of  that  country,  and 
weary  of  the  restraint  which  his  union  with  the 
Elector  imposed  upon  him,  the  Duke  of  Friedland 
eagerly  seized  the  opportunity  of  separating  from 
this  burdensome  associate,  and  prosecuting,  with 
renewed  earnestness,  his  favorite  plans.  Still  ad¬ 
hering  to  his  purpose  of  detaching  Saxony  from 
its  Swedish  alliance,  he  selected  that  country  for 
his  winter  quarters,  hoping  by  his  destructive  pres¬ 
ence  to  force  the  Elector  the  more  readily  into  his 
views. 

No  conjuncture  could  be  more  favorable  for  his 
designs.  The  Saxons  had  invaded  Silesia,  where, 
reinforced  by  troops  from  Brandenburg  and  Swe¬ 
den,  they  had  gained  several  advantages  over  the 
Emperor’s  troops.  Silesia  wonld  be  saved  by  a 
diversion  against  the  Elector  in  his  own  territories, 
and  the  attempt  was  the  more  easy,  as  Saxony, 
left  undefended  during  the  war  in  Silesia,  lay 
open  on  every  side  to  attack.  The  pretext  of  res¬ 
cuing  from  the  enemy  an  hereditary  dominion  of 
Austria,  would  silence  the  remonstrances  of  the 
Elector  of  Bavaria,  and,  under  the  mask  of  a  pa¬ 
triotic  zeal  for  the  Emperor’s  interests,  Maximi¬ 
lian  might  be  sacrificed  without  much  difficulty. 
By  giving  up  the  rich  country  of  Bavaria  to  the 
Swedes,  he  hoped  to  be  left  unmolested  by  them 
in  his  enterprise  against  Saxony,  while  the  in¬ 
creasing  coldness  between  Gustavus  and  the 
Saxon  Court  gave  him  little  reason  to  apprehend 
any  extraordinary  zeal  for  the  deliverance  of  John 
George.  Thus  a  second  time  abandoned  by  his 
artful  protector,  the  Elector  separated  from  Wal¬ 
lenstein  at  Bamberg,  to  protect  his  defenseless 
territory  with  the  small  remains  of  his  troops, 
while  the  imperial  army,  undor  Wallenstein,  di¬ 
rected  its  march  through  Bayreuth  and  Coburg 
toward  the  Thuringian  Forest. 

An  imperial  general,  Hoik,  had  previously  been 
dispatched  into  Vogtland,  to  lay  waste  this  de¬ 
fenseless  province  with  fire  and  sword;  he  was  soon 
followed  by  Gallas,  another  of  the  Duke’s  generals, 
and  an  equally  faithful  instrument  of  his  inhuman 
orders.  Finally,  Pappenheim,  too,  was  recalled 
from  Lower  Saxony,  to  reinforce  the  diminished 
army  of  the  duke,  and  to  complete  the  miseries 
i  of  the  devoted  country.  Ruined  churches,  vil¬ 
lages  in  ashes,  harvests  willfully  destroyed,  fami¬ 
lies  plundered,  and  murdered  peasants,  marked  the 
progress  of  these  barbarians,  under  whose  scourge 
the  whole  of  Thuringia,  Yogtland,  and  Meissen, 
lay  defenseless.  Yet  this  was  but  the  prelude  to, 
greater  sufferings,  with  which  Wallenstein  him¬ 
self,  at  the  head  of  the  main  army,  threatened 
Saxony.  After  having  left  behind  him  fearful 
monuments  of  his  fury,  in  his  march  through 
Franconia  and  Thuringia,  he  arrived  with  his 
whole  army  in  the  Circle  of  Leipsic,  and  com¬ 
pelled  the  city,  after  a  short  resistance,  to  sur¬ 
render.  His  design  was  to  push  on  to  Dresden, 
and  by  the  conquest  of  the  whole  country  to  pre- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


209 


scribe  laws  to  the  Elector.  He  had  already  ap¬ 
proached  the  Mulda,  threatening  to  overpower 
the  Saxon  army  which  had  advanced  as  far  as 
Torgau  to  meet  him,  when  the  King  of  Sweden’s 
arrival  at  Erfurt  gave  an  unexpected  check  to  his 
operations.  Placed  between  the  Saxon  and  Swe¬ 
dish  armies,  which  were  likely  to  be  further  rein¬ 
forced  by  the  troops  of  George,  Duke  of  Lune- 
burg,  from  Lower  Saxony,  he  hastily  retired 
upon  Merseburg,  to  form  a  junction  there  with 
Count  Pappenheim,  and  to  repel  the  further  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  Swedes. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  had  witnessed,  with  great 
uneasiness,  the  arts  employed  by  Spain  and  Aus¬ 
tria  to  detach  his  allies  from  him.  The  more  im¬ 
portant  his  alliance  with  Saxony,  the  more  anx¬ 
iety  the  inconstant  temper  of  John  George  caused 
him.  Between  himself  and  the  Elector,  a  sincere 
friendship  could  never  subsist.  A  prince,  proud 
of  his  political  importance,  and  accustomed  to 
consider  himself  as  the  head  of  his  party,  could 
not  see  without  annoyance  the  interference  of  a 
foreign  power  in  the  affairs  of  the  Empire  ;  and 
nothing,  but  the  extreme  danger  of  his  dominions 
could  overcome  the  aversion  with  which  he  had 
long  witnessed  the  progress  of  this  unwelcome  in¬ 
truder.  The  increasing  influence  of  the  king  in 
Germany,  his  authority  with  the  Protestant  states, 
the  unambiguous  proofs  which  he  gave  of  his  am¬ 
bitious  views,  which  were  of  a  character  calculated 
to  excite  the  jealousies  of  all  the  states  of  the  Em¬ 
pire,  awakened  in  the  Elector’s  breast  a  thousand 
anxieties,  which  the  imperial  emissaries  did  not  fail 
skillfully  to  keep  alive  and  cherish.  Every  arbi¬ 
trary  step  on  the  part  of  the  king,  every  demand, 
however  reasonable,  which  he  addressed  to  the 
princes  of  the  empire,  was  followed  by  bitter  com¬ 
plaints  from  the  Elector,  which  seemed  to  an¬ 
nounce  an  approaching  rupture.  Even  the  generals 
of  the  two  powers,  whenever  they  were  called  upon 
to  act  in  common,  manifested  the  same  jealousy 
as  divided  their  leaders.  John  George’s  natural 
aversion  to  war,  and  a  lingering  attachment  to 
Austria,  favored  the  efforts  of  Arnheim ;  who, 
maintaining  a  constant  correspondence  with  Wal¬ 
lenstein,  labored  incessantly  to  effect  a  private 
treaty  between  his  master  and  the  Emperor ;  and 
if  his  representations  were  long  disregarded,  still 
the  event  proved  that  they  were  not  altogether 
without  effect. 

Gustavus  Adolphus,  naturally  apprehensive  of 
the  consequences  which  the  defection  of  so  power¬ 
ful  an  ally  would  produce  on  his  future  prospects 
in  Germany,  spared  no  pains  to  avert  so  pernicious 
an  event ;  and  his  remonstrances  had  hitherto  had 
some  effect  upon  the  Elector.  But  the  formidable 
power  with  which  the  Emperor  seconded  his  se¬ 
ductive  proposals,  and  the  miseries  which,  in  the 
case  of  hesitation,  he  threatened  to  accumulate 
upon  Saxony,  might  at  length  overcome  the  reso¬ 
lution  of  the  Elector,  should  he  be  left  exposed  to 
the  vengeance  of  his  enemies ;  while  an  indiffer¬ 
ence  to  the  fate  of  so  powerful  a  confederate, 
would  irreparably  destroy  the  confidence  of  the 
other  allies  in  their  protector.  This  consideration 
induced  the  king  a  second  time  to  yield  to  the 
pressing  entreaties  of  the  Elector,  and  to  sacri¬ 
fice  his  owm  brilliant  prospects  to  the  safety  of 
VOL.  II.— 11 


his  ally.  He  had  already  resolved  upon  a  second 
attack  on  Ingolstadt ;  and  the  weakness  of  the 
Elector  of  Bavaria  gave  him  hopes  of  soon  forc¬ 
ing  this  exhausted  enemy  to  accede  to  a  neutral¬ 
ity.  An  insurrection  of  the  peasantry  in  Upper 
Austria,  opened  to  him  a  passage  into  that  coun¬ 
try,  and  the  capital  might  be  in  his  possession 
before  Wallenstein  could  have  time  to  advance  to 
its  defense.  All  these  views  he  now  gave  up  for 
the  sake  of  an  ally,  who,  neither  by  his  services 
nor  his  fidelity,  was  worthy  of  the  sacrifice ;  who, 
on  pressing  occasions  of  common  good,  had  stead¬ 
ily  adhered  to  his  own  selfish  projects;  and  who 
was  important,  not  for  the  services  he  was  ex¬ 
pected  to  render,  but  merely  for  the  injuries  he 
had  it  in  his  power  to  inflict.  Is  it  possible,  then, 
to  refrain  from  indignation,  when  we  know  that, 
in  this  expedition,  undertaken  for  the  benefit  of 
such  an  ally,  the  great  king  was  destined  to  ter¬ 
minate  his  career  ? 

Rapidly  assembling  his  troops  in  Franconia,  he 
followed  the  route  of  Wallenstein  through  Thur¬ 
ingia.  Duke  Bernard  of  Weimar,  who  had  been 
dispatched  to  act  against  Pappenheim,  joined  the 
king  at  Armstadt,  who  now  saw  himself  at  the 
head  of  twenty  thousand  veterans.  At  Erfurt  he 
took  leave  of  his  queen,  who  was  not  again  to  be¬ 
hold  him,  save  in  his  coffin,  at  Weissenfels.  Their 
anxious  adieus  seemed  to  forbode  an  eternal  sepa¬ 
ration. 

He  reached  Naumberg  on  the  1st  November, 
1632,  before  the  corps  which  the  Duke  of  Fried- 
land  had  dispatched  for  that  purpose,  could  make 
itself  master  of  that  place.  The  inhabitants  of 
the  surrounding  country  flocked  in  crowds  to  look 
upon  the  hero,  the  avenger,  the  great  king,  who, 
a  year  before,  had  first  appeared  in  that  quarter, 
like  a  guardian  angel.  Shouts  of  joy  everywhere 
attended  his  progress ;  the  people  knelt  before 
him,  and  struggled  for  the  honor  of  touching  the 
sheath  of  his  sword,  or  the  hem  of  his  garment. 
The  modest  hero  disliked  this  innocent  tribute 
which  a  sincerely  grateful  and  admiring  multitude 
paid  him.  “  Is  it  not,”  said  he,  “  as  if  this  people 
would  make  a  God  of  me  ?  Our  affairs  prosper, 
indeed ;  but  1  fear  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  will 
punish  us  for  this  presumption,  and  soon  enough 
reveal  to  this  deluded  multitude  my  human  weak¬ 
ness  and  mortality  !”  How  amiable  does  Gustavus 
appear  before  us  at  this  moment,  when  about  to 
leave  us  for  ever !  Even  in  the  plenitude  of  suc¬ 
cess,  he  honors  an  avenging  Nemesis,  declines 
that  homage  which  is  due  only  to  the  Immortal, 
and  strengthens  his  title  to  our  tears,  the  nearer 
the  moment  approaches  that  is  to  call  them  forth  ! 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Duke  of  Friedland  had 
determined  to  advance  to  meet  the  king,  as  far  as 
Weissenfels,  and  even  at  the  hazard  of  a  battle, 
to  secure  his  winter-quarters  in  Saxony.  His  ind¬ 
uctivity  before  Nuremberg  bad  occasioned  a  sus¬ 
picion  that  he  was  unwilling  to  measure  his  pow¬ 
ers  with  those  of  the  Hero  of  the  North,  and  his- 
hard-earned  reputation  would  be  at  stake,  if,  a 
second  time,  he  should  decline  a  battle.  His  pre¬ 
sent  superiority  in  numbers,  though  much  less 
than  what  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  siege  of 
Nuremberg,  was  still  enough  to  give  him  hopes 
of  victory,  if  lie  could  compel  the  king  to  give 


210 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


battle  before  his  junction  with  the  Saxons.  But 
his  present  reliance  was  not  so  much  in  his  nu¬ 
merical  superiority,  as  in  the  predictions  of  his 
astrologer  Seni,  who  had  read  in  the  stars  that 
the  good  fortune  of  the  Swedish  monarch  would 
decline  in  the  month  of  November.  Besides,  be¬ 
tween  Naumburg  and  Weissenfels  there  was  also 
a  range  of  narrow  defiles,  formed  by  a  long  moun¬ 
tainous  ridge,  and  the  river  Saal,  which  ran  at 
their  foot,  along  which  the  Swedes  could  not  ad¬ 
vance  without  difficulty,  and  which  might,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  few  troops,  be  rendered  almost 
impassable.  If  attacked  there,  the  king  would 
have  no  choice  but  either  to  penetrate  with  great 
danger  through  the  defiles,  or  continence  a  labo¬ 
rious  retreat  through  Thuringia,  and  to  expose 
the  greater  part  of  his  army  to  a  march  through 
a  desert  country,  deficient  in  every  necessary  for 
their  support.  But  the  rapidity  with  which  Gus- 
tavus  Adolphus  had  taken  possession  of  Naum¬ 
burg,  disappointed  this  plan,  and  it  was  now  Wal¬ 
lenstein  himself  who  awaited  the  attack. 

But  in  this  expectation  he  was  disappointed  ; 
for  the  king,  instead  of  advancing  to  meet  him  at 
Weissenfels,  make  preparations  for  intrenching 
himself  near  Naumburg,  with  the  intention  of 
awaiting  there  the  reinforcements  which  the 
Duke  of  Luneburg  was  bringing  up.  Undecided 
whether  to  advance  against  the  king  through  the 
narrow  passes  between  Weissenfels  and  Naum¬ 
burg,  or  to  remain  inactive  in  his  camp,  he  called 
a  council  of  war,  in  order  to  have  the  opinion  of 
his  most  experienced  generals.  None  of  these 
thought  it  prudent  to  attack  the  king  in  his 
advantageous  position.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
preparation  which  the  latter  made  to  fortify  his 
camp,  plainly  showed  that  it  was  not  his  inten¬ 
tion  soon  to  abandon  it.  But  the  approach  of 
winter  rendered  it  impossible  to  prolong  the  cam¬ 
paign,  and  by  a  continued  encampment  to  exhaust 
the  strength  of  the  army,  already  so  much  in  need 
of  repose.  All  voices  were  in  favor  of  imme¬ 
diately  terminating  the  campaign-;  and,  the  more 
so,  as  the  important  city  of  Cologne  upon  the 
Rhine  was  threatened  by  the  Dutch,  while  the 
progress  of  the  enemy  in  Westphalia  and  the 
Lower  Rhine  called  for  effective  reinforcements 
in  that  quarter.  Wallenstein  yielded  to  the 
weight  of.these  arguments,  and  almost  convinced 
that,  at  this  season,  he  had  no  reason  to  appre¬ 
hend  an  attack  from  the  king,  he  put  his  troops 
into  winter-quarters,  but  so  that,  if  necessary, 
they  might  be  rapidly  assembled.  Count  Pap- 
penheim  was  dispatched,  with  great  part  of  the 
army,  to  the  assistance  of  Cologne,  with  orders  to 
take  possession  on  his  march,  of  the  fortress  of 
Moritzburg,  in  the  territory  of  Halle.  Different 
corps  took  up  their  winter-quarters  in  the  neigh¬ 
boring  towns,  to  watch,  on  all  sides,  the  motions 
of  the  enemy.  Count  Colleredo  guarded  the  cas¬ 
tle  of  Weissenfels,  and  Wallenstein  himself  en¬ 
camped  with  the  remainder  not  far  from  Merse¬ 
burg,  between  Flotzgaben  and  the  Saal,  from 
whence  the  purposed  to  march  to  Leipsic,  and  to 
cut  off  the  tcommunication  between  the  Saxons 
and  the  Swedish  army. 

Scarcely  had  Gustavus  Adolphus  been  informed 
of  Pappenkeim’s  departure,  when  suddenly  break¬ 


ing  up  his  camp  at  Naumburg,  he  hastened  with 
his  whole  force  to  attack  the  enemy,  now  weak¬ 
ened  to  one  half.  He  advanced,  by  rapid  marches, 
toward  Weissenfels,  from  whence  the  news  of  his 
arrival  quickly  reached  the  enemy,  and  greatly 
astonished  the  Duke  of  Friedland.  But  a  speedy 
resolution  was  now  necessary  ;  and  the  measures 
of  Wallenstein  were  soon  taken.  Though  he  had 
little  more  than  twelve  thousand  men  to  oppose 
to  the  twenty  thousand  of  the  enemy,  he  might 
hope  to  maintain  his  ground  until  the  return  of 
Pappenheim,  who  could  not  have  advanced  fur¬ 
ther  than  Halle,  five  miles  distant.  Messengers 
were  hastily  dispatched  to  recall  him,  while  Wal¬ 
lenstein  moved  forward  into  the  wide  plain  be¬ 
tween  the  Canal  and  Lutzen,  where  he  awaited 
the  king  in  full  order  of  battle,  and,  by  this  posi¬ 
tion,  cut  off  his  communication  with  Leipsic  and 
the  Saxon  auxiliaries. 

Three  cannon  shots,  fired  by  Count  Colleredo 
from  the  castle  of  Wissenfels,  announced  the  king’s 
approach ;  and  at  this  concerted  signal,  the  light 
troops  of  the  Duke  of  Friedland,  under  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  Croatian  General  Isolani,  moved  for¬ 
ward  to  possess  themselves  of  the  villages  lying 
upon  the  Rippach.  Their  weak  resistance  did  not 
impede  the  advance  of  the  enemy,  who  crossed  the 
Rippach,  near  the  village  of  that  name,  and  formed 
a  line  below  Lutzen,  opposite  the  Imperialists. 
The  high  road  which  goes  from  Weissenfels  to 
Leipsic,  is  intersected  between  Lutzen  and  Mark- 
ranstadt  by  the  canal  which  extends  from  Zeitz  to 
Merseberg,  and  unites  the  Elster  with  the  Saal. 
On  this  canal,  rested  the  right  wing  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists,  and  the  left  of  the  King  of  Sweden ;  but 
so  that  the  cavalry  of  both  extended  themselves 
along  the  opposite  side.  To  the  northward,  be¬ 
hind  Lutzen,  was  Wallenstein’s  right  wing,  and  to 
the  south  of  that  town  was  posted  the  left  wing  of 
the  Swedes ;  both  armies  fronted  the  high  road, 
which  ran  between  them,  and  divided  their  order 
of  battle ;  but  the  evening  before  the  battle,  Wal¬ 
lenstein,  to  the  great  disadvantage  of  his  opponent, 
had  possessed  himself  of  this  highway,  deepened 
the  trenches  which  ran  along  its  sides,  and  planted 
them  with  musketeers,  so  as  to  make  the  crossing 
of  it  both  difficult  and  dangerous.  Behind  these, 
again,  was  erected  a  battery  of  seven  large  pieces 
of  cannon,  to  support  the  fire  from  the  trenches  ; 
and  at  the  windmills,  close  behind  Lutzen,  four¬ 
teen  smaller  field  pieces  were  ranged  on  an  emi¬ 
nence,  from  which  they  could  sweep  the  greater 
part  of  the  plain.  The  infantry,  divided  into  no 
more  than  five  unwieldy  brigades,  was  drawn  up 
at  the  distance  of  three  hundred  paces,  from  the 
road,  and  the  cavalry  covered  the  flanks.  All  tho 
baggage  was  sent  to  Lutzen,  that  it  might  not  im¬ 
pede  the  movements  of  the  army ;  and  the  ammu¬ 
nition-wagons  alone  remained,  which  were  placed 
in  rear  of  the  line.  To  conceal  the  weakness  of 
the  Imperialists,  all  the  followers  of  the  camp  and 
sutlers  were  mounted,  and  posted  on  the  left  wing. 
These  arrangements  were  made  during  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  the  night ;  and  when  the  morning  dawned, 
every  thing  was  in  readiness  for  the  reception  of 
the  enemy. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  Gustavus 
Adolphus  appeared  on  the  opposite  plain,  and 


211 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


formed  his  troops  in  the  order  of  attack.  His  dis¬ 
position  was  the  same  as  that  which  had  been  so 
successful  the  year  before  at  Leipsic.  Small 
squadrons  of  hbrse  were  interspersed  among  the 
divisions  of  the  infantry,  and  troops  of  musketeers 
placed  here  and  there  among  the  cavalry.  The 
army  was  arranged  in  two  lines,  the  canal  on 
the  right  and  in  its  rear,  the  high  road  in  front, 
and  the  town  on  the  left.  In  the  centre,  the  in¬ 
fantry  was  formed,  under  the  command  of  Count 
Brahe  ;  the  cavalry  on  the  wings  ;  the  artillery  in 
front.  To  the  German  hero,  Bernard,  Duke  of 
Wiemar,  was  intrusted  the  command  of  the  Ger¬ 
man  cavalry  of  the  left  wing ;  while,  on  the  right, 
the  king  led  on  the  Swedes  in  person,  in  order  to 
excite  the  emulation  of  the  two  nations  to  a  noble 
competition.  The  second  line  was  formed  in  the 
same  manner ;  and  behind  these  was  placed  the 
reserve,  commanded  by  Henderson,  a  Scotchman. 

In  this  position  they  awaited  the  eventful  dawn 
of  morning,  to  begin  a  contest  which  long  delay, 
rather  than  the  probability  of  decisive  conse¬ 
quences,  and  the  picked  body,  rather  than  the 
number  of  combatants,  was  to  render  so  terrible 
and  remarkable.  The  strained  expectation  of 
Europe,  so  disappointed  before  Nuremberg,  was 
now  to  be  gratified  on  the  plains  of  Lutzen.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  whole  course  of  the  war,  two  such  gener¬ 
als,  so  equally  matched  in  renown  and  ability,  had 
not  before  been  pitted  against  each  other.  Never, 
as  yet,  had  daring  been  cooled  by  so  awful  a 
hazard,  or  hope  animated  by  so  glorious  a  prize. 
Europe  was  next  day  to  learn  who  was  her  great¬ 
est  general : — to-morrow,  the  leader,  who  had 
hitherto  been  invincible,  must  acknowledge  a 
victor.  This  morning  was  to  place  it  beyond  a 
doubt,  whether  the  victories  of  Gustavus  at  Leip¬ 
sic  and  on  the  Lech,  were  owing  to  his  own  military 
genius,  or  to  the  incompetency  of  his  opponent ; 
whether  the  services  of  Wallenstein  were  to  vin¬ 
dicate  the  Emperor’s  choice,  and  justify  the  high 
price  at  which  they  had  been  purchased.  The 
victory  was  as  yet  doubtful,  but  certain  were  the 
labor  and  the  bloodshed  by  which  it  must  be 
earned.  Every  private,  in  both  armies,  felt  a 
jealous  share  in  their  leader’s  reputation,  and 
under  every  corslet  beat  the  same  emotions  that 
inflamed  the  bosom  of  the  generals.  Each  army 
knew  the  enemy  to  which  it  was  to  be  opposed ; 
and  the  anxiety  which  each  in  vain  attempted  to 
repress,  was  a  convincing  proof  of  their  opponent’s 
strength. 

At  last  the  fateful  morning  dawned ;  but  an 
impenetrable  fog,  which  spread  over  the  plain, 
delayed  the  attack  till  noon.  Kneeling  in  front 
of  his  lines,  the  king  offered  up  his  devotions ; 
and  the  whole  army,  at  the  same  moment  drop¬ 
ping  on  their  knees,  burst  into  a  moving  hymn, 
accompanied  by  the  military  music.  The  king 
then  mounted  his  horse,  and  clad  only  in  a  leathern 
doublet  and  surtout,  (for  a  wound  he  had  formerly 
received  prevented  his  wearing  armor,)  rode  along 
the  ranks,  to  animate  the  courage  of  his  troops 
with  a  joyful  confidence,  which,  however,  the  fore¬ 
boding  presentiment  of  his  own  bosom  contra¬ 
dicted.  “  God  with  us  !”  was  the  war-cry  of  the 
Swedes ;  “  Jesus  Maria!”  that  of  the  Imperialists. 
About  eleven  the  fog  began  to  disperse,  and  the 


enemy  became  visible.  At  the  same  moment 
Lutzen  was  seen  in  flames,  having  been  set  on 
fire  by  command  of  the  duke,  to  prevent  his  being 
outflanked  on  that  side.  The  charge  was  now 
sounded ;  the  cavalry  rushed  upon  the  enemy,  and 
the  infantry  advanced  against  the  trenches. 

Received  by  a  tremendous  fire  of  musketry  and 
heavy  artillery,  these  intrepid  battalions  main¬ 
tained  the  attack  with  undaunted  courage,  till  tli3 
enemy’s  musketeers  abandoned  their  posts,  the 
trenches  were  passed,  the  battery  carried  and 
turned  against  the  enemy.  They  pressed  forward 
with  irresistible  impetuosity;  the  first  of  the  five 
•  imperial  brigades  was  immediately  routed,  the 
second  soon  after,  and  the  third  put  to  flight. 
But  here  the  genius  of  Wallenstein  opposed  itself 
to  their  progress.  With  the  rapidity  of  lightning 
he  was  on  the  spot  to  rally  his  discomfited  troops; 
and  his  powerful  word  was  itself  sufficient  to  stop 
the  flight  of  the  fugitives.  Supported  by  three 
regiments  of  cavalry,  the  vanquished  brigades, 
forming  anew,  faced  the  enemy,  and  pressed  vigor¬ 
ously  into  the  broken  ranks  of  the  Swedes.  A 
mnrderous  conflict  ensued.  The  nearness  of  the 
enemy  left  no  room  for  fire-arms,  the  fury  of  the 
attack  no  time  for  loading ;  man  was  matched  to 
man,  the  useless  musket  exchanged  for  the  sword 
and  pike,  and  science  gave  way  to  desperation. 
Overpowered  by  numbers,  the  wearied  Swedes  at 
last  retire  beyond  the  trenches ;  and  the  cap¬ 
tured  battery  is  again  lost  by  the  retreat.  A 
thousand  mangled  bodies  already  strewed  the 
plain,  and  as  yet  not  a  single  step  of  ground  had 
been  won. 

In  the  mean  time  the  king’s  right  wing,  led  by 
himself,  had  fallen  upon  the  enemy’s  left.  The 
first  impetuous  shock  of  the  heavy  Finland  cui¬ 
rassiers  dispersed  the  lightly-mounted  Poles  and 
Croats,  who  were  posted  here,  and  their  disorderly 
flight  spread  terror  and  confusion  among  the  rest 
of  the  cavalry.  At  this  moment  notice  was  brought 
the  king,  that  his  infantry  were  retreating  over  the 
trenches,  and  also  that  his  left  wing,  exposed  to  a 
severe  fire  from  the  enemy’s  cannon  posted  at  the 
windmills,  was  beginning  to  give  way.  With 
rapid  decision  he  committed  to  General  Horn  the 
pursuit  of  the  enemy’s  left,  while  he  flew,  at  the 
head  of  the  regiment  of  Steinbock,  to  repair  the 
disorder  of  his  right  wing.  His  noble  charger 
bore  him  with  the  velocity  of  lightning  across  the 
trenches,  but  the  squadrons  that  followed  could 
not  come  on  with  the  same  speed,  and  only  a  few 
horsemen,  among  whom  was  Francis  Albert, 
Duke  of  Saxe  Lauenburg,  were  able  to  keep  up 
with  the  king.  He  rode  directly  to  the  place 
where  his  infantry  were  most  closely  pressed,  and 
while  he  was  reconnoitring  the  enemy’s  line  for 
an  exposed  point  of  attack,  the  shortness  of  his 
sight  unfortunately  led  him  too  close  to  their 
ranks.  An  imperial  Gefreyter*,  remarking  that 
every  one  respectfully  made  way  for  him  as  he 
rode  along,  immediately  ordered  a  musketeer  to 
take  aim  at  him.  “  Fire  at  him  yonder,”  said  he, 
“  that  must  be  a  man  of  consequence.”  The  sol¬ 
dier  fired,  and  the  king’s  left  arm  was  shattered. 

*  Gefreyter,  a  person  exempt  from  watching  duty, 
nearly  corresponding  to  the  corporal. 


212 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


At  that  moment  his  squadron  came  hurrying  up, 
and  a  confused  cry  of  “the  king  bleeds  !  the  king 
is  shot!”  spread  terror  and  consternation  through 
all  the  ranks.  “  It  is  nothing — follow  me,”  cried 
the  king,  collecting  his  whole  strength  ;  but  over¬ 
come  by  pain,  and  nearly  fainting,  he  requested 
the  Duke  of  Lauenburg,  in  French,  to  lead  him 
unobserved  out  of  the  tumult.  While  the  duke 
proceeded  toward  the  right  wing  with  the  king, 
making  a  long  circuit  to  keep  this  discouraging 
sight  from  the  disordered  infantry,  his  majesty  re¬ 
ceived  a  second  shot  through  the  back,  which  de¬ 
prived  him  of  his  remaining  strength,  “Brother,”  ! 
said  he,  with  a  dying  voice,  “I  have/enough!  look 
only  to  your  own  life.”  At  the  same  moment  he 
fell  from  his  horse  pierced  by  several  more  shots ; 
and  abandoned  by  all  his  attendants,  he  breathed 
his  last  amidst  the  plundering  hands  of  the  Croats. 
His  charger,  flying  without  its  rider,  and  covered 
with  blood,  soon  made  known  to  the  Swedish 
cavalry  the  fall  of  their  king.  They  rushed  madly 
forward  to  rescue  his  sacred  remains  from  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  A  murderous  conflict  en¬ 
sued  over  the  body,  till  his  mangled  remains  were 
buried  beneath  a  heap  of  slain. 

The  mournful  tidings  soon  ran  through  the 
Swedish  army  ;  but  instead  of  destroying  the 
courage  of  these  brave  troops,  it  but  excited  it 
into  a  new,  a  wild,  and  consuming  flame.  Life 
had  lessened  in  value,  now  that  the  most  sacred 
life  of  all  was  gone ;  death  had  no  terrors  for  the 
lowly,  since  the  anointed  head  was  not  spared. 
With  the  fury  of  lions  the  Upland,  SmUland, 
Finland,  East  and  West  Gothland  regiments 
rushed  a  second  time  upon  the  left  wing  of  the 
enemy,  which,  already  making  but  feeble  resist¬ 
ance  to  General  Horn,  was  now  entirely  beaten 
from  the  field.  Bernard,  Duke  of  Saxe-Weimar, 
gave  to  the  bereaved  Swedes  a  noble  leader  in  his 
own  person  ;  and  the  spirit  of  Gustavus  led  his 
victorious  squadrons  anew.  The  left  wing  quickly 
formed  again,  and  vigorously  pressed  the  right  of 
the  Imperialists.  The  artillery  at  the  windmills, 
which  had  maintained  so  murderous  a  fire  upon 
the  Swedes,  was  captured  and  turned  against  the 
enemy.  The  centre,  also,  of  the  Swedish  infantry, 
commanded  by  the  duke  and  Knyphausen,  ad¬ 
vanced  a  second  time  against  the  trenches,  which 
they  successfully  passed,  and  retook  the  battery 
of  seven  cannons.  The  attack  was  now  renewed 
with  redoubled  fury  upon  the  heavy  battalions  of 
the  enemy’s  centre ;  their  resistance  became 
gradually  less,  and  chance  conspired  with  Swedish 
valor  to  complete  the  defeat.  The  imperial  pow¬ 
der-wagons  took  fire,  and  with  a  tremendous  ex¬ 
plosion,  grenades  and  bombs  filled  the  air.  The 
enemy,  now  in  confusion,  thought  they  were  at¬ 
tacked  in  the  rear,  while  the  Swedish  brigades 
pressed  them  in  front.  Their  courage  began  to 
fail  them.  Their  left  wing  was  already  beaten, 
their  right  wavering,  and  their  artillery  in  the 
enemy’s  hands.  The  battle  seemed  to  be  almost 
decided  ;  another  moment  would  decide  the  fate 
of  the  day,  when  Pappenheim  appeared  on  the 
field,  with  his  cuirassiers  and  dragoons ;  all  the 
advantages  already  gained  were  lo&t,  and  the 
battle  was  to  be  fought  anew. 

The  order  which  recalled  that  ge^val  to  Lut- 


zen  had  reached  him  in  Halle,  while  his  troops 
were  still  plundering  the  town.  It  was  impossible 
to  collect  the  scattered  infantry  with  that  rapidity, 
which  the  urgency  of  the  order,  and  Pappenheim’s 
impatience  required.  Without  waiting  for  it, 
therefore,  he  ordered  eight  regiments  of  cavalry  to 
mount ;  and  at-  their  head  he  galloped  at  full 
speed  for  Lutzen,  to  share  in  the  battle.  He  ar¬ 
rived  in  time  to  witness  the  flight  of  the  imperial 
right  wing,  which  Gustavus  Horn  was  driving 
from  the  field,  and  to  be  at  first  involved  in  their 
rout.  But  with  rapid  presence  of  mind  he 
rallied  the  flying  troops,  and  led  them  once  more 
against  the  enemy.  Carried  away  by  his  wild 
bravery,  and  impatient  to  encounter  the  king,  who, 
he  supposed,  was  at  the  head  of  this  wing,  he 
burst  furiously  upon  the  Swedish  ranks,  which, 
exhausted  by  victory,  and  inferior  in  numbers, 
were,  after  a  noble  resistance,  overpowered  by 
this  fresh  body  of  enemies.  Pappenheim’s  unex¬ 
pected  appearance  revived  the  drooping  courage 
of  the  Imperialists,  and  the  Duke  of  Friedland 
quickly  availed  himself  of  the  favorable  moment 
to  re-form  his  line.  The  closely  serried  battalions 
of  the  Swedes  were,  after  a  tremendous  conflict, 
again  driven  across  the  trenches  ;  and  the  battery, 
which  had  been  twice  lost,  again  rescued  from 
their  hands.  The  whole  yellow  regiment,  the 
finest  of  all  that  distinguished  themselves  in  this 
dreadful  day,  lay  dead  on  the  field,  covering  the 
ground  in  almost  the  same  excellent  order  which, 
when  alive,  they  maintained  with  such  unyielding 
courage.  The  same  fate  befell  another  regiment 
of  Blues,  which  Count  Piccolomini  attacked  with 
the  imperial  cavalry,  and  cut  down  after  a  despe¬ 
rate  contest.  Seven  times  did  this  intrepid  gene¬ 
ral  renew  the  attack ;  seven  horses  were  shot 
under  him,  and  he  himself  was  pierced  with  six 
musket  balls  ;  yet  he  would  not  leave  the  field, 
until  he  was  carried  along  in  the  general  rout  of 
the  whole  army.  Wallenstein  himself  was  seen 
riding  through  his  ranks  with  cool  intrepidity, 
amidst  a  shower  of  balls,  assisting  the  distressed, 
encouraging  the  valiant  with  praise,  and  the 
wavering  by  his  fearful  glance.  Around  and  close 
by  him,  his  men  were  falling  thick,  and  his  own 
mantle  was  perforated  by  several  shots.  But 
avenging  destiny  this  day  protected  that  breast, 
for  which  another  weapon  was  reserved  ;  on  the 
same  field  where  the  noble  Gustavus  expired,  W al- 
lenstein  was  not  allowed  to  terminate  his  guilty 
career. 

Less  fortunate  was  Pappenheim,  the  Telamon 
of  the  army,  the  bravest  soldier  of  Austria  and 
the  church.  An  ardent  desire  to  encounter  the 
king  in  person,  carried  this  daring  leader  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fight,  where  he  thought  his  noble 
opponent  was  most  surely  to  be  met.  Gustavus 
had  also  expressed  a  wish  to  meet  his  brave  anta¬ 
gonist,  but  these  hostile  wishes  remained  ungra¬ 
tified ;  death  first  brought  together  these  two 
great  heroes.  Two  musket-balls  pierced  the  breast 
of  Pappenheim;  and  his  men  forcibly  carried  him 
from  the  field.  While  they  were  conveying  him 
to  the  rear,  a  murmur  reached  him,  that  he  whom 
he  had  sought,  lay  dead  upon  the  plain.  When 
the  truth  of  the  report  was  confirmed  to  him,  his 
look  became  brighter,  his  dying  eye  sparkled  with 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


213 


a  last  gleam  of  joy.  “  Tell  the  Duke  of  Fried- 
laud,”  said  he,  “  that  I  lie  without  hope  of  life, 
but  that  I  die  happy,  since  I  know  that  the  im¬ 
placable  enemy  of  my  religion  has  fallen  on  the 
same  day.” 

With  Fappenheim,  the  good  fortune  of  the  Im¬ 
perialists  departed.  The  cavalry  of  the  right 
wing,  already  beaten,  and  only  rallied  by  his  ex¬ 
ertions,  no  sooner  missed  their  victorious  leader, 
than  they  gave  up  every  thing  for  lost,  and  aban- 
draed  the  field  of  battle  in  spiritless  despair. 
The  right  wing  fell  into  the  same  confusion,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  regiments,  which  the 
bravery  of  their  colonels  Gotz,  Terzky,  Colleredo, 
and  Piccolomini,  compelled  to  keep  their  ground. 
The  Swedish  infantry,  with  prompt  determination, 
profited  by  the  enemy’s  confusion.  To  fill  up  the 
gaps  which  death  had  made  in  the  front  line,  they 
formed  both  lines  into  one,  and  with  it  made  the 
final  and  decisive  charge.  A  third  time  they 
crossed  the  trenches,  and  a  third  time  they  cap¬ 
tured  the  battery.  The  sun  was  setting  when  the 
two  lines  closed.  The  strife  grew  hotter  as  it 
drew  to  an  end  ;  the  last  efforts  of  strength  were 
mutually  exerted,  and  skill  and  courage  did  their 
utmost  to  repair  in  these  precious  moments  the 
fortune  of  the  day.  It  was  in  vain;  despair  en¬ 
dows  every  one  with  superhuman  strength  :  no 
one  can  conquer,  no  one  will  give  way.  The  art 
of  war  seemed  to  exhaust  its  powers  on  one  side, 
only  to  unfold  some  new  and  untried  masterpiece 
of  skill  on  the  other.  Night  and  darkness  at  last 
put  an  end  to  the  fight,  before  the  fury  of  the 
combatants  was  exhausted ;  and  the  contest  only 
ceased,  when  no  one  could  any  longer  find  an  an¬ 
tagonist.  Both  armies  separated,  as  if  by  tacit 
agreement;  the  trumpets  sounded,  and  each  party 
claiming  the  victory,  quitted  the  field. 

The  artillery  on  both  sides,  as  the  horses  could 
not  be  found,  remained  all  night  upon  the  field, 
at  once  the  reward  and  the  evidence  of  victory  to 
him  wrho  should  hold  it.  Wallenstein,  in  his 
haste  to  leave  Leipsic  and  Saxony,  forgot  to  re¬ 
move  his  part.  Not  long  after  the  battle  was 
ended,  Pappenheim’s  infantry,  who  had  been  un¬ 
able  to  follow  the  rapid  movements  of  their  gene¬ 
ral,  and  who  amounted  to  six  regiments,  marched 
on  the  field,  but  the  work  was  done.  A  few  hours 
earlier,  so  considerable  a  reinforcement  w’ould 
perhaps  have  decided  the  day  in  favor  of  the  Im¬ 
perialists  ;  and,  even  now,  by  remaining  on  the 
field,  they  might  have  saved  the  duke’s  artillery, 
and  made  a  prize  of  that  of  the  Swedes.  But  they 
had  received  no  orders  to  act;  and,  uncertain  as 
to  the  issue  of  the  battle,  they  retired  to  Leipsic, 
where  they  hoped  to  join  the  main  body. 

The  Duke  of  Friedland  had  retreated  thither, 
and  was  followed  on  the  morrow  by  the  scattered 
remains  of  his  army,  without  artillery,  without 
colors,  and  almost  without  arms.  The  Duke  of 
Weimar,  it  appears,  after  the  toils  of  this  bloody 
day,  allowed  the  Swedish  army  some  repose,  be¬ 
tween  Lutzen  and  Weissenfels,  near  enough  to 
the  field  of  battle  to  oppose  any  attempt  the 
enemy  might  make  to  recover  it.  Of  the  two 
armies,  more  than  9,000  men  lay  dead;  a  still 
greater  number  were  wounded,  and  among  the 
Imperialists,  scarcely  a  man  escaped  from  the 


field  uninjured.  The  entire  plain  from  Lutzen  to 
the  Canal  was  strewed  with  the  wounded,  the 
dying,  and  the  dead.  Many  of  the  principal  no¬ 
bility  had  fallen  on  both  sides.  Even  the  Abbot 
of  Fulda,  who  had  mingled  in  the  combat  as  a 
spectator,  paid  for  his  curiosity  and  his  ill-timed 
zeal  with  his  life.  History  says  nothing  of  pr: 
soners ;  a  further  proof  of  the  animosity  of  the 
combatants,  who  neither  gave  nor  took  quarter. 

Pappenheim  died  the  next  day  of  his  wounds  at 
Leipsic  ;  an  irreparable  loss  to  the  imperial  army, 
which  this  brave  warrior  had  so  often  led  on  to 
victory.  The  battle  of  Prague,  where,  together 
with  Wallenstin,  he  was  present  as  colonel,  was 
the  beginning  of  his  heroic  career.  Dangerously 
wounded,  with  a  few  troops,  he  made  an  impetu¬ 
ous  attack  on  a  regiment  of  the  enemy,  and  lay 
for  several  hours  mixed  with  the  dead  upon  the 
field,  beneath  the  weight  of  his  horse,  till  he  was 
discovered  by  some  of  his  own  men  in  plundering. 
With  a  small  force  he  defeated,  in  three  different 
engagements,  the  rebels  in  Upper  Austria,  though 
40,000  strong.  At  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  he  for  a 
long  time  delayed  the  defeat  of  Tilly  by  his 
bravery,  and  led  the  arms  of  the  Emperor  on  the 
Elbe  and  the  Rhine  to  victory.  The  wild  impetu¬ 
ous  fire  of  his  temperament,  which  no  danger, 
however  apparent,  could  cool,  or  impossibilities 
check,  made  him  the  most  powerful  arm  of  the 
imperial  force,  but  unfitted  him  from  acting  at  its 
head.  The  battle  at  Leipsic,  if  Tilly  may  be  be¬ 
lieved,  was  lost  through  his  rash  ardor.  At  the 
destruction  of  Magdeburg,  his  hands  were  deeply 
steeped  in  blood  ;  war  rendered  savage  and  fe¬ 
rocious  his  disposition,  which  had  been  cultivated 
by  youthful  studies  and  various  travels.  On  his 
forehead,  two  red  streaks,  like  swords,  were  per¬ 
ceptible,  with  which  nature  had  marked  him  at  his 
very  birth.  Even  in  his  later  years,  these  became 
visible,  as  often  as  his  blood  was  stirred  by  pas¬ 
sion  ;  and  superstition  easily  persuaded  itself,  that 
the  future  destiny  of  the  man  was  thus  impressed 
upon  the  forehead  of  the  child.  As  a  faithful 
servant  of  the  House  of  Austria,  he  had  the 
strongest  claims  on  the  gratitude  of  both  its  lines, 
but  he  did  not  survive  to  enjoy  the  most  brilliant 
proof  of  their  regard.  A  messenger  was  already 
on  his  way  from  Madrid,  bearing  to  him  the  order 
of  the  Golden  Fleece,  when  death  overtook  him 
at  Leipsic. 

Though  Te  Deum,  in  all  Spanish  and  Austrian 
lands,  was  sung  in  honor  of  a  victory,  Wallenstein 
himself,  by  the  haste  with  which  he  quitted  Leip- 
sic,  and  soon  after  all  Saxony,  and  by  renouncing 
his  original  design  of  fixing  there  his  winter  quar¬ 
ters,  openly  confessed  his  defeat.  It  is  true  he 
made  one  more  feeble  attempt  to  dispute,  even  in 
his  flight,  the  honor  of  victory,  by  sending  out  his 
Croats  next  morning  to  the  field  ;  but  the  sight 
of  the  Swedish  army  drawn  up  in  order  of  battle, 
immediately  dispersed  these  flying  bands,  and  Duke 
Bernard,  by  keeping  possession  of  the  field,  and 
soon  after  by  the  capture  of  Leipsic,  maintained 
indisputably  his  claim  to  the  title  of  victor. 

But  it  was  a  dear  conquest,  a  dearer  triumph  ! 
It  was  not  till  the  fury  of  the  contest  was  over, 
i  that  the  full  weight  of  the  loss  sustained  was  felt, 
!  and  the  shout  of  triumph  died  away  into  a  silent, 


214 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR 


gloomy  despair.  He,  who  had  led  them  to  the 
charge,  returned  not  with  them  :  there  he  lies 
upon  the  field  which  he  had  won,  mingled  with  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  common  crowd.  After  a  long 
and  almost  fruitless  search,  the  corpse  of  the  king 
was  discovered,  not  far  from  the  great  stone, 
which,  for  a  hundred  years  before,  had  stood  be¬ 
tween  Lutzen  and  the  Canal,  and  which,  from 
the  memorable  disaster  of  that  day,  still  bears  the 
name  of  the  Stone  of  the  Swede.  Covered  with 
blood  and  wounds,  so  as  scarcely  to  be  recognized, 
trampled  beneath  the  horses’  hoofs,  stripped  by 
the  rude  hands  of  plunderers  of  its  ornaments  and 
clothes,  his  body  was  drawn  from  beneath  a  heap 
of  dead,  conveyed  to  Weissenfels,  and  there  de¬ 
livered  up  to  the  lamentations  of  his  soldiers,  and 
the  last  embraces  of  his  queen.  The  first  tribute 
had  been  paid  to  revenge,  and  blood  had  atoned 
for  the  blood  of  the  monarch  ;  but  now  affection 
assumes  its  rights,  and  tears  of  grief  must  flow  for 
the  man.  The  universal  sorrow  absorbs  all  indi¬ 
vidual  woes.  The  generals,  still  stupefied  by  the 
unexpected  blow,  stood  speechless  and  motionless 
around  his  bier,  and  no  one  trusted  himself  enough 
to  contemplate  the  full  extent  of  their  loss. 

The  Emperor,  we  are  told  by  Khevenhuller, 
showed  symptoms  of  deep,  and  apparently  sincere 
feeling,  at  the  sight  of  the  king’s  doublet  stained 
with  blood,  which  had  been  stripped  from  him 
during  the  battle,  and  carried  to  Vienna.  “Wil¬ 
lingly,”  said  he,  “  would  I  have  granted  to  the  un¬ 
fortunate  prince  a  longer  life,  and  a  safe  return  to 
his  kingdom,  had  Germany  been  at  peace.”  But 
when  a  trait,  which  is  nothing  more  than  a  proof 
of  a  yet  lingering  humanity,  and  which  a  mere  re¬ 
gard  to  appearances  and  even  self-love,  would  have 
extorted  from  the  most  insensible,  and  the  absence 
of  which  could  exist  only  in  the  most  inhuman 
heart,  has,  by  a  Roman  Catholic  writer  of  modern 
times  and  acknowledged  merit,  been  made  the 
subject  of  the  highest  eulogium,  and  compared 
with  the  magnanimous  tears  of  Alexander  for  the 
fall  of  Darius,  it  excites  our  distrust  of  the  other 
virtues  of  the  writer’s  hero,  and,  what  is  still  worse, 
of  his  own  ideas  of  moral  dignity.  But  even  such 
praise,  whatever  its  amount,  is  much  for  one, 
whose  memory  his  biographer  has  to  clear  from 
the  suspicion  of  being  privy  to  the  assassination 
of  a  king. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  expected,  that  the  strong 
leaning  of  mankind  to  the  marvelous,  would 
leave  to  the  common  course  of  nature  the  glory 
of  ending  the  career  of  Gustavus  Adolphus. 
The  death  of  so  formidable  a  rival  was  too  im¬ 
portant  an  event  for  the  Emperor,  not  to  excite 
in  his  bitter  opponent  a  ready  suspicion,  that 
what  was  so  much  to  his  interests,  was  also  the 
result  of  his  instigation.  For  the  execution,  how¬ 
ever,  of  this  dark  deed,  the  Emperor  would  re¬ 
quire  the  aid  of  a  foreign  arm,  and  this  it  was 
generally  believed  he  had  found  in  Francis  Albert, 
Duke  of  Saxe  Lauenburg.  The  rank  of  the 
latter  permitted  him  a  free  access  to  the  king’s 
person,  while  it  at  the  same  time  seemed  to  place 
him  above  the  suspicion  of  so  foul  a  deed.  This 
prince,  however,  was  in  fact  not  incapable  of  this 
atrocity,  and  he  had  moreover  sufficient  motives 
for  the  commission. 


Francis  Albert,  the  youngest  of  four  sons  of 
Francis  II.,  Duke  of  Lauenburg,  and  related  by 
the  mother’s  side  to  the  race  of  Vasa,  had,  in  his 
early  years,  found  a  most  friendly  reception  at  the 
Swedish  court.  Some  offense  which  he  had  com¬ 
mitted  against  Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  the  queen’s 
chamber,  was,  it  is  said,  repaid  by  this  fiery  youth 
with  a  box  on  the  ear ;  which,  though  imme¬ 
diately  repented  of  and  amply  apologized  for,  laid 
the  foundation  of  an  irreconcilable  hate  in  the 
vindictive  heart  of  the  duke.  Francis  Albert 
subsequently  entered  the  imperial  service,  where 
he  rose  to  the  command  of  a  regiment,  and  formed 
a  close  intimacy  with  Wallenstein,  and  conde¬ 
scended  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  secret  negotia¬ 
tion  with  the  Saxon  court,  which  did  little  honor 
to  his  rank.  Without  any  sufficient  cause  being 
assigned,  he  suddenly  quitted  the  Austrian  ser¬ 
vice,  and  appeared  in  the  king’s  camp  at  Nurem¬ 
berg,  to  offer  his  services  as  a  volunteer.  By  his 
show  of  zeal  for  the  Protestant  cause,  and  pre¬ 
possessing  and  flattering  deportment,  he  gained 
the  heart  of  the  king,  who,  warned  in  vain  by 
Oxenstiern,  continued  to  lavish  his  favor  and 
friendship  on  this  suspicious  new  comer.  The 
battle  of  Lutzen  soon  followed,  in  which  Francis 
Albert,  like  an  evil  genius,kept  close  to  the  king’s 
side  and  did  not  leave  him  till  he  fell.  He  owed, 
it  was  thought,  his  own  safety  amidst  the  lire  of 
the  enemy,  to  a  green  sash  which  he  wore,  the 
color  of  the  Imperialists.  Fie  was  at  any  rate  the 
first  to  convey  to  his  friend  Wallenstein  the  intel¬ 
ligence  of  the  king’s  death.  After  the  battle,  he 
exchanged  the  Swedish  service  for  the  Saxon ; 
and,  after  the  murder  of  Wallenstein,  being 
charged  with  being  an  accomplice  of  that  general, 
he  only  escaped  the  sword  of  justice  by  aojuring 
his  faith.  His  last  appearance  in  life  was  as  com¬ 
mander  of  an  imperial  army  in  Silesia,  where  he 
died  of  the  wounds  he  had  received  Defore 
Schweidnitz.  It  requires  some  effort  to  believe 
in  the  innocence  of  a  man,  who  had  run  through 
a  career  like  this,  of  the  act  charged  against  him  ; 
but,  however  great  may  be  the  moral  and  physical 
possibility  of  his  committing  such  a  crime,  it  must 
still  be  allowed  that  there  are  no  certain  grounds 
for  imputing  it  to  him.  Gustavus  Adolphus,  it 
is  well  known,  exposed  himself  to  danger,  like  the 
meanest  soldier  in  his  army,  and  where  thousands 
fell,  he,  too,  might  naturally  meet  his  death.  How 
it  reached  him,  remains  indeed  buried  in  mystery; 
but  here,  more  than  any  where,  does  the  maxim 
apply,  that  where  the  ordinary  course  of  ihings 
is  fully  sufficient  to  account  for  the  fact,  the 
honor  of  human  nature  ought  not  to  be  stained 
by  any  suspicion  of  moral  atrocity. 

But  by  whatever  hand  he  fell,  his  extraordinary 
destiny  must  appear  a  great  interposition  of  Pro¬ 
vidence.  History,  too  often  confined  to  the  un¬ 
grateful  task  of  analyzing  the  uniform  play  of 
human  passions,  is  occasionally  rewarded  by  the 
appearance  of  events,  which  strike  like  a  hand 
from  heaven,  into  the  nicely  adjusted  machinery 
of  human  plans,  and  carry  the  contemplative  mind 
to  a  higher  order  of  things.  Of  this  kind,  is  the 
sudden  retirement  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  from 
the  scene  ; — stopping  for  a  time  the  whole  move¬ 
ment  of  the  political  machine,  and  disappointing 


imsi 


mm  '-mni  Wm '  m  i  l 

j; 

r  ywm 

m  WMmk  m 

§§|h  \ 

mm  mmmm  urn'SHi  &  i 

n 

2— G.  p.  258. 


2— E.  p.  214. 


215 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS  WAR. 


nil  the  ;Alculations  of  human  prudence.  Yester¬ 
day,  the  very  soul,  the  great  and  animating  prin¬ 
ciple  of  his  own  creation  ;  to-day,  struck  unpiti- 
ably  to  the  ground  in  the  very  midst  of  his  eagle 
flight;  untimely  torn  from  a  whole  world  of  great 
designs,  and  from  the  ripening  harvest  of  his  ex¬ 
pectations,  he  left  his  bereaved  party  disconsolate  ; 
and  the  proud  edifice  of  his  past  greatness  sunk 
iutc  ruins.  The  Protestant  party  had  identified 
its  hopes  with  its  invincible  leader,  and  scarcely 
can  it  now  separate  them  from  him  ;  with  him, 
they  now  fear  all  good  fortune  is  buried.  But  it 
was  no  longer  the  benefactor  of  Germany  who 
fell  at  Lutzen  :  the  beneficent  part  of  his  career, 
Gustavus  Adolphus  had  already  terminated  ;  and 
now  the  greatest  service  which  he  could  render  to 
the  liberties  of  Germany  was — to  die.  The  all- 
engrossing  power  of  an  individual  was  at  an  end, 
but  many  came  forward  to  essay  their  strength  ; 
the  equivocal  assistance  of  an  over-powerful  pro¬ 
tector,  gave  place  to  a  more  noble  self-exertion 
on  the  part  of  the  Estates  ;  and  those  who  were 
formerly  the  mere  instruments  of  his  aggrandize¬ 
ment,  now  began  to  work  for  themselves.  They 
now  looked  to  their  own  exertions  for  the  emanci¬ 
pation,  which  could  not  be  received  without 
danger  from  the  hand  of  the  mighty  ;  and  the 
Swedish  power,  now  incapable  of  sinking  into  the 
oppressor,  was  henceforth  restricted  to  the  more 
modest  part  of  an  ally. 

The  ambition  of  the  Swedish  monarch  aspired 
unquestionably  to  establish  a  power  within  Ger¬ 
many,  and  to  attain  a  firm  footing  in  the  centre 
of  the  empire,  which  was  inconsistent  with  the 
liberties  of  the  Estates.  His  aim  was  the  impe¬ 
rial  crown  ;  and  this  dignity,  supported  by  his 
power,  and  maintained  by  his  energy  and  activity, 
would  in  his  hands  be  liable  to  more  abuse  than 
had  ever  been  feared  from  the  House  of  Austria. 
Born  in  a  foreign  country,  educated  in  the  maxims 
of  arbitrary  power,  and  by  principles  and  enthu¬ 
siasm  a  determined  enemy  to  Popery,  he  was  ill 
qualified  to  maintain  inviolate  the  constitution  of 
the  German  States,  or  to  respect  their  liberties. 
The  coercive  homage  which  Augsburg,  with  many 
other  cities,  was  forced  to  pay  to  the  Swedish 
crown,  bespoke  the  conqueror,  rather  than  the 
protector  of  the  empire  ;  and  this  town,  prouder 
of  the  title  of  a  royal  city,  than  of  the  higher 
dignity  of  the  freedom  of  the  empire,  flattered 
itself  with  the  anticipation  of  becoming  the  capital 
of  his  future  kingdom.  His  ill-disguised  attempts 
upon  the  Electorate  of  Mentz,  which  he  first  in¬ 
tended  to  bestow  upon  the  Elector  of  Branden¬ 
burg,  as  the  dower  of  his  daughter  Christina,  and 
afterward  destined  for  his  chancellor  and  friend 
Oxenstiern,  evinced  plainly  what  liberties  he  was 
disposed  to  take  with  the  constitution  of  the  em¬ 
pire.  His  allies,  the  Protestaut  princes,  had 
claims  on  his  gratitude,  which  could  be  satisfied 
only  at  the  expense  of  their  Roman  Catholic 
neighbors,  and  particularly  of  the  immediate  Ec¬ 
clesiastical  Chapters ;  and  it  seems  probable  a 
plan  was  early  formed  for  dividing  the  conquered 
rovinces,  (after  the  precedent  of  the  barbarian 
ordes  who  overran  the  German  empire,)  as  a 
common  spoil,  among  the  German  and  Swedish 
confederates.  In  his  treatment  of  the  Elector 


Palatine,  he  entirely  belied  the  magnanimity  of 
the  hero,  and  forgot  the  sacred  character  of  a 
protector.  The  Palatinate  was  in  his  hands,  and 
the  obligations  both  of  justice  and  honor  de¬ 
manded  its  full  and  immediate  restoration  to  the 
legitimate  sovereign.  But,  by  a  subtilty  unwor¬ 
thy  of  a  great  mind,  and  disgraceful  to  the  hon¬ 
orable  title  of  protector  to  the  oppressed,  he 
eluded  that  obligation.  He  treated  the  Palati¬ 
nate  as  a  conquest  wrested  from  the  enemy,  and 
thought  that  this  circumstance  gave  him  a  right 
to  deal  with  it  as  he  pleased.  He  surrendered  it 
to  the  Elector  as  a  favor,  not  as  a  debt ;  and  that, 
too,  as  a  Swedish  fief,  fettered  by  conditions 
which  diminished  half  its  value,  and  degraded 
this  unfortunate  prince  into  a  humble  vassal  of 
Sweden.  One  of  these  conditions  obliged  the 
Elector,  after  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  to  fur¬ 
nish,  along  with  the  other  princes,  his  contribu¬ 
tion  toward  the  maintenance  of  the  Swedish  army, 
a  condition  which  plainly  indicates  the  fate  which, 
in  the  event  of  the  ultimate  success  of  the  king, 
awaited  Germany.  His  sudden  disappearance 
secured  the  liberties  of  Germany,  and  saved  his 
reputation,  while  it  probably  spared  him  the  mor¬ 
tification  of  seeing  his  own  allies  in  arms  against 
him,  and  all  the  fruits  of  his  victories  torn  from 
him  by  a  disadvantageous  peace.  Saxony  was 
already  disposed  to  abandon  him,  Denmark 
viewed  his  success  with  alarm  and  jealousy  ;  and 
even  France,  the  firmest  and  most  potent  of  his 
allies,  terrified  at  the  rapid  growth  of  his  power, 
and  the  imperious  tone  which  he  assumed,  looked 
around  at  the  very  moment  he  past  the  Lech,  for 
foreign  alliances,  in  order  to  check  the  progress 
of  the  Goths,  and  restore  to  Europe  the  balance 
of  power. 


BOOK  IY. 

The  weak  bond  of  union  by  which  Gustavus 
Adolphus  continued  to  hold  together  the  Protest¬ 
ant  members  of  the  Empire,  was  dissolved  by  his 
death  ;  the  allies  were  now  again  at  liberty,  and 
their  alliance,  to  last,  must  be  formed  anew.  By 
the  former  event,  if  unremedied,  they  would  lose 
all  the  advantages  they  had  gained  at  the  cost  of 
so  much  bloodshed,  and  expose  themselves  to  the 
inevitable  danger  of  becoming  one  after  the  other 
the  prey  of  an  enemy,  whom,  by  their  union  alone, 
they  had  been  able  to  oppose  and  to  master. 
Neither  Sweden,  nor  any  of  the  states  of  the  em¬ 
pire,  was  singly  a  match  with  the  Emperor  and 
the  League;  and,  by  seeking  a  peace  under  the 
present  state  of  things,  they  would  necessarily  be 
obliged  to  receive  laws  from  the  enemy.  Union,' 
was,  therefore,  equally  indispensable,  either  for 
concluding  a  peace  or  continuing  the  war.  But  a 
peace,  sought  under  the  present  circumstances, 
could  not  fail  to  be  disadvantageous  to  the  allied 
powers.  With  the  death  of  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
the  enemy  had  formed  new  hopes  ;  and  however 
gloomy  might  be  the  situation  of  his  affairs  after  the 
battle  of  Lutzen,  still  the  death  of  his  dreaded 
rival  was  an  event  too  disastrous  to  the  allies, 
and  too  favorable  for  the  Emperor,  not  to  justify 
him  in  entertaining  the  most  brilliant  expectations, 


216 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


and  not  to  encourage  him  to  the  prosecution  of 
the  war.  Its  inevitable  consequence,  for  the  mo¬ 
ment  at  least,  must  be  want  of  union  among  the 
allies,  and  what  might  not  the  Emperor  and  the 
League  gain  from  such  a  division  of  their  ene¬ 
mies  ?  He  was  not  likely  to  sacrifice  such  pros¬ 
pects,  as  the  present  turn  of  affairs  held  out  to 
him,  for  any  peace,  not  highly  beneficial  to  him¬ 
self  ;  and  such  a  peace  the  allies  would  not  be  dis¬ 
posed  to  accept.  They  naturally  determined, 
therefore,  to  continue  the  war,  and  for  this  pur¬ 
pose,  the  maintenance  of  the  existing  union  was 
acknowledged  to  be  indispensable. 

But  how  was  this  union  to  be  renewed?  and 
whence  were  to  be  derived  the  necessary  means 
for  continuing  the  war  ?  It  was  not  the  power  of 
Sweden,  but  the  talents  and  personal  influence  of  its 
late  king,  which  had  given  him  so  overwhelming  an 
influence  in  Germany,  so  great  a  command  over 
the  minds  of  men  ;  and  even  he  had  innumerable 
difficulties  to  overcome,  before  he  could  establish 
among  the  states  even  a  weak  and  wavering  alli¬ 
ance.  With  his  death  vanished  all  which  his  per¬ 
sonal  qualities  alone  had  rendered  practicable  ; 
and  the  mutual  obligations  of  the  states  seemed  to 
cease  with  the  hopes  on  which  it  had  been  founded. 
Several  impatiently  threw  off’  the  yoke  which  had 
always  been  irksome  ;  others  hastened  to  seize 
the  helm  which  they  had  unwillingly  seen  in  the 
hands  of  Gustavus,  but  which,  during  his  lifetime, 
they  did  not  dare  to  dispute  with  him.  Some 
were  tempted,  by  the  seductive  promises  of  the 
Emperor,  to  abandon  the  alliance  ;  others,  op¬ 
pressed  by  the  heavy  burdens  of  a  fourteen  years’ 
war,  longed  for  the  repose  of  peace,  upon  any  con¬ 
ditions,  however  ruinous.  The  generals  of  the 
army,  partly  German  princes,  acknowledged  no 
common  head,  and  no  one  would  stoop  to  receive 
orders  from  another.  Unanimity  vanished  alike 
from  the  cabinet  and  the  field,  and  their  common 
weal  was  threatened  with  ruin,  by  the  spirit  of 
disunion. 

Gustavus  had  left  no  male  heir  to  the  crown  of 
Sweden  ;  his  daughter  Christina,  then  six  years 
old,  was  the  natural  heir.  The  unavoidable  weak¬ 
ness  of  a  regency  suited  ill  with  that  energy  and 
resolution,  which  Sweden  would  be  called  upon  to 
display  in  this  trying  conjuncture.  The  wide- 
reaching  mind  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  raised 
this  unimportant  and  hitherto  unknown  kingdom, 
to  a  rank  among  the  powers  of  Europe,  which  it 
could  not  retain  without  the  fortune  and  genius  of 
its  author,  and  from  which  it  could  not  recede 
without  a  humiliating  confession  of  weakness. 
Though  the  German  war  had  been  conducted 
chiefly  on  the  resources  of  Germany,  yet  even  the 
small  contribution  of  men  and  money,  which 
Sweden  furnished,  had  sufficed  to  exhaust  the  fi¬ 
nances  of  that  poor  kingdom,  and  the  peasantry 
groaned  beneath  the  imposts  necessarily  laid  upon 
them.  The  plunder  gained  in  Germany  enriched 
only  a  few  individuals,  among  the  nobles  and  the 
soldiers,  while  Sweden  itself  remained  poor  as 
before.  Fora  time,  it  is  true,  the  national  glory  ! 
reconciled  the  subject  to  these  burdens,  and  the 
sums  exacted,  seemed  but  as  a  loan  placed  at  in¬ 
terest,  in  the  fortunate  hand  of  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus,  to  be  richly  repaid  by  the  grateful  monarch 


at  the  conclusion  of  a  glorious  peace.  But  with  the 
king’s  death  this  hope  vanished,  and  the  deluded 
people  now  loudly  demanded  relief  from  their 
burdens. 

But  the  spirit  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  still  lived 
in  the  men  to  whom  he  had  confided  the  admini¬ 
stration  of  the  kingdom.  However  dreadful  to 
them,  and  unexpected,  was  the  intelligence  of  his 
death,  it  did  not  deprive  them  of  their  manly  cou¬ 
rage;  and  the  spirit  of  ancient  Rome,  under  the 
invasion  of  Brennus  and  Hannibal,  animated 
this  noble  assembly.  The  greater  the  price,  at 
which  these  hard-gained  advantages  had  been 
purchased,  the  less  readily  could  they  reconcile 
themselves  to  renounce  them  :  not  unrevenged 
was  a  king  to  be  sacrificed.  Called  on  to  choose 
between  a  doubtful  and  exhausting  war,  and  a 
profitable  but  disgraceful  peace,  the  Swedish 
council  of  state  boldly  espoused  the  side  of 
danger  and  honor  ;  and  with  agreeable  surprise, 
men  beheld  this  venerable  senate  acting  with  all 
the  energy  and  enthusiasm  of  youth.  Sur¬ 
rounded  with  watchful  enemies,  both  within  and 
without,  and  threatened  on  every  side  with  danger, 
they  armed  themselves  against  them  all,  with 
equal  prudence  and  heroism,  and  labored  to  ex¬ 
tend  their  kingdom,  even  at  the  moment  when 
they  had  to  struggle  for  its  existence. 

The  decease  of  the  king,  and  the  minority  of 
his  daughter  Christina,  renewed  the  claims  of 
Poland  to  the  Swedish  throne  ;  and  King  Ladis- 
laus,  the  son  of  Sigismund,  spared  no  intrigues 
to  gain  a  party  in  Sweden.  On  this  ground,  the 
regency  lost  no  time  in  proclaiming  the  young 
queen,  and  arranging  the  administration  of  the 
regency.  All  the  officers  of  the  kingdom  were 
summoned  to  do  homage  to  their  new  princess ; 
all  correspondence  with  Poland  prohibited,  and 
the  edicts  of  previous  monarchs  against  the  heirs 
of  Sigismund,  confirmed  by  a  solemn  act  of  the 
nation.  The  alliance  with  the  Czar  of  Muscovy 
was  carefully  renewed,  in  order,  by  the  arms  of 
this  prince,  to  keep  the  hostile  Poles  in  check. 
The  death  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  put  an  end 
to  the  jealousy  of  Denmark,  and  removed  the 
grounds  of  alarm  which  had  stood  in  the  way  of 
a  cood  understanding  between  the  two  states. 
The  representations  by  which  the  enemy  sought 
to  stir  up  Christian  IY.  against  Sweden  were  nc 
longer  listened  to  ;  and  the  strong  wish  the  Da¬ 
nish  monarch  entertained  for  the  marriage  ot  his 
son  Ulrick  with  the  young  princess,  combined, 
with  the  dictates  of  a  sounder  policy,  to  incline 
him  to  a  neutrality.  At  the  same  time,  England, 
Holland,  and  France  came  forward  with  the  gra¬ 
tifying  assurances  to  the  regency  of  continued 
friendship  and  support,  and  encouraged  tlienq 
with  one  voice,  to  prosecute  with  activity  the 
war,  which  hitherto  had  been  conducted  with  so 
much  glory.  Whatever  reason  France  might 
have  to  congratulate  itself  on  the  death  ot  the 
Swedish  conqueror,  it  was  as  fully  sensible  of  the 
expediency  of  maintaining  the  alliance  with  Swe- 
!  den.  Without  exposing  itself  to  great  danger,  it 
could  not  allow  the  power  of  Sweden  to  sink  in 
Germany.  Want  of  resources  of  its  own,  would 
either  drive  Sweden  to  conclude  a  hasty  and  dis¬ 
advantageous  peace  with  Austria,  and  then  all 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


| 


217 


the  past  efforts  to  lower  the  ascendency  of  this 
dangerous  power  would  be  thrown  away;  or  ne¬ 
cessity  and  despair  would  drive  the  armies  to  ex- 
’  tort  from  the  Roman  Catholic  states  the  means 
of  support,  and  France  would  then  be  regarded 
as  the  betrayer  of  those  very  states  who  had 
placed  themselves  under  her  powerful  protec¬ 
tion.  The  death  of  Gustavus,  far  from  breaking 
up  the  alliance  between  France  and  Sweden,  had 
cnly  rendered  it  more  necessary  for  both,  and 
more  profitable  for  France.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  since  he  was  dead  who  had  stretched  his 
protecting  arm  over  Germany,  and  guarded  its 
frontiers  against  the  encroaching  designs  of 
France,  could  the  latter  safely  pursue  its  designs 
upon  Alsace,  and  thus  be  enabled  to  sell  its  aid  to 
the  German  Protestants  at  a  dearer  rate. 

Strengthened  by  these  alliances,  secured  in  its  in¬ 
terior,  and  defended  from  without  by  strong  fron¬ 
tier  garrisons,  and  fleets,  the  regency  did  not  de¬ 
lay  an  instant  to  continue  a  war,  by  which  Swe¬ 
den  had  little  of  its  own  to  lose,  while,  if  success 
attended  its  arms,  one  or  more  of  the  German 
provinces  might  be  won,  either  as  a  conquest,  or 
indemnification  of  its  expenses.  Secure  amidst  its 
seas,  Sweden, even  if  driven  out  of  Germany,  would 
scarcely  be  exposed  to  greater  peril,  than  if  it  vol¬ 
untarily  retired  from  the  contest,  while  the  former 
measure  was  as  honorable,  as  the  latter  was  dis¬ 
graceful.  The  more  boldness  the  regency  dis¬ 
played,  the  more  confidence  would  they  inspire 
among  their  confederates,  the  more  respect  among 
their  enemies,  and  the  more  favorable  conditions 
might  they  anticipate  in  the  event  of  peace.  If 
they  found  themselves  too  weak  to  execute  the  wide- 
ranging  projects  of  Gustavus,  they  at  least  owed 
it  to  this  lofty  model  to  do  their  utmost,  and  to 
yield  to  no  difficulty  short  of  absolute  necessity. 
Alas,  that  motives  of  self-interest  had  too  great 
a  share  in  this  noble  determination,  to  demand 
our  unqualified  admiration  !  For  those  who  had 
nothing  themselves  to  suffer  from  the  calamities 
of  war,  but  were  rather  to  be  enriched  by  it,  it 
was  an  easy  matter  to  resolve  upon  its  continu¬ 
ation  ;  for  the  German  empire  was,  in  the  end,  to 
defray  the  expenses  ;  and  the  provinces  on  which 
they  reckoned,  would  be  cheaply  purchased  with 
the  few  troops  they  sacrificed  to  them,  and  with 
the  generals  who  were  placed  at  the  head  of 
armies,  composed  for  the  most  part  of  Germans, 
and  with  the  honorable  superintendence  of  all 
the  operations,  both  military  and  political. 

But  this  superintendence  was  irreconcilable 
with  the  distance  of  the  Swedish  regency  from 
the  scene  of  action,  and  with  the  slowness  which 
necessarily  accompanies  all  the  movements  of  a 
council. 

To  one  comprehensive  mind  must  be  intrusted 
the  management  of  Swedish  interests  in  Germany, 
and  with  full  powers  to  determine  at  discretion 
all  questions  of  war  and  peace,  the  necessary  al¬ 
liances  and  the  requisite  levies.  With  dictatorial 
power,  and  with  the  whole  influence  of  the  crown 
which  he  was  to  represent,  must  this  'important 
magistrate  be  invested,  in  order  to  maintain  its 
dignity,  to  enforce  united  and  combined  opera¬ 
tions,  to  give  effect  to  his  orders,  and  to  supply 
the  place  of  the  monarch  whom  he  succeeded. 


Such  a  man  was  found  in  the  Chancellor  Oxen¬ 
stiern,  the  first  minister,  and  what  is  more,  the 
friend  of  the  deceased  king,  who,  acquainted  with 
all  the  secrets  of  his  master,  versed  in  the  politics 
of  Germany,  and  in  the  relations  of  all  the  states 
of  Europe,  was  unquestionably  the  fittest  instru¬ 
ment  to  carry  out  the  plans  of  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  in  their  full  extent. 

Oxenstiern  was  on  his  way  to  Upper  Germany, 
in  order  to  assemble  the  four  Upper  Circles,  when 
the  news  of  the  king’s  death  reached  him  at 
Hanau.  This  was  a  heavy  blow,  both  to  the 
friend  and  the  statesman.  Sweden,  indeed,  had  lost 
but  a  king,  Germany  a  protector;  but  Oxenstiern, 
the  author  of  his  fortunes,  the  friend  of  his  soul, 
and  the  object  of  his  admiration.  Though  the 
greatest  sufferer  in  the  general  loss,  he  was  the 
first  who  by  his  energy  rose  from  the  blow,  and 
the  only  one  qualified  to  repair  it.  His  pene¬ 
trating  glance  foresaw  all  the  obstacles  which 
would  oppose  the  execution  of  his  plans,  the 
discouragement  of  the  estates,  the  intrigues  of 
hostile  courts,  the  breaking  up  of  the  confeder¬ 
acy,  the  jealousy  of  the  leaders,  and  the  dislike 
of  princes  of  the  empire  to  submit  to  foreign 
authority.  But  even  this  deep  insight  into  the 
existing  state  of  things,  which  revealed  the  whole 
extent  of  the  evil,  showed  him  also  the  means  by 
which  it  might  be  overcome.  It  was  essential 
to  revive  the  drooping  courage  of  the  weaker 
states,  to  meet  the  secret  machinations  of  the 
enemy,  to  allay  the  jealousy  of  the  more  power¬ 
ful  allies,  to  rouse  the  friendly  powers,  and  France 
in  particular,  to  active  assistance  ;  but  above  all, 
to  repair  the  ruined  edifice  of  the  German  alli¬ 
ance,  and  to  reunite  the  scattered  strength  of 
the  party  by  a  close  and  permanent  bond  of  union. 
The  dismay  which  the  loss  of  their  leader  occa¬ 
sioned  the  German  Protestants,  might  as  readily 
dispose  them  to  a  closer  alliance  with  Sweden, 
as  to  a  hasty  peace  with  the  Emperor;  and  it 
depended  entirely  upon  the  course  pursued,  which 
of  these  alternatives  they  would  adopt.  Every 
thing  might  be  lost  by  the  slightest  sign  of  de¬ 
spondency  ;  nothing,  but  the  confidence  which 
Sweden  showed  in  herself,  could  kindle  among 
the  Germans  a  similar  feeling  of  self-confidence. 
All  the  attempts  of  Austria  to  detach  these 
princes  from  the  Swedish  alliance  would  be  un¬ 
availing,  the  moment  their  eyes  became  opened 
to  their  true  interests,  and  they  were  instigated 
to  a  public  and  formal  breach  with  the  Emperor. 

Before  these  measures  could  be  taken,  and  the 
necessary  points  settled  between  the  regency  and 
their  minister,  a  precious  opportunity  of  action 
would,  it  is  true,  be  lost  to  the  Swedish  army, 
of  which  the  enemy  would  be  sure  to  take  the 
utmost  advantage.  It  was,  in  short,  in  the  power 
of  the  Emperor  totally  to  ruin  the  Swedish  in¬ 
terest  in  Germany,  and  to  this  he  was  actually 
invited  by  the  prudent  councils  of  the  Duke  of 
Friedland.  Wallenstein  advised  him  to  pro¬ 
claim  a  universal  amnesty,  and  to  meet  the 
Protestant  states  with  favorable  conditions.  In 
the  first  consternation  produced  by  the  fall  of 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  such  a  declaration  would  have 
had  the  most  powerful  effects,  and  probably  would 
have  brought  the  wavering  states  back  to  their  al- 


218 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


• 

legiance.  But  blinded  by  this  unexpected  turn  of 
fortune  and  infatuated  by  Spanish  counsels,  he 
anticipated  a  more  brilliant  issue  from  war,  and, 
instead  of  listening  to  these  propositions  of  an 
accommodation,  he  hastened  to  augment  his  forces. 
Spain,  enriched  by  the  grant  of  the  tenth  of  the 
ecclesiastical  possessions,  which  the  pope  con¬ 
firmed,  sent  him  considerable  supplies,  negotiated 
for  him  at  the  Saxon  court,  and  hastily  levied 
troops  for  him  in  Italy  to  be  employed  in  Ger¬ 
many.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria  also  considerably 
increased  his  military  force;  and  the  restless  dis¬ 
position  of  the  Duke  of  Lorraine  did  not  permit 
him  to  remain  inactive  in  this  favorable  change 
of  fortune.  But  while  the  enemy  were  thus  busy 
to  profit  by  the  disaster  of  Sweden,  Oxenstiern 
was  diligent  to  avert  its  most  fatal  consequences. 

Less  apprehensive  of  open  enemies,  than  of  the 
jealousy  of  the  friendly  powers,  he  left  Upper 
Germany,  which  he  had  secured  by  couquests  and 
alliances,  and  set  out  in  person  to  prevent  a  total 
defection  of  the  Lower  German  states,  or,  what 
would  have  been  almost  equally  ruinous  to  Swe¬ 
den,  a  private  alliance  among  themselves.  Of¬ 
fended  at  the  boldness  with  which  the  chancellor 
assumed  the  direction  of  affairs,  and  inwardly  ex¬ 
asperated  at  the  thought  of  being  dictated  to  by  a 
Swedish  nobleman,  the  Elector  of  Saxony  again 
meditated  a  dangerous  separation  from  Sweden  ; 
and  the  only  question  in  his  mind  was,  whether  he 
should  make  full  terms  with  the  Emperor,  or  place 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  Protestants  and  form  a 
third  party  in  Germany.  Similar  ideas  were  che¬ 
rished  by  Duke  Ulric  of  Brunswick,  who,  indeed, ' 
showed  them  openly  enough  by  forbidding  the 
Swedes  from  recruiting  within  his  dominions,  and 
inviting  the  Lower  Saxon  states  to  Luneburg,  for 
the  purpose  of  forming  a  confederacy  among 
themselves.  The  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  jealous 
of  the  influence  which  Saxony  was  likely  to  attain 
in  Lower  Germany,  alone  manifested  any  zeal  for 
the  interests  of  the  Swedish  throne,  which,  in 
thought,  he  already  destined  for  his  son.  At  the 
court  of  Saxony,  Oxenstiern  was  no  doubt  hon¬ 
orably  received  ;  but,  notwithstanding  the  per¬ 
sonal  efforts  of  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg, 
empty  promises  of  continued  friendship  were  all 
which  he  could  obtain.  With  the  Duke  of  Bruns¬ 
wick  he  was  more  successful,  for  with  him  he  ven¬ 
tured  to  assume  a  bolder  tone.  Sweden  was  at 
the  time  in  possession  of  the  See  of  Magdeburg, 
the  bishop  of  which  had  the  power  of  assembling 
the  Lower  Saxon  circle.  The  chancellor  now  as¬ 
serted  the  rights  of  the  crown,  and  by  this  spir¬ 
ited  proceeding,  put  a  stop  for  the  present  to  this 
dangerous  assembly  designed  by  the  duke.  The 
main  object,  however,  of  his  present  journey  and 
of  his  future  endeavors,  a  general  confederacy  of 
the  Protestants,  miscarried  entirely  ;  and  he  was 
obliged  to  content  himself  with  some  unsteady 
alliances  in  the  Saxon  circles,  and  with  the  weaker 
assistance  of  Upper  Germany. 

As  the  Bavarians  were  too  powerful  on  the  Da¬ 
nube,  the  assembly  of  the  four  Upper  Circles, 
which  should  have  been  held  atUlm,was  removed 
to  Heilbronn,  where  deputies  of  more  than  twelve 
cities  of  the  empire,  writh  a  brilliant  crowd  of 
doctors,  counts,  and  princes,  attended.  The  am¬ 


bassadors  of  foreign  powers  likewise,  France, 
England,  and  Holland,  attended  this  Congress,  at 
which  Oxenstiern  appeared  in  person,  with  all  the 
splendor  of  the  crown  whose  representative  he 
was.  He  himself  opened  the  proceedings,  and 
conducted  the  deliberations.  After  receiving1 
from  all  the  assembled  estates  assurances  of  un¬ 
shaken  fidelity,  perseverance,  and  unity,  he  re¬ 
quired  of  them  solemnly  and  formally  to  declare 
the  Emperor  and  the  League  as  enemies.  But 
desirable  as  it  was  for  Sweden  to  exasperate  the 
ill-feeling  between  the  emperor  and  the  estates 
into  a  formal  rupture,  the  latter,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  equally  indisposed  to  shutout  the  pos¬ 
sibility  of  reconciliation,  by  so  decided  a  step, 
and  to  place  themselves  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
the  Swedes.  They  maintained,  that  any  formal 
declaration  of  war  was  useless  and  superfluous, 
where  the  act  would  speak  for  itself,  and  their 
firmness  on  this  point  silenced  at  last  the  chan¬ 
cellor.  Warmer  disputes  arose  on  the  third  and 
principal  article  of  the  treaty,  concerning  the 
means  of  prosecuting  the  war,  and  the  quota 
which  the  several  states  ought  to  furnish  for  the 
support  of  the  army.  Oxenstiern’s  maxim,  to 
throw  as  much  as  possible  of  the  common  burden 
on  the  states,  did  not  suit  very  well  with  their  de¬ 
termination  to  give  as  little  as  possible.  The 
Swedish  chancellor  now  experienced,  what  had 
been  felt  by  thirty  emperors  before  him,  to  their 
cost,  that  of  all  difficult  undertakings,  the  most 
difficult  was  to  extort  money  from  the  Germans. 
Instead  of  granting  the  necessary  sums  for  the 
new  armies  to  be  raised,  they  eloquently  dwelt 
upon  the  calamities  which  had  befallen  the  for¬ 
mer,  and  demanded  relief  from  the  old  burdens, 
when  they  were  required  to  submit  to  new.  The 
irritation  which  the  chancellor’s  demand  for 
money  raised  among  the  states,  gave  rise  to  a 
thousand  complaints;  and  the  outrages  committed 
by  the  troops,  in  their  marches  and  quarters,  were 
dwelt  upon  with  a  startling  minuteness  and  truth. 

In  the  service  of  two  absolute  monarchs,  Oxen¬ 
stiern  had  but  little  opportunity  to  become  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  formalities  and  cautious  proceedings 
of  republican  deliberations,  or  to  bear  opposition 
with  patience.  Beady  to  act,  the  instant  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  action  was  apparent,  and  inflexible  in 
his  resolution,  when  he  had  once  taken  it,  he  was 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  inconsistency  of  most 
men,  who,  while  they  desire  the  end,  are  yet  averse 
to  the  means.  Prompt  and  impetuous  by  nature, 
he  was  so  on  this  occasion  from  principle  ;  for  every 
thing  depended  on  concealing  the  weakness  of 
Sweden,  under  a  firm  and  confident  speech,  and  by 
assuming  the  tone  of  a  lawgiver,  really  to  become 
so.  It  was  nothing  wonderful,  therefore,  if,  amidst 
these  interminable  discussions  with  German  doc¬ 
tors  and  deputies,  he  was  entirely  out  of  his  sphere, 
and  if  the  inconstancy,  which  distinguishes  the 
character  of  the  Germans  in  their  public  delibera¬ 
tions,  had  driven  him  almost  to  despair.  Without 
respecting  a  custom,  to  which  even  the  most  pow¬ 
erful  of  the  emperors  had  been  obliged  to  conform, 
he  rejected  all  written  deliberations  which  suited 
so  well  with  the  national  slowness  of  resolve.  He 
could  not  conceive  how  ten  days  could  be  spent  in 
debating  a  measure,  which  with  himself  was  de- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


219 


cided  upon  its  bare  suggestion.  Harshly,  however, 
as  he  treated  the  States,  he  found  them  ready 
enough  to  assent  to  his  fourth  motion,  which  con¬ 
cerned  himself.  When  he  pointed  out  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  giving  a  head  and  a  director  to  the  new  con¬ 
federation,  that  honor  was  unanimously  assigned 
to  Sweden,  and  he  himself  was  humbly  requested 
to  give  to  the  common  cause  the  benefit  of  his  en¬ 
lightened  experience,  and  to  take  upon  himself  the 
burden  of  the  supreme  command.  But  in  order 
to  prevent  his  abusing  the  great  powers  thus  con¬ 
ferred  upon  him,  it  was  proposed,  not  without 
French  influence,  to  appoint  a  number  of  overseers, 
in  fact,  under  the  name  of  assistants,  to  control 
the  expenditure  of  the  common  treasure,  and  to 
consult  with  him  as  to  the  levies,  marches,  and 
quarterings  of  the  troops.  Oxenstiern  long  and 
strenuously  resisted  this  limitation  of  his  authority, 
which  could  not  fail  to  trammel  him  in  the  execu¬ 
tion  of  every  enterprise  requiring  promptitude  or 
secrecy,  and  at  last  succeeded,  with  difficulty,  in 
obtaining  so  far  a  modification  of  it,  that  his  man¬ 
agement  in  affairs  of  war  was  to  be  uncontrolled. 
The  chancellor  finally  approached  the  delicate 
point  of  the  indemnification  which  Sweden  was  to 
expect,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  from  the 
gratitude  of  the  allies,  and  flattered  himself  with 
the  hope  that  Pomerania,  the  main  object  of  Swe¬ 
den,  would  be  assigned  to  her,  and  that  he  would 
obtain  from  the  provinces,  assurances  of  effectual 
co-operation  in  its  acquisition.  But  he  could  ob¬ 
tain  nothing  more  than  a  vague  assurance,  that  in 
a  general  peace  the  interests  of  all  parties  would 
be  attended  to.  That  on  this  point,  the  caution 
of  the  estates  was  not  owing  to  any  regard  for  the 
constitution  of  the  empire,  became  manifest  from 
the  liberality  they  evinced  toward  the  chancellor, 
at  the  expense  of  the  free  cities  of  the  empire. 
They  were  ready  to  grant  him  the  archbishopric 
of  Mentz,  (which  he  already  held  as  a  conquest,) 
and  only  with  difficulty  did  the  French  ambassa¬ 
dor  succeed  in  preventing  a  step,  which  was  as  im¬ 
politic  as  it  was  disgraceful.  Though  on  the 
whole,  the  result  of  the  congress  had  fallen  far 
short  of  Oxenstiern’s  expectations,  he  had  at  least 
gained  for  himself  and  his  crown  his  main  object, 
namely,  the  direction  of  the  whole  confederacy ;  he 
had  also  succeeded  in  strengthening  the  bond  of 
union  between  the  four  upper  circles,  and  obtained 
from  the  states  a  yearly  contribution  of  two  mil¬ 
lions  and  a  half  of  dollars,  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  army. 

These  concessions  on  the  part  of  the  States,  de¬ 
manded  some  return  from  Sweden.  A  few  weeks 
after  the  death  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  sorrow 
ended  the  days  of  the  unfortunate  Elector  Palatine. 
For  eight  months  he  had  swelled  the  pomp  of  his 
protector’s  court,  and  expended  on  it  the  small  re¬ 
mainder  of  his  patrimony.  He  was,  at  last,  ap¬ 
proaching  the  goal  of  his  wishes,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  brighter  future  was  opening,  when  death  de¬ 
prived  him  of  his  protector.  But  what  he  regarded 
as  the  greatest  calamity,  was  highly  favorable  to 
his  heirs.  Gustavus  might  venture  to  delay  the 
restoration  of  his  dominions,  or  to  load  the  gift 
with  hard  conditions  ;  but  Oxenstiern,  to  whom 
the  friendship  of  England,  Holland,  and  Branden- 
bi  rg,  and  the  good  opinion  of  the  Reformed  States 


was  indispensable,  felt  the  necessity  of  immediately 
fulfilling  the  obligations  of  justice.  At  this  assem 
bly,  at  Heilbronn,  therefore,  he  engaged  to  surren¬ 
der  to  Frederick’s  heirs  the  whole  Palatinate,  both 
the  part  already  conquered,  and  that  which  re¬ 
mained  to  be  conquered,  with  the  exception  of 
Manheim,  which  the  Swedes  were  to  hold,  until 
they  should  be  indemnified  for  their  expenses.  The 
chancellor  did  not  confine  his  liberality  to  the 
family  of  the  Palatine  alone ;  the  other  allied 
princes  received  proofs,  though  at  a  later  period, 
of  the  gratitude  of  Sweden,  which,  however,  she 
dispensed  a  little  cost  to  herself. 

Impartiality,  the  most  sacred  obligation  of  the 
historian,  here  compels  us  to  an  admission,  not 
much  to  the  honor  of  the  champions  of  German 
liberty.  However  the  Protestant  Princes  might 
boast  of  the  justice  of  their  cause,  and  the  sin¬ 
cerity  of  their  conviction,  still  the  motives  from 
which  they  acted  were  selfish  enough  ;  and  the  de¬ 
sire  of  stripping  others  of  their  possessions,  had 
at  least  as  great  a  share  in  the  commencement  of 
hostilities,  as  the  fear  of  being  deprived  of  their 
own.  Gustavus  soon  found  that  he  might  reckon 
much  more  on  these  selfish  motives,  than  on  their 
patriotic  zeal,  and  did  not  fail  to  avail  himself  of 
them.  Each  of  his  confederates  received  from 
him  the  promise  of  some  possession,  either  already 
wrested,  or  to  be  afterward  taken  from  the  ene¬ 
my  ;  and  death  alone  prevented  him  from  fulfilling 
these  engagements.  What  prudence  had  sug¬ 
gested  to  the  king,  necessity  now  prescribed  to 
his  successor.  If  it  was  his  object  to  continue 
the  war,  he  must  be  ready  to  divide  the  spoil 
among  the  allies,  and  promise  them  advantages 
from  the  confusion  which  it  was  his  object  to  con¬ 
tinue.  Thus  he  promised  to  the  Landgrave  of 
Hesse,  the  abbacies  of  .Paderborn,  Corvey,  Mun¬ 
ster,  and  Fulda;  to  Duke  Bernard  of  Weimar, 
the  Franconian  bishoprics;  to  the  Duke  of  Wir- 
temberg,  the  ecclesiastical  domains,  and  the  Aus¬ 
trian  counties  lying  within  his  territories,  all  under 
the  title  of  fiefs  of  Sweden.  This  spectacle,  so 
strange  and  so  dishonorable  to  the  German  char¬ 
acter,  surprised  the  chancellor,  who  found  it  dif¬ 
ficult  to  repress  his  contempt,  and  on  one  occa¬ 
sion  exclaimed,  “  Let  it  be  writ  in  our  records,  for 
an  everlasting  memorial,  that  a  German  prince 
made  such  a  request  of  a  Swedish  nobleman,  and 
that  the  Swedish  nobleman  granted  it  to  the  Ger¬ 
man  upon  German  ground  !” 

After  these  successful  measures,  he  was  in  a 
condition  to  take  the  field  and  prosecute  the  war 
with  fresh  vigor.  Soon  after  the  victory  at  Lutzen, 
the  troops  of  Saxony  and  Luneburg  united  with 
the  Swedish  main  body  ;  and  the  Imperialists  weie, 
in  a  short  time,  totally  driven  from  Saxony.  The 
united  army  again  divided  :  the  Saxons  marched 
toward  Lusatia  and  Silesia,  to  act  in  conjunction 
with  Count  Thurn  against  the  Austrians  in  that 
quarter  ;  a  part  of  the  Swedish  army  was  led  by 
the  Duke  of  Weimar  into  Franconia,  and  the  other 
by  George,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  into  Westphalia 
and  Lower  Saxony. 

The  conquests  on  the  Lech  and  the  Danube, 
during  Gustavus’s  expedition  into  Saxony,  had 
been  maintained  by  the  Palatine  of  Birkenfeld,  and 
the  Swedish  General  Banner,  against  the  Bava- 


220 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


rians  ;  but  unable  to  hold  their  ground  against  the 
victorious  progress  of  the  latter,  supported  as  they 
were  by  the  bravery  and  military  experience  of 
the  Imperial  General  Altringer,  they  were  under 
the  necessity  of  summoning  the  Swedish  General 
Horn  to  their  assistance,  from  Alsace.  This  expe¬ 
rienced  general  having  captured  the  towns  of  Ben- 
feld.  Schlettstadt,  Colmar,  and  Hagenau,  com¬ 
mitted  the  defense  of  them  to  the  Rhinegrave  Otto 
Louis,  and  hastily  crossed  the  Rhine  to  form  a 
junction  with  Banner’s  army.  But  although  the 
combined  force  amounted  to  more  than  16,000, 
they  could  not  prevent  the  enemy  from  obtaining 
a  strong  position  on  the  Swabian  frontier,  taking 
Kempten,  and  being  joined  by  seven  regiments 
from  Bohemia.  In  order  to  retain  the  command 
of  the  important  banks  of  the  Lech  and  the  Dan¬ 
ube,  they  were  under  the  necessity  of  recalling  the 
Rhinegrave  Otto  Louis  from  Alsace,  where  he 
had,  after  the  departure  of  Horn,  found  it  difficult 
to  defend  himself  against  the  exasperated  peasan¬ 
try.  With  his  army  he  was  now  summoned  to 
strengthen  the  army  on  the  Danube ;  and  as  even 
this  reinforcement  was  insufficient,  Duke  Bernard 
of  Weimar  was  earnestly  pressed  to  turn  his  arms 
into  this  quarter. 

Duke  Bernard,  soon  after  the  opening  of  the 
campaign  of  1633,  had  made  himself  master  of 
the  town  and  territory  of  Bamberg,  and  was  now 
threatening  Wurtzburg.  But  on  receiving  the 
summons  of  General  Horn,  without  delay  he 
began  his  march  toward  the  Danube,  defeated  on 
his  way  a  Bavarian  army  under  John  de  Werth, 
and  joined  the  Swedes  near  Donauwerth.  This 
numerous  force,  commanded  by  excellent  gene¬ 
rals,  now  threatened  Bavaria  with  a  fearful  in¬ 
road.  The  bishopric  of  Eichstadt  was  completely 
overrun,  and  Ingolstadt  was  on  the  point  of  be¬ 
ing  delivered  up  by  treachery  to  the  Swedes. 
Altringer,  fettered  in  his  movements  by  the  ex¬ 
press  order  of  the  Duke  of  Friedland,  and  left 
without  assistance  from  Bohemia,  was  unable  to 
check  the  progress  of  the  enemy.  The  most  fa¬ 
vorable  circumstances  combined  to  further  the 
progress  of  the  Swedish  arms  in  this  quarter, 
when  the  operations  of  the  army  were  at  once 
stopped  by  a  mutiny  among  the  officers. 

All  the  previous  successes  in  Germany  were 
owing  altogether  to  arms  ;  the  greatness  of  Gus- 
tavus  himself  was  the  work  of  the  army,  the  fruit 
of  their  discipline,  their  bravery,  and  their  perse¬ 
vering  courage  under  numberless  dangers  and 
privations.  However  wisely  his  plans  were  laid 
in  the  cabinet,  it  was  to  the  army  ultimately  that 
he  was  indebted  for  their  execution  ;  and  the  ex¬ 
panding  designs  of  the  general  did  but  continually 
impose  new  burdens  on  the  soldiers.  All  the  de¬ 
cisive  advantages  of  the  war,  had  been  violently 
gained  by  a  barbarous  sacrifice  of  the  soldiers ' 
lives  in  winter  campaigns,  forced  marches,  storm- 
ings,  and  pitched  battles ;  for  it  was  Gustavus’s 
maxim  never  to  decline  a  battle,  so  long  as  it  cost 
him  nothing  but  men.  The  soldiers  could  not 
long  be  kept  ignorant  of  their  own  importance, 
and  they  justly  demanded  a  share  in  the  spoil 
which  had  been  won  by  their  own  blood.  Yet, 
frequently,  they  hardly  received  their  pay  ;  and 
the  rapacity  of  individual  generals,  or  the  wants 


of  the  state,  generally  swallowed  up  the  greater 
part  of  the  sums  raised  by  contributions,  or  levied 
upon  the  conquered  provinces.  For  all  the  priva- 
tious  he  endured,  the  soldier  had  no  other  recom¬ 
pense  than  the  doubtful  chance  either  of  plunder 
or  promotion,  in  both  of  which  he  was  often  dis¬ 
appointed.  During  the  life  time  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  the  combined  influences  of  fear  and 
hope  had  suppressed  any  open  complaint,  but  after 
his  death,  the  murmurs  were  loud  and  universal ; 
and  the  soldiery  seized  the  most  dangerous  mo¬ 
ment  to  impress  their  superiors  with  a  sense  of 
their  importance.  Two  officers,  Pfuhl  and  Mit- 
schefal,  notorious  as  restless  characters,  even 
during  the  king’s  life,  set  the  example  in  the  camp 
on  the  Danube,  which  in  a  few  days  was  imitated 
by  almost  all  the  officers  of  the  army.  They  so¬ 
lemnly  bound  themselves  to  obey  no  orders,  till 
these  arrears,  now  outstanding  for  months,  and 
even  years,  should  be  paid  up,  and  a  gratuity, 
either  in  money  or  lands,  made  to  each  man,  ac¬ 
cording  to  his  services.  “  Immense  sums,”  they 
said,  “  were  daily  raised  by  contributions,  and  all 
dissipated  by  a  few.  They  were  called  out  to 
serve  amidst  frost  and  snow,  and  no  reward  re¬ 
quited  their  incessant  labors.  The  soldiers’  ex¬ 
cesses  at  Heilbronn  had  been  blamed,  but  no  one 
ever  talked  of  their  services.  The  world  rung 
with  the  tidings  of  conquests  and  victories,  but  it 
was  by  their  hands  that  they  had  been  fought  and 
won.” 

The  number  of  the  malcontents  daily  increased  : 
and  they  even  attempted  by  letters,  (which  were 
fortunately  intercepted,)  to  seduce  the  armies  on 
the  Rhine  and  in  Saxony.  Neither  the  represen¬ 
tations  of  Bernard  of  Weimar,  nor  the  stern  re¬ 
proaches  of  his  harsher  associate  in  command, 
could  suppress  this  mutiny,  while  the  vehemence  of 
Horn  seemed  only  to  increase  the  insolence  of  the 
insurgents.  The  conditions  they  insisted  on  were 
that  certain  towns  should  be  assigned  to  each  re¬ 
giment  for  the  payment  of  arrears.  Four  weeks 
were  allowed  to  the  Swedish  Chancellor  to  com¬ 
ply  with  these  demands  ;  and  in  case  of  refusal, 
they  announced  that  they  would  pay  themselves, 
and  never  more  draw  a  sword  for  Sweden. 

These  pressing  demands,  made  at  the  very  time 
when  the  military  chest  was  exhausted,  and  credit 
at  a  low  ebb,  greatly  embarrassed  the  chancellor. 
The  remedy,  he  saw,  must  be  found  quickly,  be¬ 
fore  the  contagion  should  spread  to  the  other 
troops,  and  he  should  be  deserted  by  all  his  ar¬ 
mies  at  once.  Among  all  the  Swedish  generals, 
there  was  only  one  of  sufficient  authority  and  in¬ 
fluence  with  the  soldiers  to  put  an  end  to  this  dis¬ 
pute.  The  Duke  of  Weimar  was  the  favorite  of 
the  army,  and  his  prudent  moderation  had  won 
the  good-will  of  the  soldiers,  while  his  military 
experience  had  excited  their  admiration.  He 
now  undertook  the  task  of  appeasing  the  discon¬ 
tented  troops  ;  but,  aware  of  his  importance,  he 
embraced  the  opportunity  to  make  advantageous 
stipulations  for  himself,  and  to  make  the  embar¬ 
rassment  of  the  chancellor  subservient  to  his  own 
views. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  had  flattered  him  with  the 
promise  of  the  Duchy  of  Franconia,  to  be  formed 
out  of  the  Bishoprics  of  W urtzburg  and  Bamberg, 


» 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR* 


221 


and  he  now  insisted  on  the  performance  of  this 
pledge.  He  at  the  same  time  demanded  the  chief 
command,  as  generalissimo  of  Sweden.  The  abuse 
which  the  Duke  of  Weimar  thus  made  of  his  influ¬ 
ence,  so  irritated  Oxenstiern,  that,  in  the  first  mo¬ 
ment  of  his  displeasure,  he  gave  him  his  dismissal 
from  the  Swedish  service.  But  he  soon  thought 
better  of  it,  and  determined,  instead  of  sacrificing 
so  important  a  leader,  to  attach  him  to  the  Swedish 
interests  at  any  cost.  He  therefore  granted  to 
him  the  Franconian  bishoprics,  as  a  fief  of  the 
Swedish  crown,  reserving,  however,  the  two  for¬ 
tresses  of  Wurtzburg  and  Kbnigshofen,-  which 
were  to  be  garrisoned  by  the  Swedes  :  and  also 
engaged,  in  the  name  of  the  Swedish  crown,  to 
secure  these  territories  to  the  duke.  His  demand 
of  the  supreme  authority  was  evaded  on  some  spe¬ 
cious  pretext.  The  duke  did  not  delay  to  display 
his  gratitude  for  this  valuable  grant  and  by  his 
influence  and  activity  soon  restored  tranquillity  to 
the  army.  Large  sums  of  money,  and  still  more 
extensive  estates,  were  divided  among  the  officers, 
amounting  in  value  to  about  five  millions  of  dollars, 
and  to  which  they  had  no  other  right  but  that  of 
conquest.  In  the  mean  time,  however,  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  a  great  undertaking  had  been  lost,  and 
the  united  generals  divided  their  forces  to  oppose 
the  enemy  in  other  quarters. 

Gustavus  Horn,  after  a  short  inroad  into  the 
Upper  Palatinate,  and  the  capture  of  Neumark, 
directed  his  march  toward  the  Swabian  frontier, 
where  the  Imperialists,  strongly  reinforced,  threat¬ 
ened  Wirtemberg.  Alarmed  at  his  approach, 
the  enemy  retired  to  the  Lake  of  Bode,  but  only 
to  show  the  Swedes  the  road  into  a  district  hitherto 
unvisited  by  war.  A  post  on  the  entrance  to 
Switzerland  would  be  highly  serviceable  to  the 
Swedes,  and  the  town  of  Kostnitz  seemed  pecu¬ 
liarly  well  fitted  to  be  a  point  of  communication 
between  him  and  the  confederated  cantons.  Ac¬ 
cordingly.  Gustavus  Horn  immediately  commenced 
the  siege  of  it ;  but  destitute  of  artillery,  for  which 
he  was  obliged  to  send  to  Wirtemberg,  he  could 
not  press  the  attack  with  sufficient  vigor  to  pre¬ 
vent  the  enemy  from  throwing  supplies  into  the 
town,  which  the  lake  afforded  them  convenient 
opportunity  of  doing.  He,  therefore,  after  an 
ineffectual  attempt,  quitted  the  place  and  its 
neighborhood,  and  hastened  to  meet  a  more 
threatening  danger  upon  the  Danube. 

At  the  Emperor’s  instigation,  the  Cardinal  In¬ 
fante,  the  brother  of  Philip  IY.  of  Spain,  and 
the  Viceroy  of  Milan,  had  raised  an  army  of  four¬ 
teen  thousand  men,  intended  to  act  upon  the 
Rhine,  independently  of  Wallenstein,  and  to  pro¬ 
tect  Alsace.  This  force  now  appeared  in  Bavaria, 
under  the  command  of  the  Duke  of  Feria,  a 
Spaniard;  and,  that  they  might  be  directly  em¬ 
ployed  against  the  Swedes,  Altringer  was  ordered 
to  join  them  with  his  corps.  Upon  the  first  intel¬ 
ligence  of  their  approach,  Horn  had  summoned 
to  his  assistance  the  Palsgrave  of  Birkenfeld,  from 
the  Rhine  ;  and  being  joined  by  him  at  Stockach, 
boldly  advanced  to  meet  the  enemy’s  army  of 
thirty  thousand  men. 

The  latter  had  taken  the  route  across  the  Dan¬ 
ube  into  Swabia,  where  Gustavus  Horn  came  so 
close  upon  them,  that  the  two  armies  were  only 


separated  from  each  other  by  half  a  German  mile. 
But  instead  of  accepting  the  offer  of  battle,  the 
Imperialists  moved  by  the  Black  Forest  toward 
Breslau  and  Alsace,  where  they  arrived  in  time 
to  relieve  Breysack,  and  to  arrest  the  victorious 
progress  of  the  Rhinegrave,  Otto  Louis.  The 
latter  had,  shortly  before,  taken  the  Forest  towns, 
and,  supported  by  the  Palatine  of  Birkenfeld,  who 
had  liberated  the  Lower  Palatinate  and  beaten 
the  Duke  of  Lorraine  out  of  the  field,  had  once 
more  given  the  superiority  to  the  Swedish  arms 
in  that  quarter.  He  was  now  forced  to  retire  be¬ 
fore  the  superior  numbers  of  the  enemy ;  but 
Horn  and  Birkenfeld  quickly  advanced  to  his  sup¬ 
port,  and  the  Imperialists,  after  a  brief  triumph, 
were  again  expelled  from  Alsace.  The  severity 
of  the  autumn,  in  which  this  hapless  retreat  had 
to  be  conducted,  proved  fatal  to  most  of  the  Ital¬ 
ians  ;  and  their  leader,  the  Duke  of  Feria,  died  of 
grief  at  the  failure  of  his  enterprise. 

In  the  mean  time,  Duke  Bernard  of  Weimar 
had  taken  up  his  position  on  the  Danube,  with 
eighteen  regiments  of  infantry  and  one  hundred 
and  forty  squadrons  of  horse,  to  cover  Franconia, 
and  to  watch  the  movements  of  the  Imperial  Ba¬ 
varian  army  upon  that  river.  No  sooner  had 
Altringer  departed,  to  join  the  Italians  under 
Feria,  than  Bernard,  profiting  by  his  absence, 
hastened  across  the  Danube,  and  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning  appeared  before  Ratisbon.  The  pos¬ 
session  of  this  town  would  insure  the  success  of 
the  Swedish  designs  upon  Bavaria  and  Austria ; 
it  would  establish  them  firmly  on  the  Danube, 
and  provide  a  safe  refuge  in  case  of  defeat,  while 
it  alone  could  give  permanence  to  their  conquests 
in  that  quarter.  To  defend  Ratisbon,  was  the 
urgent  advice  which  the  dying  Tilly  left  to  the 
Elector ;  and  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  lamented 
it  as  an  irreparable  loss,  that  the  Bavarians  had 
anticipated  him  in  taking  possession  of  this  place. 
Indescribable,  therefore,  was  the  consternation 
of  Maximilian,  when  Duke  Bernard  suddenly  ap¬ 
peared  before  the  town,  and  prepared  in  earnest 
to  besiege  it. 

The  garrison  consisted  of  not  more  than  fifteen 
companies,  mostly  newly-raised  soldiers  ;  although 
that  number  was  more  than  sufficient  to  weary 
out  an  enemy  of  far  superior  force,  if  supported 
by  well-disposed  and  warlike  inhabitants.  But 
this  was  the  greatest  danger  which  the  Bavarian 
garrison  had  to  contend  against.  The  Protestant 
inhabitants  of  Ratisbon,  equally  jealous  of  their 
civil  and  religious  freedom,  had  unwillingly  sub¬ 
mitted  to  the  yoke  of  Bavaria,  and  had  long 
looked  with  impatience  for  the  appearance  of  a 
deliverer.  Bernard’s  arrival  before  the  walls  filled 
them  with  lively  joy  ;  and  there  was  much  reason 
to  fear  that  they  would  support  the  attempts  of 
the  besiegers  without,  by  exciting  a  tumult  within. 
In  this  perplexity,  the  Elector  addressed  the  most 
pressing  entreaties  to  the  Emperor  and  the  Duke 
of  Friedland  to  assist  him,  were  it  only  with  five 
thousand  men.  Seven  messengers  in  succession 
were  dispatched  by  Ferdinand  to  Wallenstein, 
who  promised  immediate  succors,  and  even  an¬ 
nounced  to  the  Elector  the  near  advance  of  twelve 
thousand  men  under  Gallas  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
forbade  that  general,  under  pain  of  death,  to 


222 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


march.  Meanwhile  the  Bavarian  commandant 
of  Ratisbon,  in  the  hope  of  speedy  assistance, 
made  the  best  preparations  for  defense,  armed  the 
Roman  Catholic  peasants,  disarmed  and  carefully 
watched  the  Protestant  citizens,  lest  they  should 
attempt  any  hostile  design  against  the  garrison. 
But  as  no  relief  arrived,  and  the  enemy’s  artillery 
incessantly  battered  the  walls,  he  consulted  his 
own  safety,  and  that  of  the  garrison,  by  an  honor¬ 
able  capitulation,  and  abandoned  the  Bavarian 
officials  and  ecclesiastics  to  the  conqueror’s 
mercy. 

The  possession  of  Ratisbon,  enlarged  the  pro¬ 
jects  of  the  duke,  and  Bavaria  itself  now  ap¬ 
peared  too  narrow  a  field  for  his  cold  designs. 
He  determined  to  penetrate  to  the  frontiers  of 
Austria,  to  arm  the  Protestant  peasantry  against 
the  Emperor,  and  restore  to  them  their  religious 
liberty.  He  had  already  taken  Straubingen, 
while  another  Swedish  army  was  advancing  suc¬ 
cessfully  along  the  northern  bank  of  the  Danube. 
At  the  head  of  his  Swedes,  bidding  defiance  to 
the  severity  of  the  weather,  he  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  Iser,  which  he  passed  in  the  presence  of 
the  Bavarian  General  Werth,  who  was  encamped 
on  that  river.  Passau  and  Lintz  trembled  for 
their  fate;  the  terrified  Emperor  redoubled  his 
entreaties  and  commands  to  Wallenstein,  to  has¬ 
ten  with  all  speed  to  the  relief  of  the  hard-pressed 
Bavarians.  But  here  the  victorious  Bernard,  of 
his  own  accord,  checked  his  career  of  conquest. 
Having  in  front  of  him  the  river  Inn,  guarded  by 
a  number  of  strong  fortresses,  and  behind  him 
two  hostile  armies,  a  disaffected  country,  and  the 
river  Iser,  while  his  rear  was  covered  by  no  tena¬ 
ble  position,  and  no  entrenchment  could  be  made 
in  the  frozen  ground,  and  threatened  by  the  whole 
force  of  Wallenstein,  who  had  at  last  resolved  to 
march  to  the  Danube,  by  a  timely  retreat  he  es¬ 
caped  the  danger  of  being  cut  off  from  Ratisbon, 
and  surrounded  by  the  enemy.  He  hastened 
across  the  Iser  to  the  Danube,  to  defend  the  con¬ 
quests  he  had  made  in  the  Upper  Palatinate 
against  Wallenstein,  and  fully  resolved  not  to  de¬ 
cline  a  battle,  if  necessary,  with  that  general. 
But  Wallenstein,  who  was  not  disposed  for  any 
great  exploits  on  the  Danube,  did  not  wait  for  his 
approach ;  and  before  the  Bavarians  could  con¬ 
gratulate  themselves  on  his  arrival,  he  suddenly 
withdrew  again  into  Bohemia.  The  duke  thus 
ended  his  victorious  campaign,  and  allowed  his 
troops  their  well-earned  repose  in  winter  quarters 
upon  an  enemy’s  county. 

While  in  Swabia  the  war  was  thus  successfully 
conducted  by  Gustavus  Horn,  and  on  the  Upper 
and  Lower  Rhine  by  the  Palatine  of  Birkenfeld, 
Generals  Baudissen,  and  the  Rhinegrave  Otto 
Louis,  and  by  Duke  Bernard  on  the  Danube  ;  the 
reputation  of  the  Swedish  arms  was  as  gloriously 
sustained  in  Lower  Saxony  and  Westphalia  by 
the  Duke  of  Luneberg  and  the  Landgrave  of 
Hesse  Cassel.  The  fortress  of  Hamel  was  taken 
by  Duke  George,  after  a  brave  defense,  and  a  bril¬ 
liant  victory  obtained  over  the  imperial  General 
Gronsfeld,  by  the  united  Swedish  and  Hessian 
armies,  near  Oldendorf.  Count  Wassaburg,  a 
natural  son  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  showed  him¬ 
self  in  this  battle  worthy  of#his  descent.  Sixteen 


pieces  of  cannon,  the  whole  baggage  of  the  Im¬ 
perialists,  together  with  seventy-four  colors,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Swedes;  three  thousand  of 
the  enemy  perished  on  the  field,  and  nearly  the 
same  number  were  taken  prisoners.  The  town  of 
Osnaburg  surrendered  to  the  Swedish  Colonel 
Knyphausen,  and  Paderborn  to  the  Landgrave 
of  Hesse;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Biickeburg, 
a  very  important  place  for  the  Swedes,  tell  into 
the  hands  of  the  Imperialists.  The  Swedish  ban¬ 
ners  were  victorious  in  almost  every  quarter  of 
Germany ;  and  the  year  after  the  death  of  Gustavus, 
left  no  trace  of  the  loss  which  had  been  sustained 
in  the  person  of  that  great  leader.  * 

In  a  review  of  the  important  events  which  sig¬ 
nalized  the  campaign  of  1633,  the  inactivity  of  a 
man,  of  whom  the  highest  expectations  had  been 
formed,  justly  excites  astonishment.  Among  all 
the  generals  who  distinguished  themselves  in  this 
campaign,  none  could  be  compared  with  Wallen¬ 
stein,  in  experience,  talents,  and  reputation  ;  and 
yet,  after  the  battle  of  Lutzen,  we  lose  sight  of 
him  entirely.  The  fall  of  his  great  rival  had  left 
the  whole  theatre  of  glory  open  to  him  ;  all  Eu¬ 
rope  was  now  attentively  awaiting  those  exploits, 
which  should  efface  the  remembrance  of  his  de¬ 
feat,  and  still  prove  to  the  world  his  military  su¬ 
periority.  Nevertheless,  he  continued  inactive  in 
Bohemia,  while  the  Emperor’s  losses  in  Bavaria, 
Lower  Saxony,  and  the  Rhine,  pressingly  called 
for  his  presence — a  conduct  equally  unintelligible 
to  friend  and  foe — the  terror,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  last  hope  of  the  Emperor.  After  the 
defeat  of  Lutzen  he  had  hastened  into  Bohemia, 
where  he  instituted  the  strictest  inquiry  into  the 
conduct  of  his  officers  in  that  battle.  Those 
whom  the  council  of  war  declared  guilty  of  mis¬ 
conduct,  were  put  to  death  without  mercy,  those 
who  had  behaved  with  bravery,  rewarded  with 
princely  munificence,  and  the  memory  of  the  dead 
honored  by  splendid  monuments.  During  the 
winter,  he  oppressed  the  imperial  provinces  by 
enormous  contributions,  and  exhausted  the  Aus¬ 
trian  territories  by  his  winter  quarters,  which  he 
purposely  avoided  taking  up  in  an  enemy’s  country. 
And  in  the  spring  of  1633,  instead  of  being  the 
first  to  open  the  campaign,  with  this  well-chosen 
and  well-appointed  army,  and  to  make  a  worthy 
display  of  his  great  abilities,  he  was  the  last  who 
appeared  in  the  field  ;  and  even  then,  it  was  a 
heriditary  province  of  Austria,  which  he  selected 
as  the  seat  of  war. 

Of  all  the  Austrian  provinces,  Silesia  was  most 
exposed  to  danger.  Three  different  armies,  a 
Swedish  under  Count  Thurn,  a  Saxon  under 
Arnheim  and  the  Duke  of  Lauenburg,  and  one  of 
Brandenburg  under  Bergsdorf,  had  at  the  same 
time  carried  the  war  into  this  country;  they  had 
already  taken  possession  of  the  most  important 
places,  and  even  Breslau  had  embraced  the  cause 
of  the  allies.  But  this  crowd  of  commanders 
and  armies  was  the  very  means  of  saving  this  pro¬ 
vince  to  the  Emperor  ;  for  the  jealousy  of  the 
generals,  and  the  mutual  hatred  of  the  Saxons 
and  the  Swedes,  never  allowed  them  to  act  with 
unanimity.  Arnheim  and  Thurn  contended  for  the 
chief  command  ;  the  troops  of  Brandenburg  and 
Saxony  combined  against  the  Swedes,  whom  they 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


223 


looked  upon  as  troublesome  strangers,  who  ought 
to  be  got  rid  of  as  soon  as  possible.  The  Saxons, 
on  the  contrary,  lived  on  a  very  intimate  footing 
with  the  Imperialists,  and  the  officers  of  both 
these  hostile  armies  visited  and  entertained  each 
other.  The  Imperialists  were  allowed  to  remove 
their  property  without  hindrance,  and  many  did 
not  affect  to  conceal  that  they  had  received  vast 
sums  from  Vienna.  Amoug  such  equivocal  allies, 
the  Swedes  saw  themselves  sold  and  betrayed  ; 
and  any  great  enterprise  was  out  of  the  question, 
while  so  bad  an  understanding  prevailed  between 
the  troops.  General  Arnheim,  too,  was  absent 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  ;  and  when  he  at 
last  returned,  Wallenstein  was  fast  approaching 
the  frontiers  with  a  formidable  force. 

His  army  amounted  to  forty  thousand  men, 
while  to  oppose  him  the  allies  had  only  twenty-four 
thousand  men.  They  nevertheless  resolved  to 
give  him  battle,  and  marched  to  Munsterberg, 
where  he  had  formed  an  intrenched  camp.  But 
Wallenstein  remained  inactive  for  eight  days;  he 
then  left  his  intrenchments,  and  marched  slowly 
and  with  composure  to  the  enemy’s  camp.  But 
even  after  quitting  his  position,  and  when  the 
enemy,  emboldened  by  his  past  delay,  manfully 
prepared  to  receive  him,  lie  declined  the  opportu¬ 
nity  of  fighting.  The  caution  with  which  he 
avoided  a  battle  was  imputed  to  fear  ;  but  the  well- 
established  reputation  of  Wallenstein  enabled  him 
to  despise  this  suspicion.  The  vanity  of  the  allies 
allowed  them  not  to  see  that  he  purposely  saved 
them  a  defeat,  because  a  victory  at  that  time 
would  not  have  served  his  own  ends.  To  convince 
them  of  his  superior  power,  and  that  his  inactivity 
proceeded  not  from  any  fear  of  them,  he  put  to 
death  the  commander  of  a  castle  that  fell  into  his 
hands,  because  he  had  refused  at  once  to  surren¬ 
der  an  untenable  place. 

For  nine  days,  did  the  two  armies  remain  within 
musket-shot  of  each  other,  when  Count  Terzky, 
from  the  camp  of  the  Imperialists,  appeared  with 
a  trumpeter  in  that  of  the  allies,  inviting  General 
Arnheim  to  a  conference.  The  purport  was,  that 
Wallenstein,  notwithstanding  his  superiority,  was 
willing  to  agree  to  a  cessation  of  arms  for  six 
weeks.  “He  was  come,”  he  said,  “  to  conclude  a 
lasting  peace  with  the  Swedes,  and  with  the  princes 
of  the  empire,  to  pay  the  soldiers,  and  to  satisfy 
every  one.  All  this  was  in  his  power ;  and  if  the 
Austrian  court  hesitated  to  confirm  his  agreement, 
he  would  unite  with  the  allies,  and  (as  he  privately 
whispered  to  Arnheim)  hunt  the  Emperor  to  the 
devil.”  At  the  second  conference,  he  expressed 
himself  still  more  plainly  to  Count  Thurn.  “  All 
the  privileges  of  the  Bohemians,”  he  engaged, 
“should  be  confirmed  anew,  the  exiles  recalled 
and  restored  to  their  estates,  and  he  himself  would 
be  the  first  to  resign  his  share  of  them.  The  Je¬ 
suits,  as  the  authors  of  all  past  grievances,  should 
be  banished,  the  Swedish  crown  indemnified  by 
stated  payments,  and  all  the  superfluous  troops  on 
both  sides  employed  against  the  Turks.”  The  last 
article  explained  the  whole  mystery.  “  If,”  he 
continued,  “  he  should  obtain  the  crown  of  Bohe¬ 
mia,  all  the  exiles  would  have  reason  to  applaud 
his  generosity;  perfect  toleration  of  religions 
should  be  established  within  the  kingdom,  the 


Palatine  family  be  reinstated  in  its  rights,  and  he 
would  accept  the  Margraviate  of  Moravia  as  a 
compensation  for  Mecklenburg.  The  allied  ar¬ 
mies  would  then,  under  his  command,  advance 
upon  Vienna,  and  sword  in  hand,  compel  the  Em 
peror  to  ratify  the  treaty.” 

Thus  was  the  vail  at  last  removed  from  the 
schemes,  over  which  he  had  brooded  for  years  in 
mysterious  silence.  Every  circumstance  now  con¬ 
vinced  him  that  not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost  in  its 
execution.  Nothing  but  a  blind  confidence  in  the 
good  fortune  and  military  genius  of  the  Duke  of 
Friedland,  had  induced  the  Empercr,  in  the  face 
of  the  remonstrances  of  Bavaria  and  Spain,  and  at 
the  expense  of  his  own  reputation,  to  confer  upon 
this  imperious  leader  such  an  unlimited  command. 
But  this  belief  in  Wallenstein’s  being  invincible, 
had  been  much  weakened  by  his  inaction,  and  al¬ 
most  entirely  overthrown  by  the  defeat  at  Lutzen. 
His  enemies  at  the  imperial  court  now  renewed 
their  intrigues  ;  and  the  Emperor’s  disappointment 
at  the  failure  of  his  hopes,  procured  for  their  re¬ 
monstrances  a  favorable  reception.  Wallenstein’s 
whole  conduct  was  now  reviewed  with  the  most 
malicious  criticism ;  his  ambitious  haughtiness, 
his  disobedience  to  the  Emperor’s  orders,  were  re¬ 
called  to  the  recollection  of  that  jealous  prince,  as 
well  as  the  complaints  of  the  Austrian  subjects 
against  his  boundless  oppression  ;  his  fidelity  was 
questioned,  and  alarming  hints  thrown  out  as  to 
his  secret  views.  These  insinuations,  which  the 
conduct  of  the  duke  seemed  but  too  well  to  justify, 
failed  not  to  make  a  deep  impression  on  Ferdinand  ; 
but  the  step  had  been  taken,  and  the  great  power 
with  which  Wallenstein  had  been  invested,  could 
not  be  taken  from  him  without  danger.  Insensi¬ 
bly  to  diminish  that  power,  was  the  only  course 
that  now  remained,  and,  to  effect  this,  it  must  in 
the  first  place  be  divided  ;  but,  above  all,  the  Em¬ 
peror’s  present  dependence  on  the  good  will  of  his 
general  put  an  end  to.  But  even  this  right  had 
been  resigned  in  his  engagement  with  Wallenstein, 
and  the  Emperor’s  own  handwriting  secured  him 
against  every  attempt  to  unite  another  general 
with  him  in  the  command,  or  to  exercise  any  im¬ 
mediate  act  of  authority  over  the  troops.  As  this 
disadvantageous  contract  could  neither  be  kept 
nor  broken,  recourse  was  had  to  artifice.  Wallen¬ 
stein  was  Imperial  Generalissimo  in  Germany,  but 
his  command  extended  no  further,  and  he  could 
not  presume  to  exercise  any  authority  over  a  for¬ 
eign  army.  A  Spanish  army  was  accordingly 
raised  in  Milan,  and  marched  intc  Germany  under 
a  Spanish  general.  Wallenstein  low  ceased  to  be 
indispensable  because  he  was  no  longer  supreme, 
and  in  case  of  necessity,  the  Emperor  was  now 
provided  with  the  means  of  support  even  against 
him. 

The  duke  quickly  and  deeply  felt  whence  this 
blow  came,  and  whither  it  was  aimed.  In  vain 
did  he  protest  against  this  violation  of  the  com¬ 
pact,  to  the  Cardinal  Infante  ;  the  Italian  army 
continued  its  march,  and  he  was  forced  to  detach 
General  Altringer  to  join  it  with  a  reinforcement. 
He  took  care,  indeed,  so  closely  to  fetter  the  lat¬ 
ter,  as  to  prevent  the  Italian  army  from  acquiring 
any  great  reputation  in  Alsace  and  Swabia ;  but 
thia  bold  step  of  the  court  awakened  him  from  hi» 


224 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


security,  and  warned  him  of  the  approach  of  dan¬ 
ger.  That  he  might  not  a  second  time  be  de- 

{>rived  of  his  command,  and  lose  the  fruit  of  all 
lis  labors,  he  must  accelerate  the  accomplishment 
of  his  long  meditated  designs.  He  secured  the 
attachment  of  his  troops  by  removing  the  doubt¬ 
ful  officers,  and  by  his  liberality  to  the  rest.  He 
had  sacrificed  to  the  welfare  of  the  army  every 
other  order  in  the  state,  every  consideration  of 
justice  and  humanity,  and  therefore  he  reckoned 
upon  their  gratitude.  At  the  very  moment  when 
he  meditated  an  unparalleled  act  of  ingratitude 
against  the  author  of  his  own  good  fortune,  he 
founded  all  his  hopes  upon  the  gratitude  which 
was  due  to  himself.  ' 

The  leaders  of  the  Silesian  armies  had  no  au¬ 
thority  from  their  principals  to  consent,  on  their 
own  discretion,  to  such  important  proposals  as 
those  of  Wallenstein,  and  they  did  not  even  feel 
themselves  warranted  in  granting,  for  more  than 
a  fortnight,  the  cessation  of  hostilities  which  he 
demanded.  Before  the  duke  disclosed  his  designs 
to  Sweden  and  Saxony,  he  had  deemed  it  advisa¬ 
ble  to  secure  the  sanction  of  France  to  his  bold 
undertaking.  For  this  purpose,  a  secret  negotia¬ 
tion  had  been  carried  on  with  the  greatest  possible 
caution  and  distrust,  by  Count  Kinsky  with  Feu- 
quieres,  the  French  ambassador  at  Dresden,  and 
had  terminated  according  to  his  wishes.  Feu- 
quieres  received  orders  from  his  court  to  promise 
every  assistance  on  the  part  of  France,  and  to 
offer  the  duke  a  considerable  pecuniary  aid  in  case 
of  need. 

But  it  was  this  excessive  caution  to  secure  him¬ 
self  on  all  sides,  that  led  to  his  ruin.  The  French 
ambassador  with  astonishment  discovered  that  a 
lan,  which,  more  than  any  other,  required  secrecy, 
ad  been  communicated  to  the  Swedes  and  the 
Saxons.  And  yet  it  was  generally  known  that 
the  Saxon  ministry  was  in  the  interests  of  the 
Emperor,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  conditions 
offered  to  the  Swedes  fell  too  far  short  of  their  ex¬ 
pectations  to  be  likely  to  be  accepted.  Fou- 
quieres,  therefore,  could  not  believe  that  the  duke 
could  be  serious  in  calculating  upon  the  aid  of  the 
latter,  and  the  silence  of  the  former.  He  commu¬ 
nicated  accordingly  his  doubts  and  anxieties  to 
the  Swedish  chancellor,  who  equally  distrusted 
the  views  of  Wallenstein,  and  disliked  his  plans. 
Although  it  was  no  secret  to  Oxenstiern,  that  the 
duke  had  formerly  entered  into  a  similar  negotia¬ 
tion  with  Gustavus  Adolphus,  he  could  not  credit 
the  possibility  of  inducing  a  whole  army  to  revolt, 
and  of  his  extravagant  promises.  So  daring  a  de¬ 
sign,  and  such  imprudent  conduct,  seemed  not  to 
be  consistent  with  the  duke’s  reserved  and  suspi¬ 
cious  temper,  and  he  was  the  more  inclined  to 
consider  the  whole  as  the  result  of  dissimulation 
and  treachery,  because  he  had  less  reason  to 
doubt  his  prudence  than  his  honesty. 

Oxenstiern’s  doubts  at  last  affected  Arnheim 
himself,  who,  in  full  confidence  in  Wallenstein’s 
sincerity,  had  repaired  to  the  chancellor  at  Geln- 
hausen,  to  persuade  him  to  lend  some  of  his  best 
regiments  to  the  duke,  to  aid  him  in  the  execution 
of  the  plan.  They  began  to  suspect  that  the 
whole  proposal  was  only  a  snare  to  disarm  the 
allies,  and  to  betray  the  flower  of  their  troops  into 


the  hands  of  the  Emperor.  Wallenstein’s  well- 
known  character  did  not  contradict  the  suspicion, 
and  the  inconsistencies  in  which  he  afterward  in¬ 
volved  himself,  entirely  destroyed  all  confidence 
iu  his  sincerity.  While  he  was  endeavoring  to 
draw  the  Swedes  into  this  alliance,  and  requiring 
the  help  of  their  best  troops,  he  declared  to  Arn¬ 
heim  that  they  must  begin  with  expelling  the 
Swedes  from  the  empire;  and  while  the  Saxon 
officers,  relying  upon  the  security  of  the  truce, 
repaired  in  great  numbers  to  his  camp,  he  made 
an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  seize  them.  He  was 
the  first  to  break  the  truce,  which  some  months 
afterward  he  renewed,  though  not  without  great 
difficulty.  All  confidence  in  his  sincerity  was 
lost ;  his  whole  conduct  was  regarded  as  a  tissue 
of  deceit  and  low  cunning,  devised  to  weaken  the 
allies  and  repair  his  own  strength.  This  indeed 
he  actually  did  effect,  as  his  own  army  daily  aug¬ 
mented,  while  that  of  the  allies  was  reduced 
nearly  one  half  by  desertion  and  bad  provisions. 
But  he  did  not  make  that  use  of  his  superiority 
which  Vienna  expected.  When  all  men  were 
looking  for  a  decisive  blow  to  be  struck,  he  sud¬ 
denly  renewed  the  negotiations ;  and  when  the 
truce  lulled  the  allies  into  security,  he  as  suddenly 
recommenced  hostilities.  All  these  contradic¬ 
tions  arose  out  of  the  double  and  irreconcilable 
designs  to  ruin  at  once  the  Emperor  aud  the 
Swedes,  and  to  conclude  a  separate  peace  with 
the  Saxons. 

Impatient  at  the  ill  success  of  his  negotiations, 
he  at  last  determined  to  display  his  strength  ;  the 
more  so,  as  the  pressing  distress  within  the  em¬ 
pire,  and  the  growing  dissatisfaction  of  the  Im¬ 
perial  court,  admitted  not  of  his  making  any 
longer  delay.  Before  the  last  cessation  of  hos¬ 
tilities,  General  Hoik,  from  Bohemia,  had  attacked 
the  circle  of  Meissen,  laid  waste  every  thing  on 
his  route  with  fire  and  sword,  driven  the  Elector 
into  his  fortresses,  and  taken  the  town  of  Leip- 
sic.  But  the  truce  in  Bohemia  put  a  period  to 
his  ravages,  and  the  consequences  ot  his  excesses 
brought  him  to  the  grave  at  Adort.  As  soon  as 
hostilities  were  recommenced,  Wallenstein  made 
a  movement,  as  if  he  designed  to  penetrate 
through  Lusatia  into  Saxony,  and  circulated  the 
report  that  Piccolomini  had  already  invaded  that 
country.  Arnheim  immediately  broke,  up  his 
camp  in  Silesia,  to  follow  him,  and  hastened  to 
the  assistance  of  the  Electorate.  By  this  means 
the  Swedes  were  left  exposed,  who  were  encamped 
in  small  force  under  Count  Thurn,  at  Steinau,  on 
the  Oder,  and  this  was  exactly  what  Wallenstein 
desired.  He  allowed  the  Saxon  general  to  ad¬ 
vance  sixteen  miles  toward  Meissen,  and  then 
suddenly  turning  toward  the  Oder,  surprised  the 
Swedish  army  in  the  most  complete  security. 
Their  cavalry  was  first  beaten  by  General  Schaf- 
gotsch,  who  was  sent  against  them,  and  the  infan¬ 
try  completely  surrounded  at  Steinau  by  the 
duke’s  army  which  followed.  Wallenstein  gave 
Count  Thurn  half  an  hour  to  deliberate  whether 
he  would  defend  himself  with  two  thousand  five 
hundred  men,  against  more  than  twenty  thousand, 
or  surrender  at  discretion.  But  there  was  no 
room  for  deliberation.  The  army  surrendered, 
and  the  most  complete  victory  was  obtained  with- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


225 


oat  bloodshed.  Colors,  baggage,  and  artillery,  all 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  victors,  the  officers 
were  taken  into  custody,  the  privates  drafted  into 
the  army  of  Wallenstein.  And  now  at  last,  after 
a  banishment  of  fourteen  years,  after  numberless 
changes  of  fortune,  the  author  of  the  Bohemian 
insurrection,  and  the  remote  origin  of  this  destruc¬ 
tive  war,  the  notorious  Count  Thurn,  was  in  the 
power  of  his  enemies.  With  blood-thirsty  impa¬ 
tience,  the  arrival  of  this  great  criminal  was 
looked  for  in  Vienna,  where  they  already  antici¬ 
pated  the  malicious  triumph  of  sacrificing  so  dis¬ 
tinguished  a  victim  to  public  justice.  But  to  de¬ 
prive  the  Jesuits  of  this  pleasure,  was  a  still 
sweeter  triumph  to  Wallenstein,  and  Thurn  was 
set  at  liberty.  Fortunately  for  him,  he  knew 
more  than  it  was  prudent  to  have  divulged  in 
Vienna,  and  his  enemies  were  also  those  of  Wal¬ 
lenstein.  A  defeat  might  have  been  forgiven  in 
Vienna,  but  this  disappointment  of  their  hopes 
they  could  not  pardon.  “What  should  I  have 
done  with  this  madman  ?”  he  writes,  with  a  mali¬ 
cious  sneer,  to  the  minister  who  called  him  to 
account  for  this  unseasonable  magnanimity. 
“Would  to  Heaven  the  enemy  had  no  generals 
but  such  as  he.  At  the  head  of  the  Swedish 
army,  he  will  render  us  much  better  service  than 
in  prison.” 

The  victory  of  Steinau  was  followed  by  the 
capture  of  Leignitz,  Grossglogau,  and  even  of 
Frankfort  on  the  Oder.  Schafgotsch,  who  re¬ 
mained  in  Silesia  to  complete  the  subjugation  of 
that  province,  blockaded  Brieg,  and  threatened 
Breslau,  though  in  vain,  as  that  free  town  was 
jealous  of  its  privileges,  and  devoted  to  the  Swedes. 
Colonels  Illo  and  Goetz  were  ordered  by  Wallen¬ 
stein  to  the  Warta,  to  push  forward  into  Pomera¬ 
nia,  and  to  the  coasts  of  the  Baltic,  and  actually 
obtained  possession  of  Landsberg,  the  key  of 
Pomerania.  While  thus  the  Elector  of  Branden¬ 
burg  and  the  Duke  of  Pomerania  were  made  to 
tremble  for  their  dominions,  Wallenstein  himself, 
with  the  remainder  of  his  army,  burst  suddenly 
into  Lusatia,  where  he  took  Goerlitz  by  storm, 
and  forced  Bautzen  to  surrender.  But  his  object 
was  merely  to  alarm  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  not 
to  follow  up  the  advantages  already  obtained ; 
and  therefore,  even  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  he 
continued  his  negotiations  for  peace  with  Bran¬ 
denburg  and  Saxony,  but  with  no  better  success 
than  before,  as  the  inconsistencies  of  his  conduct 
had  destroyed  all  confidence  in  his  sincerity.  He 
was  therefore  on  the  point  of  turning  his  whole 
force  in  earnest  against  the  unfortunate  Saxons, 
and  effecting  his  object  by  force  of  arms,  when 
circumstances  compelled  him  to  leave  these  terri¬ 
tories.  The  conquests  of  Duke  Bernard  upon  the 
Danube,  which  threatened  Austria  itself  with  im¬ 
mediate  danger,  urgently  demanded  his  presence 
in  Bavaria;  and  the  expulsion  of  the  Saxons  and 
Swedes  from  Silesia,  deprived  him  of  every  pre¬ 
text  for  longer  resisting  the  Imperial  orders,  and 
leaving  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  without  assistance. 
With  his  main  body,  therefore,  he  immediately  set 
out  for  the  Upper  Palatinate,  and  his  retreat 
freed  Saxony  forever  of  this  formidable  enemy. 

So  long  as  was  possible,  he  had  delayed  to  move 
to  the  rescue  of  Bavaria,  and  on  every  pretext 
Vol.  II.— 15 


evaded  the  commands  of  the  Emperor.  He  had, 
indeed,  after  reiterated  remonstrances,  dispatched 
from  Bohemia  a  reinforcement  of  some  regiments 
to  Count  Altringer,  who  was  defending  the  Lech 
and  the  Danube  against  Horn  and  Bernard,  but 
under  the  express  condition  of  his  acting  merely 
on  the  defensive.  He  referred  the  Emperor  and 
the  Elector,  whenever  they  applied  to  him  for  aid, 
to  Altringer,  who,  as  he  publicly  gave  out,  had  re¬ 
ceived  unlimited  powers ;  secretly,  however,  he 
tied  up  his  hands  by  the  strictest  injunctions,  and 
even  threatened  him  with  death  if  he  exceeded  his 
orders.  When  Duke  Bernard  had  appeared  before 
Ratisbon,  and  the  Emperor  as  well  as  the  Elector 
repeated  still  more  urgently  their  demand  for  suc¬ 
cour,  he  pretended  he  was  about  to  dispatch  Ge¬ 
neral  Gallas  with  a  considerable  army  to  the  Dan¬ 
ube  ;  but  this  movement  also  was  delayed,  and 
Ratisbon,  Saubingen,  and  Cham,  as  well  as  the 
bishopric  of  Eichstadt,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Swedes.  When  at  last  he  could  no  longer  neglect 
the  orders  of  the  Court,  he  marched  slowly  toward 
the  Bavarian  frontier,  where  he  recovered  the 
town^of  Cham,  which  had  been  taken  by  the  Swedes. 
But  no  sooner  did  he  learn  that  on  the  Swedish 
side  a  diversion  was  contemplated,  by  an  inroad 
of  the  Saxons  into  Bohemia,  than  he  availed  him¬ 
self  of  the  report,  as  a  pretext  for  immediately  re¬ 
treating  into  that  kingdom.  Every  consideration, 
he  urged,  must  be  postponed  to  the  defense  and 
preservation  of  the  hereditary  dominions  of  the 
Emperor ;  and  on  this  plea,  he  remained  firmly 
fixed  in  Bohemia,  which  he  guarded  as  if  it  had 
been  his  own  property.  And  when  the  Emperor 
laid  upon  him  his  commands  to  move  toward  the 
Danube,  and  prevent  the  Duke  of  Weimar  from 
establishing  himself  in  so  dangerous  a  position  on 
the  frontiers  of  Austria,  Wallenstein  thought 
proper  to  conclude  the  campaign  a  second  time, . 
and  quartered  his  troops  for  the  winter  in  this  ex¬ 
hausted  kingdom. 

Such  continued  insolence  and  unexampled  con¬ 
tempt  of  the  Imperial  orders,  as  well  as  obvious 
neglect  of  the  common  cause,  joined  to  his  equivo¬ 
cal  behavior  toward  the  enemy,  tended  at  last  to  • 
convince  the  Emperor  of  the  truth  of  those  unfa¬ 
vorable  reports  with  regard  to  the  duke,  which 
were  current  through  Germany.  The  latter  had. 
for  a  long  time,  succeeded  in  glozing  over  his 
criminal  correspondence  with  the  enemy,  and  per¬ 
suading  the  Emperor,  still  prepossessed  in  his  fa¬ 
vor,  that  the  sole  object  of  his  secret  conferences 
was  to  obtain  peace  for  Germany.  But  impene¬ 
trable  as  he  himself  believed  his  proceedings  to  be, 
in  the  course  of  his  conduct,  enough  transpired  to 
justify  the  insinuations  with  which  his  rivals  in¬ 
cessantly  loaded  the  ear  of  the*  Emperor.  In  order 
to  satisfy  himself  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  these - 
rumors,  Ferdinand  had  already,  at  different  times, 
sent  spies  into  Wallenstein’s  camp;  but  as  the 
duke  took  the  precaution  never  to  commit  any 
thing  to  writing,  they  returned  with  nothing  but  ; 
conjectures.  But  when,  at  last,  those  ministers 
who  formerly  had  been,  his  champions  at  the  court, 
in  consequence  of  their  estates  not  being  exempted 
by  Wallenstein  from!  the  general  exactions,  joined 
his  enemies ;  when  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  threat¬ 
ened,  in  ease  of  Wallenstein  being  any  longer  re- 


226 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


tained  in  the  supreme  command,  to  unite  with  the 
Swedes ;  when  the  Spanish  ambassador  insisted 
on  his  dismissal,  and  threatened,  in  case  of  refusal, 
to  withdraw  the  subsidies  furnished  by  his  Crown, 
the  Emperor  found  himself  a  second  time  com¬ 
pelled  to  deprive  him  of  the  command. 

The  Emperor’s  authoritative  and  direct  interfe¬ 
rence  with  the  army,  soon  convinced  the  duke  that 
the  compact  with  himself  was  regarded  as  at  an 
end,  and  that  his  dismissal  was  inevitable.  One 
of  his  inferior  generals  in  Austria,  whom  he  had 
forbidden,  under  pain  of  death,  to  obey  the  orders 
of  the  court,  received  the  positive  commands  of 
the  Emperor  to  join  the  Elector  o£  Bavaria  ;  and 
Wallenstein  himself  was  imperiously  ordered  to 
send  some  regiments  to  reinforce  the  army  of  the 
Cardinal  Infante,  who  was  on  his  march  from  Italy. 
All  these  measures  convinced  him  that  the  plan 
was  finally  arranged  to  disarm  him  by  degrees, 
and  at  once,  when  he  was  weak  and  defenseless, 
to  complete  his  ruin. 

In  self-defense,  must  he  notv  hasten  to  carry  into 
execution  the  plans  which  he  had  originally  formed 
only  with  the  view  of  aggrandizement.  He  had 
delayed  too  long,  either  because  the  favorable  con¬ 
figuration  of  the  stars  had  not  yet  presented  itself, 
or,  as  he  used  to  say,  to  check  the  impatience  of 
his  friends,  because  the  time  was  not  yet  come. 
The  time,  even  now,  was  not  come :  but  the  pres¬ 
sure  of  circumstances  no  longer  allowed  him  to 
await  the  favor  of  the  stars.  The  first  step  was 
to  assure  himself  of  the  sentiments  of  his  principal 
officers,  and  then  to  try  the  attachment  of  the 
army,  which  he  had  so  long  confidently  reckoned 
on.  Three  of  them,  Colonels  Kinsky,  Terzky,  and 
Illo,  had  long  been  in  his  secrets,  and  the  two  first 
were  further  united  to  his  interests  by  the  ties  of 
relationship.  The  same  wild  ambition,  the  same 
bitter  hatred  of  the  government,  and  the  hope  of 
enormous  rewards,  bound  them  in  the  closest  man¬ 
ner  to  Wallenstein,  who,  to  increase  the  number 
of  his  adherents,  could  stoop  to  the  lowest  means. 
He  had  once  advised  Colonel  Illo  to  solicit,  in  Vi¬ 
enna,  the  title  of  Count,  and  had  promised  to  back 
his  application  with  his  powerful  mediation.  But 
he  secretly  wrote  to  the  ministry,  advising  them  to 
refuse  his  request,  as  to  grant  it  would  give  rise  to 
similar  demands  from  others,  whose  services  and 
claims  were  equal  to  his.  On  Illo’s  return  to  the 
camp,  Wallenstein  immediately  demanded  to  know 
the  success  of  his  mission  ;  and  when  informed  by 
Illo  of  its  failure,  he  broke  out  into  the  bitterest 
'complaints  against  the  court.  “Thus,”  said  he, 

are  our  faithful  services  rewarded.  My  recom¬ 
mendation  is  disregarded,  and  your  merit  denied 
«o  trifling  a  reward  !  Who  would  any  longer  de¬ 
vote  his  services  to  so  ungrateful  a  master?  No, 
for  my  part,  I  am  henceforth  the  determined  foe 
>of  Austria.”  Illo  agreed  with  him,  and  a  close  al¬ 
liance  was  cemented  between  them. 

But  what  was  known  to  these  three  confidants 
of  the  duke  was  long  an  impenetrable  secret  to  the 
rest;  and  the  confidence  with  which  Wallenstein 
spoke  of  the  devotion  of  his  officers,  was  founded 
merely  on  the  favors  he  had  lavished  on  them,  and 
on  their  known  dissatisfaction  with  the  Court. 
But  this  vague  presumption  must  be  converted 
Into  »eertakty,  before  he  could  venture  to  lay  aside 


the  mask,  or  take  any  open  step  against  the  Em¬ 
peror.  Count  Piccolomini,  who  had  distinguished 
himself  by  his  unparalleled  bravery  at  Lutzen,  was 
the  first  whose  fidelity  he  put  to  the  proof.  He 
had,  he  thought,  gained  the  attachment  of  this  ge¬ 
neral  by  large  presents,  and  preferred  him  to  all 
others,  because  born  under  the  same  constellations 
with  himself.  He  disclosed  to  him,  that,  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  the  Emperor’s  ingratitude,  and  the 
near  approach  of  his  own  danger,  he  had  irrevoca¬ 
bly  determined  entirely  to  abandon  the  party  of 
Austria,  to  join  the  enemy  with  the  best  part  of 
his  army,  and  to  make  war  upon  the  House  of  Aus¬ 
tria,  on  all  sides  of  its  dominions,  till  he  had  wholly 
extirpated  it.  In  the  execution  of  this  plan,  he 
principally  reckoned  on  the  services  of  Picco¬ 
lomini,  and  had  beforehand  promised  him  the 
greatest  rewards.  When  the  latter,  to  conceal 
his  amazement  at  this  extraordinary  communica¬ 
tion,  spoke  of  the  dangers  and  obstacles  which 
would  oppose  so  hazardous  an  enterprize,  Wallen¬ 
stein  ridiculed  his  fears.  “In  such  enterprizes,” 
he  maintained,  “  nothing  was  difficult  but  the  com¬ 
mencement.  The  stars  were  propitious  to  him,  the 
opportunity  the  best  that  could  be  wished  for,  and 
something  must  be  always  trusted  to  fortune.  His 
resolution  was  taken,  and  if  it  could  not  be  other¬ 
wise,  he  would  encounter  the  hazard  at  the  head 
of*  a  thousand  horse.”  Piccolomini  was  careful 
not  to  excite  Wallenstein’s  suspicions  by  longer 
opposition,  and  yielded  apparently  to  the  force  of 
his  reasoning.  Such  was  the  infatuation  of  the 
duke,  that  notwithstanding  the  warnings  of  Count 
Terzky,  he  never  doubted  the  sincerity  of  this 
man,  who  lost  not  a  moment  in  communicating  to 
the  court  of  Vienna  this  important  conversation. 

Preparatory  to  taking  the  last  decisive  step,  he, 
in  January,  1634,  called  a  meeting  of  all  the  com¬ 
manders  of  the  army  at  Pilsen,  whither  he  had 
marched  after  his  retreat  from  Bavaria.  The  Em¬ 
peror’s  recent  orders  to  spare  his  hereditary  do¬ 
minions  from  winter  quarterings,  to  recover  Ra- 
tisbon  in  the  middle  of  winter,  and  to  reduce  the 
army  by  a  detachment  of  six  thousand  horse  to  the 
Cardinal  Infante,  were  matters  sufficiently  grave 
to  be  laid  before  a  conncil  of  war;  and  this  plau¬ 
sible  pretext  served  to  conceal  from  the  curious 
the  real  object  of  the  meeting.  Sweden  and 
Saxony  received  invitations  to  be  present,  in 
order  to  treat  with  the  Duke  of  Friedland  for  a 
peace;  to  the  leaders  of  more  distant  aimies, 
written  communications  were  made.  Of  the  com¬ 
manders  thus  summoned,  twenty  appeared  ;  but 
three  most  influential,  Gallas,  Colloredo  and  Al« 
tringer,  were  absent.  The  Duke  reiterated  his 
summons  to  them,  and  in  .the  mean  time,  in  ex¬ 
pectation  of  their  speedy  arrival,  proceeded  to 
execute  his  designs. 

It  was  no  light  task  that  he  had  to  perform  :  a 
nobleman,  proud,  brave,  and  jealous  of  his  honor, 
was  to  declare  himself  capable  of  the  basest  trea¬ 
chery,  in  the  very  presence  of  those  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  regard  him  as  the  representative 
of  majesty,  the  judge  of  their  actions,  and  the 
supporter  of  their  laws,  and  to  show  himself  sud¬ 
denly  as  a  traitor,  a  cheat,  and  a  rebel.  It  was  no 
easy  task,  either,  to  shake  to  its  foundations  a 
legitimate  sovereignty,  strengthened  by  time  and 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


227 


consecrated  by  laws  and  religion  ;  to  dissolve  all 
the  charms  of  the  senses  and  the  imagination, 
those  formidable  guardians  of  an  established 
throne,  and  to  attempt  forcibly  to  uproot  those 
invincible  feelings  of  duty,  which  plead  so  loudly 
and  so  powerfully  in  the  breast  of  the  subject, 
in  favor  of  his  sovereign.  But,  blinded  by  the 
splendor  of  a  crown,  Wallenstein  observed  not 
the  precipice  that  yawned  beneath  his  feet;  and 
in  full  reliance  on  his  own  strength,  the  common 
case  with  energetic  and  daring  minds,  he  stopped 
not  to  consider  the  magnitude  and  the  number  of 
the  difficulties  that  opposed  him.  Wallenstein 
saw  nothing  but  an  army,  partly  indifferent  and 
partly  exasperated  against  the  court,  accustomed, 
with  a  blind  submission,  to  do  homage  to  his  great 
name,  to  bow  to  him  as  their  legislator  and  judge, 
and  with  trembling  reverence  to  follow  his  orders 
as  the  decrees  of  fate.  In  the  extravagant  flat¬ 
teries  which  were  paid  to  his  omnipotence,  in  the 
bold  abuse  of  the  court  government,  in  which  a 
lawless  soldiery  indulged,  and  which  the  wild 
license  of  the  camp  excused,  he  thought  he  read 
the  sentiments  of  the  army ;  and  the  boldness  with 
which  they  were  ready  to  censure  the  monarch’s 
measures,  passed  with  him  for  a  readiness  to  re¬ 
nounce  their  allegiance  to  a  sovereign  so  little  re¬ 
spected.  But  that  which  he  had  regarded  as  the 
lightest  matter,  proved  the  most  formidable  obsta¬ 
cle  with  which  he  had  to  contend ;  the  soldiers’ 
feelings  of  allegiance  were  the  rock  on  which  his 
hopes  were  wrecked.  Deceived  by  the  profound 
respect  in  which  he  was  held  by  these  lawless 
bands,  he  ascribed  the  whole  to  his  own  personal 
greatness,  without  distinguishing  how  much  he 
owed  to  himself,  and  how  much  to  the  dignity 
with  which  he  was  invested.  All  trembled  before 
him.  while  he  exercised  a  legitimate  authority, 
while  obedience  to  him  was  a  duty,  and  while  his 
consequence  was  supported  by  the  majesty  of  the 
sovereign.  Greatness,  in  and  of  itself,  may  excite 
terror  and  admiration  ;  but  legitimate  greatness 
alone  can  inspire  reverence  and  submission  ;  and 
of  this  decisive  advantage  he  deprived  himself,  the 
instant  he  avowed  himself  a  traitor. 

Field-Marshal  Illo  undertook  to  learn  the  senti¬ 
ments  of  the  officers,  and  to  prepare  them  for  the 
step  which  was  expected  of  them.  He  began  by 
laying  before  them  the  new  orders  of  the  court  to 
the  general  and  the  army;  and  by  the  obnoxious 
turn  he  skillfully  gave  to  them,  he  found  it  easy 
to  excite  the  indignation  of  the  assembly.  After 
this  well  chosen  introduction,  he  expatiated  with 
much  eloquence  upon  the  merits  of  the  army 
and  the  general,  and  the  ingratitude  with  which 
the  Emperor  was  accustomed  to  requite  them. 
Spanish  influence,  he  maintained,  governed  the 
court ;  the  ministry  were  in  the  pay  of  Spain  ; 
the  Duke  of  Friedland  alone  had  hitherto  opposed 
this  tyranny,  and  had  thus  drawn  down  upon 
himself  the  deadly  enmity  of  the  Spaniards.  To 
remove  him  from  the  command,  or  to  make  away 
with  him  entirely,  he  continued,  had  long  been 
the  end  of  their  desires ;  and,  until  they  could 
succeed  in  one  or  other,  they  endeavored  to 
abridge  his  power  in  the  field.  The  command 
was  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  King  of 
Hungary,  for  no  other  reason  than  the  better  to 


promote  the  Spanish  power  in  Germany;  because 
this  prince,  as  the  ready  instrument  of  foreign 
counsels,  might  be  led  at  pleasure.  It  was  merely 
with  the  view  of  weakening  the  army,  that  the 
six  thousand  troops  were  required  for  the  Cardinal 
Infante  ;  it  was  solely  for  the  purpose  of  harassing 
it  by  a  winter  campaign,  that  they  were  now  called 
on,  in  this  inhospitable  season,  to  undertake  the 
recovery  of  Ratisbon.  The  means  of  subsistence 
were  everywhere  rendered  difficult,  while  the  Je¬ 
suits  and  the  ministry  enriched  themselves  with 
the  sweat  of  the  provinces,  and  squandered  th 
money  intended  for  the  pay  of  the  troops.  The 
general,  abandoned  by  the  court,  acknowledges 
his  inability  to  keep  his  engagements  to  the  army. 
For  all  the  services  which,  for  two  and  twenty 
years,  he  had  rendered  the  House  of  Austria;  for 
all  the  difficulties  with  which  he  had  struggled  ; 
for  all  the  treasures  of  his  own,  which  he  had  ex¬ 
pended  in  the  imperial  service,  a  second  disgrace¬ 
ful  dismissal  awaited  him.  But  he  was  resolved 
the  matter  should  not  come  to  this;  he  was  de¬ 
termined  voluntarily  to  resign  the  command,  be¬ 
fore  it  should  be  wrested  from  his  hands ;  and 
this,  continued  the  orator,  is  what,  through  me, 
he  now  makes  known  to  his  officers.  It  was  now 
for  them  to  say  whether  it  would  be  advisable  to 
lose  such  a  general.  Let  each  consider  who  was 
to  refund  him  the  sums  he  had  expettded  in  the 
Emperor’s  service,  and  where  he  was  now  to  reap 
the  reward  of  their  bravery,  when  he  who  was 
their  evidence  removed  from  the  scene.” 

A  universal  cry,  that  they  would  not  allow 
their  general  to  be  taken  from  them,  interrupted 
the  speaker.  Four  of  the  principal  officers  were 
deputed  to  lay  before  him  the  wish  of  the  assem¬ 
bly,  and  earnestly  to  request  that  he  would  not 
leave  the  army.  The  duke  made  a  show  of  re¬ 
sistance,  and  only  yielded  after  the  second  depu¬ 
tation.  This -concession  on  his  side,  seemed  to 
demand  a  return  on  theirs;  as  he  engaged  not  to 
quit  the  service  without  the  knowledge  and  con¬ 
sent  of  the  generals,  he  required  of  them,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  written  promise  to  truly  and  firmly 
adhere  to  him,  neither  to  separate  nor  to  allow 
themselves  to  be  separated  from  him,  and  to  shed 
their  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  defense.  Whoever 
should  break  this  covenant,  was  to  be  regarded  as 
a  perfidious  traitor,  and  treated  by  the  rest  as  a 
common  enemy.  The  express  condition  which 
was  added,  “  As  long  as  Wallenstein  shall  employ 
the  army  in  the  Emperor's  service ,”  seemed  to 
exclude  all  misconception,  and  none  of  the  as¬ 
sembled  generals  hesitated  at  once  to  accede  to  a 
demand,  apparently  so  innocent  and  so  reason¬ 
able. 

This  document  was  publicly  read  before  an  en¬ 
tertainment,  which  Field-Marshal  lllo  had  ex¬ 
pressly  prepared  for  the  purpose ;  it  was  to  be 
signed,  after  fhey  rose  from  table.  The  host  did 
his  utmost  to  stupefy  his  guests  by  strong  pota¬ 
tions  ;  and  it  was  not  until  he  saw  them  affected 
with  the  wine,  that  he  produced  the  paper  for  sig¬ 
nature.  Most  of  them  wrote  their  names,  with¬ 
out  knowing  what  they  were  subscribing  ;  a  few 
only,  more  curious  or  more  distrustful,  read  the 
paper  over  again,  and  discovered  with  astonish¬ 
ment  that  the  clause  “  as  long  as  Wallenstein 


228 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


shall  employ  the  army  for  the  Emperor’s  service,” 
was  omitted.  Ulo  had,  in  fact,  artfully  contrived 
to  substitute  for  the  first  another  copy,  in  which 
these  words  were  wanting1.  The  trick  was  mani¬ 
fest,  and  many  refused  now  to  sign.  Piccolomini, 
who  had  seen  through  the  whole  cheat,  and  had 
been  present  at  this  scene  merely  with  the  view 
of  giving  information  of  the  whole  to  the  court, 
forgoi  himself  so  far  in  his  cups  as  to  drink  the 
Emperor’s  health.  But  Count  Terzky  now  rose, 
and  declared  that  all  were  perjured  villains  who 
should  recede  from  their  engagement.  His  me¬ 
naces,  the  idea  of  the  inevitable  danger  to  which 
they  who  resisted  any  longer  would  be  exposed, 
the  example  of  the  rest,  and  Illo’s  rhetoric,  at 
last  overcame  their  scruples ;  and  the  paper  was 
signed  by  all  without  exception. 

Wallenstein  had  now  effected  his  purpose;  but 
the  unexpected  resistance  he  had  met  with  from 
the  commanders  roused  him  at  last  from  the  fond 
illusions  in  which  he  had  hitherto  indulged.  Be¬ 
sides,  most  of  the  names  were  scrawled  so  illegi¬ 
bly,  that  tome  deceit  was  evidently  intended. 
But  instead  of  being  recalled  to  his  discretion  by 
this  warning,  he  gave  vent  to  his  injured  pride  in 
undignified  complaints  and  reproaches.  He  as¬ 
sembled  the  generals  next  day,  and  undertook 
personally  to  confirm  the  whole  tenor  of  the  agree¬ 
ment  which  Illo  had  submitted  to  them  the  day 
before.  After  pouring  out  the  bitterest  reproaches 
and  abuse  against  the  court,  lie  reminded  them  of 
their  opposition  to  the  proposition  of  the  previous 
day,  and  declared  that  this  circumstance  had  in¬ 
duced  him  to  retract  his  own  promise.  The  ge¬ 
nerals  withdrew  in  silence  and  confusion  ;  but 
after  a  short  consultation  in  the  antechamber, 
they  returned  to  apologize  for  their  late  conduct, 
and  offered  to  sign  the  paper  anew. 

Nothing  now  remained,  but  to  obtain  a  similar 
assurance  from  the  absent  generals,  or,  on  their 
refusal,  to  seize  their  persons.  Wallenstein  re¬ 
newed  his  invitation  to  them,  and  earnestly  urged 
them  to  hasten  their  arrival.  But  a  rumor  of  the 
doings  at  Pilsen  reached  them  on  their  journey, 
and  suddenly  stopped  their  further  progress.  Al- 
tringer,  on  pretense  of  sickness,  remained  in  the 
strong  fortress  of  Frauenberg.  Gallas  made  his 
appearance,  but  merely  with  the  design  of  better 
qualifying  himself  as  an  eyewitness,  to  keep  the 
Emperor  informed  of  all  Wallenstein’s  proceed¬ 
ings.  The  intelligence  which  he  and  Piccolomini 
gave,  at  once  converted  the  suspicions  of  the 
court  into  an  alarming  certainty.  Similar  disclo¬ 
sures,  which  were  at  the  same  time  made  from 
other  quarters,  left  no  room  for  further  doubt ; 
and  the  sudden  change  of  the  commanders  in 
Aistria  and  Silesia,  appeared  to  be  the  prelude 
to  some  important  enterprise.  The  danger  was 
pressing,  and  the  remedy  must  be^speedy,  but  the 
court  was  unwilling  to  proceed  at  once  to  the  ex¬ 
ecution  of  the  sentence,  till  the  regular  forms  of 
justice  were  complied  with.  Secret  instructions 
were  therefore  issued  to  the  principal  officers,  on 
whose  fidelity  reliance  could  be  placed,  to  seize 
the  persons  of  the  Duke  of  Friedland  and  of  his 
two  associates,  Illo  and  Terzky,  and  keep  them  in 
close  confinement,  till  they  should  have  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  being  heard,  and  of  answering  for  their 


conduct;  but  if  this  could  hot  be  accomplished 
quietly,  the  public  danger  required  that  they 
should  be  taken  dead  or  alive.  At  the  same  time, 
General  Gallas  received  a  patent  commission,  by 
which  these  orders  of  the  Emperor  were  made 
known  to  the  colonels  and  officers,  and  the  army 
was  released  from  its  obedience  to  the  traitor,  and 
placed  under  Lieutenant-General  Gallas,  till  a 
new  generalissimo  could  be  appointed.  In  order 
to  bring  back  the  seduced  and  deluded  to  their 
duty,  and  not  to  drive  the  guilty  to  despair,  a  ge¬ 
neral  amnesty  was  proclaimed,  in  regard  to  all 
offenses  against  the  imperial  majesty  committed 
at  Pilsen. 

General  Gallas  was  not  pleased  with  the  honor 
which  was  done  him.  He  was  at  Pilsen,  under 
the  eye  of  the  person  whose  fate  he  was  to 
dispose  of;  in  the  power  of  an  enemy,  who  had  a 
hundred  eyes  to  watch  his  motions.  If  Wallen- 
stein  once  discovered  the  secret  of  his  commis¬ 
sion,  nothing  could  save  him  from  the  effects  of 
his  vengeance  and  despair.  But  if  it  was  thus 
dangerous  to  be  the  secret  depositary  of  such  a 
commission,  how  much  more  so  to  execute  it? 
The  sentiments  of  the  generals  were  uncertain ; 
and  it  was  at  least  doubtful  whether,  after  the 
step  they  had  taken,  they  would  be  ready  to  trust 
the  Emperor’s  promises,  and  at  once  to  abandon 
the  brilliant  expectations  they  had  built  upon 
Wallenstein’s  enterprise.  It  was  also  hazardous 
to  attempt  to  lay  hands  on  the  person  of  the  man 
who,  till  now,  had  been  considered  inviolable  ;  who 
from  long  exercise  of  supreme  power  and  from  ha¬ 
bitual  obedience,  had  become  the  object  of  deepest 
respect :  who  was  invested  with  every  attribute  of 
outward  majesty  and  inwarr]  greatness;  whose  very 
aspect  inspired  terror,  and  who  by  a  nod  disposed  of 
life  and  death  !  To  seize  such  a  man,  like  a  common 
criminal,  in  the  midst  of  the  guards  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded,  and  in  a  city  apparently  devoted 
to  him  ;  to  convert  the  object  of  this  deep  and 
habitual  veneration  into  a  subject  of  compassion, 
or  of  contempt,  was  a  commission  calculated  to 
make  even  the  boldest  hesitate.  So  deeply  was 
fear  and  veneration  for  their  general  engraven  in 
the  breasts  of  the  soldiers,  that  even  the  atrocious 
crime  of  high  treason  conld  not  wholly  eradicate 
these  sentiments. 

Gallas  perceived  the  impossibility  of  executing 
his  commission  under  the  eyes  of  the  duke  ;  and 
his  most  anxious  wish  was,  before  venturing  on 
any  steps,  to  have  an  interview  with  Alt  ringer. 
As  the  long  absence  of  the  latter  had  already  be¬ 
gun  to  excite  the  duke’s  suspicions,  Gallas  offered 
to  repair  in  person  to  Frauenberg,  and  to  prevail 
on  Altringer.  his  relation,  to  return  with  him. 
Wallenstein  was  so  pleased  with  this  proof  of  his 
zeal,  that  he  even  lent  him  his  own  equipage  for 
journey.  Bejoicing  at  the  success  of  his  strata¬ 
gem,  he  left  Pilsen  without  delay,  leaving  to  Count 
Piccolomini  the  task  of  watching  Wallenstein’s 
further  movements.  He  did  not  fail,  as  he  went 
along,  to  make  use  of  the  imperial  patent,  and  the 
sentiments  of  the  troops  proved  more  favorable 
than  he  had  expected.  Instead  of  taking  back 
his  friend  to  Pilsen,  he  despatched  him  to  Vienna, 
to  warn  the  Emperor  against  the  intended  attack, 
while  he  himself  repaired  to  Upper  Austria,  of 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


229 


which  the  safety  was  threatened  by  the  near  ap¬ 
proach  of  Duke  Bernard.  In  Bohemia,  the  towns 
of  Btidweiss  and  Tabor  were  again  garrisoned  for 
the  Emperor,  and  every  precaution  taken  to  op¬ 
pose  with  energy,  the  designs  of  the  traitor. 

As  Gallas  did  not  appear  disposed  to  return, 
Piccolomini  determined  to  put  Wallenstein’s  cre¬ 
dulity  once  more  to  the  test.  He  begged  to  be 
sent  to  bring  back  Gallas,  and  W allenstein  suffered 
himself  to  be  a  second  time  overreached.  This 
inconceivable  blindness  can  only  be  accounted  for 
as  the  result  of  his  pride,  which  never  retracted 
the  opinion  it  had  once  formed  of  any  person,  and 
would  not  acknowledge,  even  to  itself,  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  being  deceived.  He  conveyed  Count 
Piccolomini  in  his  own  carriage  to  Lintz,  where 
the  latter  immediately  followed  the  example  of 
Gallas,  and  even  went  a  step  further.  He  had 
promised  the  duke  to  return.  He  did  so,  but  it 
was  at  the  head  of  an  army,  intending  to  surprise 
the  duke  in  Pilsen.  Another  army  under  General 
Suys  hastened  to  Prague,  to  secure  that  capital  in 
its  allegiance,  and  to  defend  it  against  the  rebels. 
Gallas,  at  the  same  time,  announced  himself  to  the 
different  imperial  armies  as  the  commander-in¬ 
chief,  from  whom  they  were  henceforth  to  receive 
orders.  Placards  were  circulated  through  all 
the  imperial  camps,  denouncing  the  duke  and  his 
four  confidants,  and  absolving  the  soldiers  from 
all  obedience  to  him. 

The  example  which  had  been  set  at  Lintz,  was 
universally  followed  ;  imprecations  were  showered 
on  the  traitor,  and  he  was  forsaken  by  all  the 
armies.  At  last,  when  even  Piccolomini  returned 
no  more,  the  mist  fell  from  Wallenstein’s  eyes,  and 
in  consternation  he  awoke  from  his  dream.  Yet 
his  faith  in  the  truth  of  astrology,  and  in  the 
fidelity  of  the  army  was  unshaken.  Immediately 
after  the  intelligence  of  Piccolomini’s  defection, 
he  issued  orders,  that  in  future  no  commands  were 
to  be  obeyed,  which  did  not  proceed  directly  from 
himself,  or  from  Terzky,  or  Illo.  He  prepared,  in 
all  haste,  to  advance  upon  Prague,  where  he  in¬ 
tended  to  throw  off  the  mask,  and  openly  to  de¬ 
clare  against  the  Emperor.  All  the  troops  were 
to  assemble  before  that  city,  and  from  thence  to 
pour  down  with  rapidity  upon  Austria.  Duke 
Bernard,  who  had  joined  the  conspiracy,  was  to 
support  the  operations  of  the  duke,  with  the 
Swedish  troops,  and  to  effect  a  diversion  upon  the 
Danube. 

Terzky  was  already  upon  his  march  toward 
Prague:  and  nothing,  but  the  want  of  horses, 
prevented  the  duke  from  following  him  with  the 
regiments  who  still  adhered  faithfully  to  him. 
But  when,  with  the  most  anxious  expectation,  he 
awaited  the  intelligence  from  Prague,  he  suddenly 
received  information  of  the  loss  of  that  town,  the 
defection  of  his  generals,  the.  desertion  of  his 
troops,  the  discovery  of  his  whole  plot,  and  the 
rapid  advance  of  Piccolomini,  who  was  sworn  to 
his  destruction.  Suddenly  and  fearfully  had  all 
his  projects  been  ruined — all  his  hopes  annihilated. 
He  stood  alone,  abandoned  by  all  to  whom  he  had 
beeu  a  benefactor,  betrayed  by  all  on  whom  he  had 
depended.  But  it  is  under  such  circumstances 
that  great  minds  reveal  themselves.  Though  de¬ 
ceived  in  all  his  expectations,  he  refused  to  aban¬ 


don  one  of  his  designs ;  he  despaired  of  nothing, 
so  long  as  life  remained.  The  time  was  now  come, 
when  he  absolutely  required  that  assistance,  which 
he  had  so  often  solicited  from  the  Swedes  and  the 
Saxons,  and  when  all-doubts  of  the  sincerity  of 
his  purposes  must  be  dispelled.  And  now,  when 
Oxenstiern  and  Arnheim  were  convinced  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  intentions,  and  were  aware  of  his 
necessities,  they  no  longer  hesitated  to  embrace 
the  favorable  opportunity,  and  to  offer  him  their 
protection.  On  the  part  of  Saxony,  the  Duke 
Francis  Albert  of  Saxe  Lauenberg  was  to  jc  in 
him  with  4,000  men;  and  Duke  Bernard,  and  the 
Palatine  Christian  of  Birkenfeld,  with  6,000  from 
Sweden,  all  chosen  troops. 

Wallenstein  left  Pilsen,  with  Terzky’s  regiment^ 
and  the  few  who  either  were,  or  pretended  to  be, 
faithful  to  him,  and  hastened  to  Egra,  on  the 
frontiers  of  the  kingdom,  in  order  to  be  near  the 
Upper  Palatinate,  and  to  facilitate  his  junction 
with  Duke  Bernard.  He  was  not  yet  informed  of 
the  decree  by  which  he  was  proclaimed  a  public 
enemy  and  traitor  ;  this  thunder-stroke  awaited 
him  at  Egra.  He  still  reckoned  on  the  army, 
which  General  Schafgotsch  was  preparing  for  him 
in  Silesia,  and  flattered  himself  with  the  hope  that 
many  even  of  those  who  had  forsaken  him,  would 
return  with  the  first  dawning  of  success.  Even 
during  his  flight  to  Egra  (so  little  humility  had  he 
learned  from  melancholy  experience)  he  was  still 
occupied  with  the  colossal  scheme  of  dethroning 
the  Emperor.  It  was  under  these  circumstances, 
that  one  of  his  suite  asked  leave  to  offer  him  his 
advice.  “Under  the  Emperor,”  said  he,  “your 
highness  is  certain  of  being  a  great  and  respected 
noble  ;  with  the  enemy,  you  are  at  best  but  a  pre¬ 
carious  king.  It  is  unwise  to  risk  certainty  for 
uncertainty.  The  enemy  will  avail  themselves  of 
your  personal  influence,  while  the  opportunity 
lasts  ;  but  you  will  ever  be  regarded  with  suspicion, 
and  they  will  always  be  fearful  lest  you  should 
treat  them  as  you  have  done  the  Emperor.  Re¬ 
turn,  then,  to  your  allegiance,  while  there  is  yet 
time.” — “  And  how  is  that  to  be  done?”  said  Wal¬ 
lenstein,  interrupting  him:  “You  have  40,000 
men-at-arms,”  rejoined  he,  (meaning  ducats,  which 
were  stamped  with  the  figure  of  an  armed  man,) 
“  take  them  with  you,  and  go  straight  to  the  Im¬ 
perial  Court ;  then  declare  that  the  steps  you  have 
hitherto  taken  were  merely  designed  to  test  the 
fidelity  of  the  Emperor’s  servants,  and  of  dis¬ 
tinguishing  the  loyal  from  the  doubtful ;  and  since 
most  have  shown  a  disposition  to  revolt,  say  you 
are  come  to  warn  his  Imperial  Majesty  against 
those  dangerous  men.  Thus  you  will  make  those 
appear  as  traitors,  who  are  laboring  to  represent 
you  as  a  false  villain.  At  the  Imperial  Court,  a 
man  is  sure  to  be  welcome  with  40,000  ducats,  and 
Friedland  will  be  again  as  he  was  at  the  first.” — 
“  The  advice  is  good,”  said  Wallenstein,  after  a 
pause,  “  but  let  the  devil  trust  to  it.” 

While  the  duke,  in  his  retirement  in  Egra,  was 
energetically  pushing  his  negotiations  with  the 
enemy,  consulting  the  stars,  and  indulging  in  new 
hopes,  the  dagger  which  was  to  put  an  end  to  his 
existence  was  unsheathed  almost  under  his  very 
eyes.  The  imperial  decree  which  proclaimed  him 
an  outlaw,  had  not  failed  of  its  effect ;  and  an 


230 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


avenging  Nemesis  ordained  that  the  ungrateful 
should  fall  beneath  the  blow  of  ingratitude. 
Among  his  officers,  Wallenstein  had  particularly 
distinguished  ore  LesHe,*  an  Irishman,  and  had 
made  his  fortune.  This  was  the  man  who  now 
felt  himself  called  on  to  execute  the  sentence 
against  him,  and  to  earn  the  price  of  blood.  No 
sooner  had  he  reached  Egra,  in  the  suite  of  the 
duke,  than  he  disclosed  to  the  commandant  of  the 
town.  Col.  Butler,  and  to  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Gordon,  twoProtestant  Scotchmen;  the  treasonable 
designs  of  the  duke,  which  the  latter  had  impru¬ 
dently  enough  communicated  to  him  during  the 
journey.  In  these  two  individuals,  he  had  found 
men  capable  of  a  determined  resolution.  They 
were  now  called  on  to  choose  between  treason  and 
duty,  between  their  legitimate  sovereign  and  a 
fugitive  abandoned  rebel  ;  and  though  the  latter 
was  their  common  benefactor,  the  choice  could 
not  remain  for  a  moment  doubtful.  They  were 
solemnly  pledged  to  the  allegiance  of  the  Em¬ 
peror,  and  this  duty  required  them  to  take  the 
most  rapid  measures  against  the  public  enemy. 
The  opportunity  was  favorable  ;  his  evil  genius 
seemed  to  have  delivered  him  into  the  hands  of 
vengeance.  But  not  to  encroach  on  the  pro¬ 
vince  of  justice,  they  resolved  to  deliver  up  their 
victim  alive  ;  and  they  parted  with  the  bold  re¬ 
solve  to  take  their  general  prisoner.  This  dark 
plot  was  buried  in  the  deepest  silence  ;  and  Wal¬ 
lenstein,  far  from  suspecting  his  impending  ruin, 
flattered  himself  that  in  the  garrison  of  Egra  he 
possessed  his  bravest  and  most  faithful  champions. 

At  this  time  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
Imperial  proclamations  containing  his  sentence, 
and  which  had  been  published  in  all  the  camps. 
He  now  became  aware  of  the  full  extent  of  the 
danger  which  encompassed  him,  the  utter  im¬ 
possibility  of  retracing  his  steps,  his  fearfully 
forlorn  condition,  and  the  absolute  necessity 
of  at  once  trusting  himself  to  the  faith  and 
honor  of  the  Emperor’s  enemies.  To  Leslie 
he  poured  forth  all  the  anguish  of  his  wounded 
spirit,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  agitation  ex¬ 
tracted  from  him  his  last  remaining  secret.  He 
disclosed  to  this  officer  his  intention  to  deliver  up 
Egra  and  Ellenbogen,  the  passes  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  to  the  Palatine  of  Birkenfeld,  and  at  the 
same  time,  informed  him  of  the  near  approach  of 
Duke  Bernard,  of  whose  arrival  he  hoped  to  re¬ 
ceive  tidings  that  very  night.  These  disclosures, 
which  Leslie  immediately  communicated  to  the 
conspirators,  made  them  change  their  original 
plan.  The  urgency  of  the  danger  admitted  not 
of  half  measures.  Egra  might  in  a  moment  be  in 
the  enemy’s  hands,  and  a  sudden  revolution  set 
their  prisoner  at  liberty.  To  anticipate  this 
mischance,  they  resolved  to  assassinate  him  and 
his  associates  the  following  night. 

In  order  to  execute  this  design  with  less  noise, 
it  was  arranged  that  the  fearful  deed  should  be 
perpetrated  at  an  entertainment  which  Colonel 
Butler,  should  give  in  the  Castle  of  Egra.  All 

*  Schiller  is  mistaken  as  to  this  point.  Leslie  was  a 
Scotchman,  and  Butler  an  Irishman  and  a  papist.  He 
died  a  general  in  the  Emperor's  service,  and  founded,  at 
Pi  ague,  a  convent  of  Irish  Franciscans  which  still  exists. 


the  guests,  except  Wallenstein,  made  their  appear, 
ance,  who  being  in  too  great  anxiety  of  mind  to 
enjoy  company,  excused  himself.  With  regard  to 
him,  therefore,  their  plan  must  be  again  changed  ; 
but  they  resolved  to  execute  their  design  against 
the  others.  The  three  Colonels,  Illo,  Terzky,  and 
William  Kinskv,  came  in  with  careless  confidence, 
and  with  them  Captain  Neumann,  an  officer  of 
ability,  whose  advice  Terzky  sought  in  every  in¬ 
tricate  affair.  Previous  to  their  arrival,  trusty 
soldiers  of  the  garrison,  to  whom  the  plot  had  been 
communicated,  were  admitted  into  the  Castle,  all 
the  avenues  leading  from  it  guarded,  and  six  of 
Butler’s  dragoons  concealed  in  an  apartment 
close  to  the  banqueting-room,  who,  on  a  concerted 
signal,  were  to  rush  in  and  kill  the  traitors.  With¬ 
out  suspecting  the  danger  that  hung  over  them, 
the  guests  gaily  abandoned  themselves  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  and  Wallenstein’s  health 
was  drunk  in  full  bumpers,  not  as  a  servant  of  the 
Emperor,  but  as  a  sovereign  prince.  The  wine 
opened  their  hearts,  and  Illo,  with  exultation, 
boasted  that  in  three  days  an  army  would  arrive, 
such  as  Wallenstein  had  never  before  been  at  the 
head  of.  “Yes,”  cried  Neumann,  “  and  then  he 
hopes  to  bathe  his  hands  in  Austrian  blood.” 
During  this  conversation,  the  dessert  was  brought 
in,  and  Leslie  gave  the  concerted  signal  to  raise 
the  drawbridges,  while  he  himself  received  the 
keys  of  the  gates.  In  an  instant,  the  hall  was 
filled  with  armed  men,  who,  with  the  unexpected 
greeting  of  “  Long  live  Ferdinand  !”  placed  them¬ 
selves  behind  the  chairs  of  the  marked  guests. 
Surprised,  and  with  a  presentiment  of  their  fate, 
they  sprang  from  the  table.  Kinsky  and  Terzky 
were  killed  upon  the  spot,  and  before  they  could 
put  themselves  upon  their  guard.  Neumann, 
during  the  confusion  in  the  hall,  escaped  into  the 
court,  where,  however,  he  was  instantly  recognized 
and  cut  down.  Illo  alone  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  defend  himself.  He  placed  his  back 
against  a  window,  from  whence  he  poured  the  bit¬ 
terest  reproaches  upon  Gordon,  and  challenged 
him  to  fight  him  fairly  and  honorably.  After  a 
gallant  resistance,  in  which  he  slew  two  of  his 
assailants,  he  fell  to  the  ground  overpowered  by 
numbers,  and  pierced  with  ten  wounds.  The  deed 
was  no  sooner  accomplished,  than  Leslie  hastened 
into  the  town  to  prevent  a  tumult.  The  sentinels 
at  the  castle  gate,  seeing  him  running  and  out  of 
breath,  and  believing  he  belonged  to  the  rebels, 
fired  their  muskets  after  him,  but  without  effect. 
The  firing,  however,  aroused  the  town-guard,  and 
all  Leslie’s  presence  of  mind  was  requisite  to  allay 
the  tumult.  He  hastily  detailed  to  then)  all  the 
circumstances  of  Wallenstein’s  conspiracy,  the 
measures  which  had  been  already  taken  to  coun¬ 
teract  it,  the  fate  of  the  four  rebels,  as  well  as  that 
which  awaited  their  chief.  Finding  the  troops 
well  disposed,  he  exacted  from  them  a  new  oath 
of  fidelity  to  the  Emperor,  and  to  live  and  die  for 
the  good  cause.  A  hundred  of  Butler’s  dragoons 
were  sent  from  the  Castle  into  the  town  to  patrol 
the  streets,  to  overawe  the  partisans  of  the  Duke, 
and  to  prevent  tumult.  All  the  gates  of  Egra 
were  at  the  same  time  seized,  and  every  avenue  to 
Wallenstein’s  residence,  which  adjoined  the  mar¬ 
ket-place,  guarded  by  a  numerous  and  trusty  body 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR.  231 


of  troops,  sufficient*  to  prevent  either  his  escape 
or  his  receiving  any  assistance  from  without. 

But  before  they  proceeded  finally  to  execute 
the  deed,  a  long  conference  was  held  among  the 
conspirators  in  the  Castle,  whether  they  should 
kill  him,  or  content  themselves  with  making  him 
prisoner.  Besprinkled  as  they  were  with  the 
blood,  and  deliberating  almost  over  the  very 
corpses  of  his  murdered  associates,  even  these 
furious  men  yet  shuddered  at  the  horror  of  taking 
away  so  illustrious  a  life.  They  saw  before  their 
mind’s  eve  him  their  leader  in  battle,  in  the  davs 

*  V 

of  his  good  fortune,  surrounded  by  his  victorious 
army,  clothed  with  all  the  pomp  of  military  great¬ 
ness.  and  long-accustomed  awe  again  seized  their 
minds.  But  this  transitory  emotion  was  soon  ef¬ 
faced  by  the  thought  of  the  immediate  danger. 
They  remembered  the  hints  which  Neumann  and 
Illo  had  thrown  out  at  table,  the  near  approach 
of  a  formidable  army  of  Swedes  and  Saxons,  and 
they  clearly  saw  that  the  death  of  the  traitor  was 
their  only  chance  of  safety.  They  adhered,  there¬ 
fore  to  their  first  resolution,  and  Captain  Deve- 
roux,  an  Irishman,  who  had  already  been  retained 
for  the  murderous  purpose,  received  decisive  orders 
to  act. 

While  these  three  officers  were  thus  deciding 
upon  his  fate  in  the  castle  of  Egra,  Wallenstein 
was  occupied  in  reading  the  stars  with  Seni. 
“  The  danger  is  not  yet  over,”  said  the  astrologer 
with  prophetic  spirit.  “  It  is,”  replied  the  duke, 
who  would  give  the  law  even  to  heaven.  “  But,” 
he  continued  with  equally  prophetic  spirit,  “that 
thou  friend  Seni  thyself  shall  soon  be  thrown  into 
prison,  that  also  is  written  in  the  stars.”  The 
astrologer  had  taken  his  leave,  and  Wallenstein 
had  retired  to  bed,  when  Captain  Deveroux  ap¬ 
peared  before  his  residence  with  six  halberdiers, 
and  was  immediately  admitted  by  the  guard,  who 
were  accustomed  to  see  him  visit  the  general  at 
all  hours.  A  page  who  met  him  upon  the  stairs, 
and  attempted  to  raise  an  alarm,  was  run  through 
the  body  with  a  pike.  In  the  antechamber,  the 
assassins  met  a  servant,  who  had  just  come  out  of 
the  sleeping-room  of  his  master,  and  had  taken 
with  him  the  key.  Putting  his  finger  upon  his 
mouth,  the  terrified  domestic  made  a  sign  to 
them  to  make  no  noise,  as  the  Duke  was  asleep. 
“Friend,”  cried  Deveroux,  “it  is  time  to  awake 
him  ;”  and  with  these  words  he  rushed  against  the 
door,  which  was  bolted  from  within,  and  burst  it 
open. 

Wallenstein  had  been  roused  from  his  first 
sleep,  by  the  report  of  a  musket  which  had  acci¬ 
dentally  gone  off,  and  had  sprung  to  the  window 
to  call  the  guard.  At  the  same  moment,  he  heard, 
from  the  adjoining  building,  the  shrieks  of  the 
Countesses  Terzky  and  Kinsky,  who  had  just 
learnt  the  violent  fate  of  their  husbands.  Ere  he 
had  time  to  reflect  on  these  terrible  events,  Deve¬ 
roux,  with  the  other  murderers,  was  in  his  cham¬ 
ber.  The  duke  was  in  his  shirt,  as  he  had  leaped 
out  of  bed,  and  leaning  on  a  table  near  the  win¬ 
dow.  “  Art  thou  the  villain,”  cried  Deveroux  to 
him,  “  who  intends  to  deliver  up  the  Emperor’s 
troops  to  the  enemy,  and  to  tear  the  crown  from 
the  head  of  his  Majesty?  Now  thou  must  die  !” 
He  paused  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  expecting  an 


answer;  but  rage  and  astonishment  kept  Wallen¬ 
stein  silent.  Throwing  his  arms  wide  open,  he  re¬ 
ceived  in  his  breast,  the  deadly  blow  of  the  hal¬ 
berts,  and  without  uttering  a  groan,  fell  weltering 
in  his  blood. 

The  next  day,  an  express  arrived  from  the  Duke 
of  Lauenberg,  announcing  his  approach.  The 
messenger  was  secured,  and  another  in  Wallen, 
stein’s  livery  dispatched  to  the  Duke,  to  decoy 
him  into  Egra.  The'stratagem  succeeded,  and 
Francis  Albert  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
Duke  Bernard  of  Weimar,  who  was  on  his  march 
toward  Egra,  was  nearly  sharing  the  same  fate. 
Fortunately,  he  heard  of  Wallenstein’s  death,  in 
time  to  save  himself  by  a  retreat.  Ferdinand 
shed  a  tear  over  the  fate  of  his  general,  and  or¬ 
dered  three  thousand  masses  to  be  said  for  his  soul 
at  Vienna  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  he  did  not  for¬ 
get  to  reward  his  assassins  with  gold  chains,  cham¬ 
berlains’  keys,  dignities,  and  estates. 

Thus  did  Wallenstein,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  ter¬ 
minate  his  active  and  extraordinary  life.  To  am¬ 
bition,  he  owed  both  his  greatness  and  his  ruin  ; 
with  all  his  failings,  he  possessed  great  and  admi¬ 
rable  qualities,  and  had  he  kept  himself  within  due 
bounds,  he  would  have  lived  and  died  without  an 
equal.  The  virtues  of  the  ruler  and  of  the  hero, 
prudence,  justice,  firmness,  and  courage,  are 
strikingly  prominent  features  in  his  character ; 
but  he  wanted  the  gentler  virtues  of  the  man, 
which  adorn  the  hero,  and  make  the  ruler  beloved. 
Terror  was  the  talisman  with  which  he  worked  ; 
extreme  in  his  punishments  as  in  his  rewards,  he 
knew  how  to  keep  alive  the  zeal  of  his  followers, 
while  no  general  of  ancient  or  modern  times 
could  boast  of  being  obeyed  with  equal  alacrity. 
Submission  to  his  will  was  more  prized  by  him 
than  bravery;  for,  if  the  soldiers  work  by  the 
latter,  it  is  on  the  former  that  the  general  depends. 
He  continually  kept  up  the  obedience  of  his  troops 
by  capricious  orders,  and  profusely  rewarded  the 
readiness  to  obey  even  in  trifles ;  because  he 
looked  rather  to  the  act  itself,  than  its  object. 
He  once  issued  a  decree,  with  the  penalty  of 
death  on  disobedience,  that  none  but  red  sashes 
should  be  worn  in  the  army.  A  captain  of  horse 
no  sooner  heard  the  order,  than  pulling  off  his 
gold-embroidered  sash,  he  trampled  it  under  foot; 
Wallenstein,  on  being  informed  of  the  circum¬ 
stance,  promoted  him  on  the  spot  to  the  rank  of 
colonel.  His  comprehensive  glance  was  always 
directed  to  the  whole,  and  in  all  his  apparent  ca¬ 
price,  he  steadily  kept  in  view  some  general  scope 
or  bearing.  The  robberies  committed  by  the  sol¬ 
diers  in  a  friendly  country,  had  led  to  the  severest 
orders  against  marauders  ;  and  all  who  should  be 
caught  thieving,  were  threatened  with  the  halter. 
Wallenstein  himself  having  met  a  straggler  in  the 
open  country  upon  the  field,  commanded  him  to 
be  seized  without  trial,  as  a  transgressor  of  the 
law,  and  in  his  usual  voice  of  thunder,  exclaimed, 
“  Hang  the  fellow,”  against  which  no  opposition 
ever  availed.  The  soldier  pleaded  and  proved  his 
innocence,  but  the  irrevocable  sentence  had  gone 
forth.  “  Hang  the  innocent,”  cried  the  inexor¬ 
able  Wallenstein,  “  the  guilty  will  have  then 
more  reason  to  tremble.”  Preparations  were  al¬ 
ready  making  to  execute  the  sentence,  when  the 


232 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


soldier,  who  gave  himself  up  for  lost,  formed  the 
desperate  resolution  of  not  dying  without  revenge. 
He  fell  furiously  upon  his  judge,  but  was  over¬ 
powered  by  numbers,  and  disarmed  before  he 
could  fulfill  his  design.  “Now  let  him  go,”  said 
the  duke,  “  it  will  excite  sufficient  terror.” 

His  munificence  was  supported  by  an  immense 
income,  which  was  estimated  at  three  millions  of 
florins  yearly,  without  reckoning  the  enormous 
sums  which  he  raised  under  the  name  of  contribu¬ 
tions.  His  liberality  and  clearness  of  understand¬ 
ing,  raised  him  above  the  religions  prejudices  of 
his  age;  and  the  Jesuits  never  forgave  him  for 
having  seen  through  their  system,  dnd  for  regard¬ 
ing  the  pope  as  nothing  more  than  a  bishop  of 
Rome. 

But  as  no  one  ever  yet  came  to  a  fortunate  end 
who  quarreled  with  the  Church,  Wallenstein  also 
must  augment  the  number  of  its  victims.  Through 
the  intrigues  of  monks,  he  lost  at  Ratisbon  the 
command  of  the  army,  and  at  Egra  his  life ;  by 
the  same  arts,  perhaps,  he  lost  what  was  of  more 
consequence,  his  honorable  name  and  good  repute 
with  posterity. 

For  in  justice  it  must  be  admitted,  that  the 
pens  which  have  traced  the  history  of  this  extra¬ 
ordinary  man  are  not  untinged  with  partiality, 
and  that  the  treachery  of  the  duke,  and  his  de¬ 
signs  upon  the  throne  of  Bohemia,  rest  not  so 
much  upon  proven  facts,  as  upon  probable  con¬ 
jecture.  No  documents  have  yet  been  brought 
to  light,  which  disclose  with  historical  certainty 
the  secret  motives  of  his  conduct;  and  among  all 
his  public  and  well-attested  actions,  there  is,  per¬ 
haps,  not  one  which  could  not  have  had  an  inno¬ 
cent  end.  Many  of  his  most  obnoxious  measures 
proved  nothing  but  the  earnest  wish  he  entertained 
for  peace ;  most  of  the  others  are  explained  and 
justified  by  the  well-founded  distrust  he  enter¬ 
tained  of  the  Emperor,  and  the  excusable  wish  of 
maintaining  his  own  importance.  It  is  true,  that 
his  conduct  toward  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  and 
the  dictates  of  an  implacable  spirit,  look  too  like 
an  unworthy  revenge  ;  but  still,  none  of  his  actions 
perhaps  warrant  us  in  holding  his  treason  to  be 
roved.  If  necessity  and  despair  at  last  forced 
im  to  deserve  the  sentence  which  had  been  pro¬ 
nounced  against  him  while  innocent,  still  this,  if 
true,  will  not  justify  that  sentence.  Thus  Wal¬ 
lenstein  fell,  not  because  he  was  a  rebel,  but  he 
became  a  rebel  because  he  fell.  Unfortunate  in 
life  that  he  made  a  victorious  party  his  enemy, 
and  still  more  unfortunate  in  death,  that  the  same 
party  survived  him  and  wrote  his  history. 


BOOK  Y. 

Wallenstein’s  death  rendered  necessary  the 
appointment  of  a  new  generalissimo  ;  and  the  Em¬ 
peror  yielded  at  last  to  the  advice  of  the  Span¬ 
iards,  to  raise  his  son  Ferdinand,  King  of  Hun¬ 
gary,  to  that  dignity.  Under  him,  Count  Gallas 
commanded,  who  performed  the  functions  of  com¬ 
mander-in-chief,  while  the  prince  brought  to  this 
post  nothing  but  his  name  and  dignity.  A  con¬ 
siderable  force  was  soon  assembled  under  Ferdi- 


!  nand ;  the  Duke  of  Lorraine  brought  up  a  con¬ 
siderable  body  of  auxiliaries  in  person,  and  the 
Cardinal  Infante  joined  him  from  Italy  with  ten 
thousand  men.  In  order  to  drive  the  enemy  from 
the  Danube,  the  new  general  undertook  the  enter¬ 
prise  in  which  his  predecessor  had  failed,  the  siege 
of  Ratisbon.  In  vain  did  Duke  Bernard  of  Wei¬ 
mar  penetrate  into  the  interior  of  Bavaria,  with  a 
view  to  draw  the  enemy  from  the  town  ;  Ferdinand 
continued  to  press  the  siege  with  vigor,  and  the 
city,  after  a  most  obstinate  resistance,  "was 
obliged  to  open  its  gates  to  him.  Donauwerth 
soon  shared  the  same  fate,  and  Nordlingen  in 
Swabia  was  now  invested.  The  loss  of  so  many 
of  the  imperial  cities  was  severely  felt  by  the 
Swedish  party ;  as  the  friendship  of  these  towns 
had  so  largely  contributed  to  the  success  of  their 
arms,  indifference  to  their  fate  would  have  been 
inexcusable.  It  would  have  been  an  indelible  dis¬ 
grace,  had  they  deserted  their  confederates  in  their 
need,  and  abandoned  them  to  the  revenge  of  an 
implacable  conqueror.  Moved  by  these  consid¬ 
erations,  the  Swedish  army,  under  the  command 
of  Horn,  and  Bernard  of  Weimar,  advanced  upon 
Nordlingen,  determined  to  relieve  it,  even  at  the 
expense  of  a  battle. 

The  undertaking  was  a  dangerous  one,  for  in 
numbers  the  enemy  was  greatly  superior  to  that 
of  the  Swedes.  There  was  also  a  further  reason 
for  avoiding  a  battle  at  present ;  the  enemy’s  force 
was  likely  soon  to  divide,  the  Italian  troops  being 
destined  for  the  Netherlands.  In  the  mean  time, 
such  a  position  might  be  taken  up,  as  to  cover 
Nordlingen,  and  cut  off  their  supplies.  All  these 
grounds  were  strongly  urged  by  Gustavus  Horn 
in  the  Swedish  council  of  war ;  but  his  remon¬ 
strances  were  disregarded  by  men  who,  intoxi¬ 
cated  by  a  long  career  of  success,  mistook  the 
suggestions  of  prudence  for  the  voice  of  timidity. 
Overborne  by  the  superior  influence  of  Duke  Ber¬ 
nard,  Gustavus  Horn  was  compelled  to  risk  a  con¬ 
test,  whose  unfavorable  issue,  a  dark  foreboding 
seemed  already  to  announce.  The  fate  of  the 
battle  depended  upon  the  possession  of  a  height 
which  commanded  the  imperial  camp.  An  at¬ 
tempt  to  occupy  it  during  the  night  failed,  as  the 
tedious  transport  of  the  artillery  through  woods 
and  hollow  ways  delayed  the  arrival  of  the  troops. 
When  the  Swedes  arrived  about  midnight,  they 
found  the  heights  in  possession  of  the  enemy, 
strongly  intrenched.  They  waited,  therefore,  for 
daybreak,  to  carry  them  by  storm.  Their  impetu¬ 
ous  courage  surmounted  every  obstacle ;  the  in- 
trenchments,  which  were  in  the  form  of  a  cres¬ 
cent,  were  fortunately  scaled  by  each  of  the  two 
brigades  appointed  to  the  service ;  but  as  the/  en* 
tered  at  the  same  moment  from  opposite  sides, 
they  met  and  threw  each  other  into  confusion.  At 
this  unfortunate  moment,  a  barrel  of  powder  olew 
up,  and  created  the  greatest  disorder  among  the 
Swedes.  The  imperial  cavalry  charged  upon  their 
broken  ranks,  and  the  flight  became  universal. 
No  persuasion  on  the  part  of  their  gereral  could 
induce  the  fugitives  to  renew  the  assault. 

He  resolved,  therefore,  in  order  to  carry  this 
important  post,  to  lead  fresh  troops  to  the  attack. 
But  in  the  interim,  some  Spanish  regiments  had 
marched  in,  and  every  attempt  to  gain  it  was  re- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


233 


pulsed  by  their  heroic  intrepidity.  One  of  the 
duke’s  own  regiments  advanced  seven  times,  and 
was  as  often  driven  back.  The  disadvantage  of 
not  occupying  this  post  in  time,  was  quickly  and 
sensibly  felt.  The  fire  of  the  enemy’s  artillery 
from  the  heights,  caused  such  slaughter  in  the 
adjacent  wing  of  the  Swedes,  that  Horn,  who 
commanded  there,  was  forced  to  give  orders  to 
retire.  Instead  of  being  able  to  cover  the  retreat 
of  his  colleague,  and  to  check  the  pursuit  of  the 
enemy,  Duke  Bernard,  overpowered  by  numbers, 
was  himself  driven  into  the  plain,  where  his  routed 
cavalry  spread  confusion  among  Horn’s  brigade, 
and  rendered  the  defeat  complete.  Almost  the 
entire  infantry  were  killed  or  taken  prisoners. 
More  than  twelve  thousand  men  remained  dead 
upon  the  field  of  battle  ;  eighty  field  pieces,  about 
four  thousand  wagons,  and  three  hundred  stan¬ 
dards  and  colors  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists.  Horn  himself,  with  three  other  generals, 
were  taken  prisoners.  Duke  Bernard  with  diffi¬ 
culty  saved  a  feeble  remnant  of  his  army,  which 
joined  him  at  Frankfort. 

The  defeat  at  Nordlingen,  cost  the  Swedish 
Chancellor  the  second  sleepless  night*  he  had 
passed  in  Germany.  The  consequences  of  this 
disaster  were  terrible.  The  Swedes  had  lost  by 
it  at  once  their  superiority  in  the  field,  and  with 
it  the  confidence  of  their  confederates,  which  they 
had  gained  solely  by  their  previous  military  suc¬ 
cess.  A  dangerous  division  threatened  the  Pro¬ 
testant  Confederation  with  ruin.  Consternation 
and  terror  seized  upon  the  whole  party  ;  while  the 
Papists  arose  with  exulting  triumph  from  the 
deep  humiliation  into  which  they  had  sunk.  Swa¬ 
bia  and  the  adjacent  circles  first  felt  the  conse¬ 
quences  of  the  defeat  of  Nordlingen ;  and  Wir- 
temberg,  in  particular,  was  overrun  by  -the  con¬ 
quering  army.  All  the  members  of  the  League 
of  Heilbronn  trembled  at  the  prospect  of  the 
Emperor’s  revenge ;  those  who  could,  fled  to 
Strasburg,  while  the  helpless  free  cities  awaited 
their  fate  with  alarm.  A  little  more  of  modera¬ 
tion  toward  the  conquered,  would  have  quickly 
reduced  all  the  weaker  states  under  the  Emperor’s 
authority ;  but  the  severity  which  was  practiced, 
even  against  those  who  voluntarily  surrendered, 
drove  the  rest  to  despair,  and  roused  them  to  a 
vigorous  resistance. 

In  this  perplexity,  all  looked  to  Oxenstiern  for 
counsel  and  assistance;  Oxenstiern  applied  for 
both  to  the  German  States.  Troops  were  wanted ; 
money  likewise,  to  raise  new  levies,  and  to  pay  to 
the  old  the  arrears  which  the  men  were  clamor¬ 
ously  demanding.  Oxenstiern  addressed  himself 
to  the  Elector  of  Saxony  ;  but  he  shamefully 
abandoned  the  Swedish  cause,  to  negotiate  for  a 
separate  peace  with  the  Emperor  at  Pirna.  He 
solicited  aid  from  the  Lower  Saxon  States;  but 
they,  long  wearied  of  the  Swedish  pretensions 
and  demands  for  money,  now  thought  only  of 
themselves ;  and  George,  Duke  of  Lunenburg,  in 
place  of  flying  to  the  assistance  of  Upper  Ger¬ 
many,  laid  siege  to  Minden,  with  the  intention  of 
keeping  possession  of  it  for  himself.  Abandoned 

*  The  first  was  occasioned  by  the  death  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus. 


by  his  German  allies,  the  chancellor  exerted  him¬ 
self  to  obtain  the  assistance  of  foreign  powers. 
England,  Holland,  and  Venice  were  applied  to 
for  troops  and  money;  and,  driven  to  the  last  ex¬ 
tremity,  the  chancellor  reluctantly  resolved  to 
take  the  disagreeable  step  which  he  had  so  long 
avoided,  and  to  throw  himself  under  the  protec¬ 
tion  of  France. 

The  moment  had  at  last  arrived  which  Richelieu 
had  long  waited  for  with  impatience.  Nothing, 
he  was  aware,  but  the  impossibility  of  saving 
themselves  by  any  other  means,  could  induce  the 
Protestant  States  in  Germany  to  support  the  pre¬ 
tensions  of  France  upon  Alsace.  This  extreme 
necessity  had  now  arrived  ;  the  assistance  of  that 
power  was  indispensable,  and  she  was  resolved  to 
be  well  paid  for  the  active  part  which  she  was 
about  to  take  in  the  German  war.  Full  of  lustre 
and  dignity,  it  now  came  upon  the  political  stage. 
Oxenstiern,  who  felt  little  reluctance  in  bestowing 
the  rights  and  possessions  of  the  empire,  had 
already  ceded  the  fortress  of  Philipsburg,  and  the 
other  long  coveted  places.  The  Protestants  of 
Upper  Germany  now,  in  their  own  names,  sent  a 
special  embassy  to  Richelieu,  requesting  him  to 
take  Alsace,  the  fortress  of  Breysach,  which  was 
still  to  be  recovered  from  the  enemy,  and  all  the 
places  upon  the  Upper  Rhine,  which  were  the 
keys  of  Germany,  under  the  protection  of  France. 
What  was  implied  by  French  protection  had 
been  seen  in  the  conduct  of  France  toward  the 
bishoprics  of  Metz,  Toul,  and  Verdun,  which  it 
had  held  for  centuries  against  the  rightful  owners. 
Treves  was  already  in  the  possession  of  French 
garrisons;  Lorraine  was  in  a  manner  conquered, 
as  it  might  at  any  time  be  overrun  by  an  army, 
and  could  not  alone,  and  with  its  own  strength, 
withstand  its  formidable  neighbor.  France  now 
entertained  the  hope  of  adding  Alsace  to  its  large 
and  numerous  possessions,  and,  as  a  treaty  was 
soon  to  be  concluded  with  the  Dutch  for  the  par¬ 
tition  of  the  Spanish  Netherlands,  it  likewise 
entertained  the  prospect  of  making  the  Rhine  its 
natural  boundary  toward  Germany.  Thus  shame¬ 
fully  were  the  rights  of  Germany  sacrificed  by 
the  German  States  to  this  treacherous  and  grasp¬ 
ing  power,  which,  under  the  mask  of  a  disinter¬ 
ested  friendship,  aimed  only  at  its  own  aggran¬ 
dizement  ;  and  while  it  boldly  claimed  the  honor¬ 
able  title  of  a  Protectress,  was  solely  occupied 
with  promoting  its  own  schemes,  and  advancing 
its  own  interests,  amid  the  general  confusion. 

In  return  for  these  important  cessions,  Franco 
engaged  to  effect  a  diversion  in  favor  of  the 
Swedes,  by  commencing  hostilities  against  the 
Spaniards  ;  and  if  this  should  lead  to  an  open 
breach  with  the  Emperor,  to  maintain  an  army 
upon  the  German  side  of  the  Rhine,  which  was  to 
act  in  conjunction  with  the  Swedes  and  Germans 
against  Austria.  For  a  war  with  Spain,  the 
Spaniards  themselves  soon  afforded  the  desired 
pretext.  Making  an  inroad  from  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  upon  the  city  of  Treves,  they  cut  in  pieces 
the  French  garrison  ;  and,  in  open  violation  of 
the  law  of  nations,  made  prisoner  the  Elector, 
who  had  placed  himself  under  the  protection  of 
France,  and  carried  him  into  Flanders.  When 
the  Cardinal  Infante,  as  Viceroy  of  the  Spanish 


234 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


NetherlanJs,  refused  satisfaction  for  these  injuries, 
and  delayed  to  restore  the  prince  to  liberty,  Riche¬ 
lieu,  after  the  old  custom,  formally  proclaimed  war 
at  Brussels  by  a  herald,  and  the  war  was  at  once 
opened  by  three  different  armies  in  Milan,  in  the 
Valteline,  and  in  Flanders.  The  French  minister 
was  less  anxious  to  commence  hostilities  with  the 
Emperor,  which  promised  fewer  advantages,  and 
threatened  greater  difficulties.  A  fourth  army, 
however,  was  detached  across  the  Rhine  into 
Germany,  under  the  command  of  Cardinal  Lava- 
lette,  which  was  to  act  in  conjunction  with  Duke 
Bernard,  against  the  Emperor,  without  a  previous 
declaration  of  war.  / 

A  heavier  blow  for  the  Swedes,  than  even  the 
defeat  of  Nordli  ngen,  was  the  reconciliation  of 
the  Elector  of  Saxony  with  the  Emperor.  After 
many  fruitless  attempts  both  to  bring  about  and 
to  prevent  it,  it  was  at  last  effected  in  1634,  at 
Pirna,  and,  the  following  year,  reduced  into  a 
formal  treaty  of  peace,  at  Prague.  The  Elector 
of  Saxony  had  always  viewed  with  jealousy  the 
pretensions  of  the  Swedes  in  Germany  ;  and  his 
aversion  to  this  foreign  power,  which  now  gave 
laws  within  the  Empire,  had  grown  with  every 
fresh  requisition  that  Oxenstiern  was  obliged  to 
make  upon  the  German  states.  This  ill-feeling 
was  kept  alive  by  the  Spanish  court,  who  labored 
earnestly  to  effect  a  peace  between  Saxony  and 
the  Emperor.  Wearied  with  the  calamities  of  a 
long  and  destructive  contest,  which  had  selected 
Saxony  above  all  others  for  its  theatre;  grieved 
by  the  miseries  which  both  friend  and  foe  inflicted 
upon  his  subjects;  and  seduced  by  the  tempting 
propositions  of  the  House  of  Austria,  the  Elector 
at  last  abandoned  the  common  cause  ;  and,  caring 
little  for  the  fate  of  his  confederates,  or  the  liber¬ 
ties  of  Germany,  thought  only  of  securing  his  own 
advantages,  even  at  the  expense  of  the  whole 
body. 

In  fact,  the  misery  of  Germany  had  risen  to  such 
a  height,  that  all  clamorously  vociferated  for 
peace ;  and  even  the  most  disadvantageous  paci¬ 
fication  would  have  been  hailed  as  a  blessing  from 
heaven.  The  plains,  which  formerly  had  be.en 
thronged  with  a  happy  and  industrious  population, 
where  nature  had  lavished  her  choicest  gifts,  and 
plenty  and  prosperity  had  reigned,  were  now  a 
wild  and  desolate  wilderness.  The  fields,  aban¬ 
doned  by  the  industrious  husbandman,  lay  waste 
and  uncultivated  ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  young 
crops  given  the  promise  of  a  smiling  harvest,  than 
a  single  march  destroyed  the  labors  of  a  year,  and 
blasted  the  last  hope  of  an  afflicted  peasantry. 
Burned  castles,  wasted  fields,  villages  in  ashes,  were 
to  be  seen  extending  far  and  wide  on  all  sides, 
while  the  ruined  peasantry  had  no  resource  left  but 
to  swell  the  horde  of  incendiaries,  and  fearfully  to 
retaliate  upon  their  fellows,  who  had  hitherto  been 
spared  the  miseries  which  they  themselves  had  suf¬ 
fered.  The  only  safeguard  against  oppression  was 
to  become  an  oppressor.  The  towns  groaned  un¬ 
der  the  licentiousness  of  undisciplined  and  plun¬ 
dering  garrisons,  who  seized  and  wasted  the  pro¬ 
perty  of  the  citizens,  and,  under  the  license  of  their 
position,  committed  the  most  remorseless  devasta¬ 
tion  and  cruelty.  If  the  march  of  an  army  con¬ 
vened  whole  provinces  into  deserts.,  if  others  were 


impoverished  by  winter  quarters,  or  exhausted  by 
contributions,  these  still  were  but  passing  evils, 
and  the  industry  of  a  year  might  efface  the  mise¬ 
ries  of  a  few  months.  But  there  was  no  relief  for 
those  who  had  a  garrison  within  their  walls,  or  in 
the  neighborhood ;  even  the  change  of  fortune 
could  not  improve  their  unfortunate  fate,  since  the 
victor  trod  in  the  steps  of  the  vanquished,  and 
friends  were  not  more  merciful  than  enemies.  The 
neglected  farms,  the  destruction  of  the  crops,  and 
the  numerous  armies  which  overran  the  exhausted 
country,  were  inevitably  followed  by  scarcity  and 
the  high  price  of  provisions,  which  in  the  later 
years  was  still  further  increased  by  a  general  fail¬ 
ure  in  the  crops.  The  crowding  together  of  men 
in  camps  and  quarters — want  upon  one  side,  and 
excess  on  the  other,  occasioned  contagious  distem¬ 
pers,  which  were  more  fatal  than  even  the  sword. 
In  this  long  and  general  confusion,  all  the  bonds 
of  social  life  were  broken  up  ;  respect  for  the  rights 
of  their  fellow-men,  the  fear  of  the  laws,  purity  of 
morals,  honor,  and  religion,  were  laid  aside,  where 
might  ruled  supreme  with  iron  sceptre.  Under 
the  -shelter  of  anarchy  and  impunity,  every  vice 
flourished,  and  men  became  as  wild  as  the  country. 
No  station  was  too  dignified  for  outrage,  no  pro¬ 
perty  too  holy  for  rapine  and  avarice.  Tn  a  word, 
the  soldier  reigned  supreme  ;  and  that  most  brutal 
of  despots  often  made  his  own  officer  feel  his 
power.  The  leader  of  an  army  was  a  far  more  im¬ 
portant  person  within  any  country  where  he  ap¬ 
peared,  than  its  lawful  governor,  who  was  fre¬ 
quently  obliged  to  fly  before  him  into  his  own  cas¬ 
tles  for  safety.  Germany  swarmed  with  these 
petty  tyrants,  and  the  country  suffered  equally 
from  its  enemies  and  its  protectors.  These  wounds 
rankled  the  deeper,  when  the  unhappy  victims  re¬ 
collected  that  Germany  was  sacrificed  to  the  ambi¬ 
tion  of  foreign  powers,  who,  for  their  own  ends,  pro¬ 
longed  the  miseries  of  war.  Germany  bled  under 
the  scourge,  to  extend  the  conquests  and  influ¬ 
ence  of  Sweden  ;  and  the  torch  of  discord  was 
kept  alive  within  the  Empire,  that  the  services 
of  Richelieu  might  be  rendered  indispensable  in 
France. 

But,  in  truth,  it  was  not  merely  interested  voices 
which  opposed  a  peace ;  and  if  both  Sweden  and 
the  German  states  were  anxious,  from  corrupt 
motives,  to  prolong  the  conflict,  they  were  se¬ 
conded  in  their  views  by  sound  policy.  After  the 
defeat  of  Nordlingen,  an  equitable  peace  was  not 
to  be  expected  from  the  Emperor ;  and,  this  being 
the  case,  was  it  not  too  great  a  sacrifice,  after 
sixteen  years  of  war,  with  all  its  miseries,  to 
abandon  the  conquest,  not  only  without  advan¬ 
tage,  but  even  with  loss  ?  What  would  avail  so 
much  bloodshed,  if  all  was  to  remain  as  it  had 
been  ;  if  their  rights  and  pretensions  were  neither 
larger  nor  safer ;  if  all  that  had  been  won  with 
so  much  difficulty  was  to  be  surrendered  for  a 
peace  at  any  cost?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  en¬ 
dure,  for  two  or  three  years  more,  the  burdens 
they  had  borne  so  long,  and  to  reap  at  last  some 
recompense  for  twenty  years  of  suffering?  Neither 
was  it  doubtful,  that  peace  might  at  last  be  ob¬ 
tained  on  favorable  terms,  if  only  the  Swedes  and 
the  German  Protestants  should  continue  united 
in  the  cabinet  and  in  the  field,  and  pursue  their 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


235 


common  interests  wi/tli  a  reciprocal  sympathy  and 
zeal.  Their  divisions  alone,  had  rendered  the 
enemy  formidable,  and  protracted  the  acquisition 
of  a  lasting  and  general  peace.  And  this  great 
evil  the  Elector  of  Saxony  had  brought  upon  the 
Protestant  cause  by  concluding  a  separate  treaty 
with  Austria. 

He,  indeed,  had  commenced  his  negotiations 
with  the  Emperor,  even  before  the  defeat  of  Nord- 
lingen  ;  and  the  unfortunate  issue  of  that  battle 
only  accelerated  their  conclusion.  By  it,  all  his 
confidence  in  the  Swedes  was  lost  ;  and  it  was 
even  doubted  whether  they  would  ever  recover 
from  the  blow.  The  jealousies  among  their  gene¬ 
rals,  the  insubordination  of  the  army,  and  the  ex¬ 
haustion  of  the  Swedish  kingdom,  shut  out  any 
reasonable  prospect  of  effective  assistance  on 
their  part.  The  Elector  hastened,  therefore,  to 
profit  by  the  Emperor’s  magnanimity,  who,  even 
after  the  battle  of  Nordlingen,  did  not  recall  the 
conditions  previously  offered.  While  Oxenstiern, 
who  had  assembled  the  states  in  Frankfort,  made 
further  demands  upon  them  and  him,  the  Empe¬ 
ror,  on  the  contrary,  made  concessions  ;  and  there¬ 
fore  it  required  no  long  consideration  to  decide 
between  them. 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  he  was  anxious  to 
escape  the  charge  of  sacrificing  the  common 
cause  and  attending  only  to  his  own  interests. 
All  the  German  states,  and  even  the  Swedes,  were 
publicly  invited  to  become  parties  to  this  peace, 
although  Saxony  and  the  Emperor  were  the  only 
powers  who  deliberated  upon  it,  and  who  assumed 
the  right  to  give  law  to  Germany.  By  this  self- 
appointed  tribunal,  the  grievances  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  were  discussed,  their  rights  and  privileges  de¬ 
cided,  and  even  the  fate  of  religions  determined, 
without  the  presence  of  those  who  were  most 
deeply  interested  in  it.  Between  them,  a  general 
peace  was  resolved  on,  and  it  was  to  be  enforced 
by  an  imperial  army  of  execution,  as  a  formal  de¬ 
cree  of  the  Empire.  Whoever  opposed  it,  was  to 
be  treated  as  a  public  enemy :  and  thus,  contrary 
to  their  rights,  the  states  were  to  be  compelled  to 
acknowledge  a  law,  in  the  passing  of  which  they 
ha d  no  share.  Thus,  even  in  form,  the  pacifica¬ 
tion  at  Prague  was  an  arbitrary  measure  ;  nor  was 
it  less  so  in  its  contents.  The  Edict  of  Restitu¬ 
tion  had  been  the  chief  cause  of  dispute  between 
the  Elector  and  the  Emperor ;  and  therefore  it 
was  first  considered  in  their  deliberations.  With¬ 
out  formally  annulling  it,  it  was  determined  by  the 
treaty  of  Prague,  that  all  the  ecclesiastical  do¬ 
mains  holding  immediately  of  the  Empire,  and, 
among  the  mediate  ones,  those  which  had  been 
seized  by  the  Protestants  subsequently  to  the 
treaty  at  Passau,  should,  for  forty  years,  remain  in 
the  same  position  as  they  had  been  in  before  the 
Edict  of  Restitution,  but  without  any  formal  de¬ 
cision  of  the  Diet  to  that  effect.  Before  the  expi- 
rut  on  of  this  term  a  commission,  composed  of 
equal  numbers  of  both  religions,  should  proceed 
to  settle  the  matter  peaceably  and  according  to 
law  ;  and  if  this  commission  should  be  unable  to 
come  to  a  decision,  each  party  should  remain  in 
possession  of  the  rights  which  it  had  exercised 
before  the  Edict  of  Restitution.  This  arrange¬ 
ment,  therefore  far  from  removing  the  grounds  of 


dissension,  only  suspended  the  dispute  for  a  time; 
and  this  article  of  the  treaty  of  Prague  only  cov 
ered  the  embers  of  a  future  war. 

The  bishopric  of  Magdeburg  was  to  remain  in 
possession  of  Prince  Augustus  of  Saxony,  and  Hal. 
berstadt  in  that  of  the  Archduke  Leopold  William 
Four  estates  were  taken  from  the  territory  of 
Magdeburg,  and  given  to  Saxony,  for  which  the 
Administrator  of  Magdeburg,  Christian  William 
of  Brandenburg,  was  otherwise  to  be  indemnified. 
The  Dukes  of  Mecklenburg,  upon  acceding  to  this 
treaty,  were  to  be  acknowledged  as  rightful  pos¬ 
sessors  of  their  territories,  in  which  the  magna¬ 
nimity  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  had  long  ago  rein¬ 
stated  them.  Donauwerth  recovered  its  liberties. 
The  important  claims  of  the  heirs  of  the  Pala¬ 
tine,  however  important  it  might  be  for  the  Pro¬ 
testant  cause  not  to  lose  this  electoral  vote  in  the 
diet,  were  passed  over  in  consequence  of  the  ani¬ 
mosity  subsisting  between  the  Lutherans  and  the 
Calvinists.  All  the  conquests  which,  in  the  course 
of  the  war,  had  been  made  by  the  German  states, 
or  by  the  League  and  the  Emperor,  were  to  be 
mutually  restored  ;  all  which  had  been  appro¬ 
priated  by  the  foreign  powers  of  France  and 
Sweden,  was  to  be  forcibly  wrested  from  them  by 
the  united  powers.  The  troops  of  the  contracting 
parties  were  to  be  formed  into  one  imperial  army, 
which,  supported  and  paid  by  the  Empire,  was,  by 
force  of  arms,  to  carry  into  execution  the  cove¬ 
nants  of  the  treaty. 

As  the  peace  of  Prague  was  intended  to  serve 
as  a  general  law  of  the  Empire,  those  points  which 
did  not  immediately  affect  the  latter,  formed  the 
subject  of  a  separate  treaty.  By  it,  Lusatia  was 
ceded  to  the  Elector  of  Saxony  as  a  fief  of  Bohe¬ 
mia,  and  special  articles  guaranteed  the  freedom 
of  religion  of  this  country  and  of  Silesia. 

All  the  Protestant  states  were  invited  to  accede 
to  the  treaty  of  Prague,  and  on  that  condition 
were  to  benefit  by  the  amnesty.  The  princes  of 
Wurtemberg  arid  Baden,  whose  territories  the 
Emperor  was  already  in  possession  of,  and  which 
he  was  not  disposed  to  restore  unconditionally; 
and  such  vassals  of  Austria  as  had  borne  arms 
against  their  sovereign  ;  and  those  states  which, 
under  the  direction  of  Oxenstiern,  composed  the 
council  of  the  Upper  German  Circle,  were  ex¬ 
cluded  from  the  treaty, — not  so  much  with  the 
view  of  continuing  the  war  against  them  as  of  com¬ 
pelling  them  to  purchase  peace  at  a  dearer  rate. 
Their  territories  were  to  be  retained  in  pledge,  till 
every  thing  should  be  restored  to  its  former  foot¬ 
ing.  Such  was  the  treaty  of  Prague.  Equal 
justice,  however,  toward  all,  might  perhaps  have 
restored  confidence  between  the  head  of  the  Em¬ 
pire  and  its  members — between  the  Protestants 
and  the  Roman  Catholics — between  the  Reformed 
and  the  Lutheran  party;  and  the  Swedes,  aban¬ 
doned  by  all  their  allies,  would  in  all  probability 
have  been  driven  from  Germany  with  disgrace. 
But  this  inequality  strengthened,  in  those  who 
were  more  severely  treated,  the  spirit  of  mistrust 
and  opposition,  and  made  it  an  easier  task  for  the 
Swedes  to  keep  alive  the  flame  of  war,  and  to 
maintain  a  party  in  Germany. 

The  peace  of  Prague,  as  might  have  been  ex¬ 
pected,  was  received  with  very  various  feelings 


236 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


throughout  Germany.  The  attempt  to  conciliate 
both  parties,  had  rendered  it  obnoxious  to  both. 
The  Protestants  complained  of  the  restraints  im¬ 
posed  upon  them  ;  the  Roman  Catholics  thought 
that  these  hated  sectaries  had  been  favored  at  the 
expense  of  the  trub  church.  In  the  opinion  of  the 
latter,  the  church  had  been  deprived  of  its  ina¬ 
lienable  rights,  by  the  concession  to  the  Protes¬ 
tants  of  forty  years’  undisturbed  possession  of  the 
ecclesiastical  benefices ;  while  the  former  mur¬ 
mured  that  the  interests  of  the  Protestant  church 
had  been  betrayed,  because  toleration  had  not 
been  granted  to  their  co-religionists  in  the  Aus¬ 
trian  dominions.  But  no  one  w^s  so  bitterly 
reproached  as  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  who  was 
publicly  denounced  as  a  deserter,  a  traitor  to  reli¬ 
gion  and  the  liberties  of  the  Empire,  and  a  con¬ 
federate  of  the  Emperor.  • 

In  the  mean  time,  he  consoled  himself  with  the 
triumph  of  seeing  most  of  the  Protestant  states 
compelled  by  necessity  to  embrace  this  peace. 
The  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  Duke  William  of 
Weimar,  the  princes  of  Anhalt,  the  dukes  of 
Mecklenburg,  the  dukes  of  Brunswick,  Lunenburg, 
the  Hanse  towns,  and  most  of  the  imperial  cities, 
acceded  to  it.  The  Landgrave  William  of  Hesse 
long  wavered,  or  affected  to  do  so,  in  order  to 
gain  time,  and  to  regulate  his  measures  by  the 
course  of  events.  He  had  conquered  several  fer¬ 
tile  provinces  of  Wesphalia,  and  derived  from 
them  principally  the  means  of  continuing  the  war  ; 
these,  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty,  he  was  bound  to 
restore.  Bernard,  Duke  of  Weimar,  whose  states, 
as  yet,  existed  only  on  paper,  as  a  belligerent  power 
was  not  affected  by  the  treaty,  but  as  a  general  was 
so  materially;  and,  in  either  view,  he  must  equally 
be  disposed  to  reject  it.  His  whole  riches  con¬ 
sisted  in  his  bravery,  his  possessions  in  his  sword. 
War  alone  gave  him  greatness  and  importance, 
and  war  alone  could  realize  the  projects  which  his 
ambition  suggested. 

But  of  all  who  declaimed  against  the  treaty  of 
Prague,  none  were  so  loud  in  their  clamors  as 
the  Swedes,  and  none  had  so  much  reason  for  their 
opposition.  Invited  to  Germany  by  the  Germans 
themselves,  the  champions  of  the  Protestant 
Church,  and  the  freedom  of  the  States,  which  they 
had  defended  with  so  much  bloodshed,  and  with 
the  sacred  life  of  their  king,  they  now  saw  them¬ 
selves  suddenly  and  shamefully  abandoned,  disap¬ 
pointed  in  all  their  hopes,  without  reward  and 
without  gratitude  driven  from  the  empire  for  which 
they  had  toiled  and  bled,  and  exposed  to  the  ridi¬ 
cule  of  the  enemy  by  the  very  princes  who  owed 
everything  to  them.  No  satisfaction,  no  indem¬ 
nification  for  the  expenses  which  they  had 
incurred,  no  equivalent  for  conquests  which  they 
were  to  leave  behind  them,  was  provided  by  the 
treaty  of  Prague.  They  were  to  be  dismissed 
poorer  than  they  came,  or,  if  they  resisted,  to  be 
expelled  by  the  very  powers  who  had  invited  them. 
The  Elector  of  Saxony  at  last  spoke  of  a  pecu¬ 
niary  indemnification,  and  mentioned  the  small  sum 
of  two  millions  five  hundred  thousand  florins ;  but 
the  Swedes  had  already  expended  considerably 
more,  and  this  disgraceful  equivalent  in  money 
was  both  contrary  to  their  true  interests,  and  inju¬ 
rious  to  their  pride  '  The  Electors  of  Bavaria 


and  Saxony,”  replied  Oxenstiern,  “  have  been  paid 
for  their  services,  and  which,  as  vassals,  they  wTere 
bound  to  render  the  Emperor,  with  the  possession 
of  important  provinces  ;  and  shall  we,  who  have 
sacrificed  our  king  for  Germany,  be  dismissed  with 
the  miserable  sum  of  two  millions  five  hundred 
thousand  florins  ?”  The  disappointment  of  their 
expectations  was  the  more  severe,  because  the 
Swedes  had  calculated  upon  being  recompensed 
with  the  Duchy  of  Pomerania,  the  present  pos¬ 
sessor  of  which  was  old  and  without  heirs.  But 
the  succession  of  this  territory  was  confirmed  by 
the  treaty  of  Prague  to  the  Elector  of  Branden¬ 
burg  ;  and  all  the  neighboring  powers  declared 
against  allowing  the  Swedes  to  obtain  a  footing 
within  the  empire. 

Never,  in  the  whole  course  of  the  war,  had  the 
prospects  of  the  Swedes  looked  more  gloomy, 
than  in  the  year  1635,  immediately  after  the  con¬ 
clusion  of  the  treaty  of  Prague.  Many  of  their 
allies,  particularly  among  the  free  cities,  aban¬ 
doned  them  to  benefit  by  the  peace  ;  others  were 
compelled  to  accede  to  it  by  the  victorious  arms  of 
the  Emperor.  Augsburg,  subdued  by  famine, 
surrendered  under  the  severest  conditions; 
Wurtzburg  and  Coburg  were  lost  to  the  Aus¬ 
trians.  The  League  of  Heilbronn  was  formally  dis¬ 
solved.  Nearly  the  whole  of  Upper  Germany,  the 
chief  seat  of  the  Swedish  power,  was  reduced 
under  the  Emperor.  Saxony,  on  the  strength  of 
the  treaty  of  Prague,  demanded  the  evacuation 
of  Thuringia,  Halberstadt,  and  Magdeburg. 
Philipsburg,  the  military  depot  of  France,  was 
surprised  by  the  Austrians,  with  all  the  stores  it 
contained ;  and  this  severe  loss  checked  the 
activity  of  France.  To  complete  the  embarrass¬ 
ments  of  Sweden,  the  truce  with  Poland  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  To  support  a  war  at  the 
same  time  with  Poland  and  in  Germany,  was  far 
.beyond  the  power  of  Sweden  ;  and  all  that  re¬ 
mained  was  to  choose  between  them.  Pride  and 
ambition  declared  in  favor  of  continuing  the  Ger¬ 
man  war,  at  whatever  sacrifice  on  the  side  of  Po¬ 
land.  An  army,  however,  was  necessary  to  com¬ 
mand  the  respect  of  Poland,  and  to  give  weight 
to  Sweden  in  any  negotiations  for  a  truce  or  a 
peace. 

The  mind  of  Oxenstiern,  firm,  and  inexhaustible 
in  expedients,  set  itself  manfully  to  meet  these 
calamities-,  which  all  combined  to  overwhelm 
Sweden  ;  and  his  shrewd  understanding  taught 
him  how  to  turn  even  misfortunes  to  his  advan¬ 
tage.  The  defection  of  so  many  German  cities 
of  the  empire  deprived  him,  it  is  true,  of  a  great 
part  of  his  former  allies,  but  at  the  same  time  it 
freed  him  from  the  necessity  of  paying  any  regard 
to  their  interests.  The  more  the  number  of  his 
enemies  increased,  the  more  provinces  and  maga¬ 
zines  were  opened  to  his  troops.  The  gross  in¬ 
gratitude  of  the  States,  and  the  haughty  contempt 
with  which  the  Emperor  behaved,  (who  did  not 
even  condescend  to  treat  directly  with  him  about 
a  peace,)  excited  in  him  the  courage  of  despair, 
and  a  noble  determination  to  maintain  the  struggle 
to  the  last.  The  continuance  of  war,  however 
unfortunate  it  might  prove,  could  not  render  the 
situation  of  Sweden  worse  than  it  now  was ;  and 
if  Germany  was  to  be  evacuated,  it  was  at  least 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS1  WAR.  237 


better  and  nobler  to  do  so  sword  in  hand,  and  to 
yield  to  force  rather  than  to  fear. 

In  the  extremity  in  which  the  Swedes  were  now 
placed  by  the  desertion  of  their  allies,  they  ad¬ 
dressed  themselves  to  France,  who  met  them  with 
the  greatest  encouragement.  The  interest  of  the 
two  crowns  were  closely  united,  and  France  would 
have  injured  herself  by  allowing  the  Swedish 
power  in  Germany  to  decline.  The  helpless  situ¬ 
ation  of  the  Swedes,  was  rather  an  additional 
motive  with  France  to  cement  more  closely  their 
alliance,  and  to  take  a  more  active  part  in  the 
German  war.  Since  the  alliance  with  Sweden  at 
Beerwald,  in  1632,  France  had  maintained  the 
war  against  the  Emperor,  by  the  arms  of  Gusta- 
vus  Adolphus,  without  any  open  or  formal  breach, 
by  furnishing  subsidies  and  increasing  the  number 
of  his  enemies.  But  alarmed  at  the  unexpected 
rapidity  and  success  of  the  Swedish  arms,  France, 
in  anxiety  to  restore  the  balance  of  power,  which 
was  disturbed  by  the  preponderance  of  the 
Swedes,  seemed,  for  a  time,  to  have  lost  sight  of 
its  original  designs.  She  endeavored  to  protect 
the  Roman  Catholic  princes  of  the  empire  against 
the  Swedish  conqueror,  by  the  treaties  of  neu¬ 
trality,  and  when  this  plan  failed,  she  even  medi¬ 
tated  herself  to  declare  war  against  him.  But  no 
sooner  had  the  death  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and 
the  desperate  situation  of  the  Swedish  affairs,  dis¬ 
pelled  this  apprehension,  than  she  returned  with 
fresh  zeal  to  her  first  design,  and  readily  afforded 
in  this  misfortune  the  aid  which,  in  the  hour  of 
success,  she  had  refused.  Freed  from  the  checks 
which  the  ambition  and  vigilance  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus  placed  upon  her  plans  of  aggrandize¬ 
ment  France  availed  herself  of  the  favorable 
opportunity  afforded  by  the  defeat  of  Nordlingen, 
to  obtain  the  entire  direction  of  the  war,  and  to 
prescribe  laws  to  those  who  sued  for  her  powerful 
protection.  The  moment  seemed  to  smile  upon 
her  boldest  plans,  and  those  who  had  formerly 
seemed  chimerical,  now  appeared  to  be  justified 
by  circumstances.  She  now  turned  her  whole  at¬ 
tention  to  the  war  in  Germany  ;  and,  as  soon  as 
she  had  secured  her  own  private  ends  by  a  treaty 
with  the  Germans,  she  suddenly  entered  the  pol iti- 
cnl  arena  as  an  active  and  a  commanding  power. 
While  the  other  belligerent  states  had  been  ex¬ 
hausting  themselves  in  a  tedious  contest,  France 
had  been  reserving  her  strength,  and  maintained 
the  contest  by  money  alone  ;  but  now,  when  the 
state  of  things  called  for  more  active  measures, 
she  seized  the  sword,  and  astonished  Europe  by 
the  boldness  and  magnitude  of  her  undertakings. 
At  the  same  moment,  she  fitted  out  two  fleets, 
and  sent  six  different  armies  into  the  field,  while 
she  subsidized  a  foreign  crown  and  several  of  the 
German  princes.  Animated  by  this  powerful  co¬ 
operation,  the  Swedes  and  Germans  awoke  from 
the  consternation,  and  hoped,  sword  in  hand,  to 
obtain  a  more  honorable  peace  than  that  of 
Prague.  Abandoned  by  their  confederates,  who 
had  been  reconciled  to  the  Emperor,  they  formed 
a  still  closer  alliance  with  France,  which  increased 
her  support  with  their  growing  necessities,  at  the 
same  time  taking  a  more  active,  although  secret 
share  in  the  German  war,  until  at  last,  she  threw 
off  the  mask  altogether,  and  in  her  own  name 


made  an  unequivocal  declaration  of  war  against 
the  Emperor. 

To  leave  Sweden  at  full  liberty  to  act  against 
Austria,  France  commenced  her  operations  by 
liberating  it  from  all  fear  of  a  Polish  war.  By 
means  of  the  Count  d’Avaux,  its  minister,  an 
agreement  was  concluded  between  the  two  powers 
at  Stummsdorf  in  Prussia,  by  which  the  truce  was 
prolonged  for  twenty-six  years,  though  not  with¬ 
out  a  great  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  the  Swedes, 
who  ceded,  by  a  single  stroke  of  the  pen  almost 
the  whole  of  Polish  Prussia,  the  dear-bought  con¬ 
quest  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  The  treaty  of 
Beerwald  was,  with  certain  modifications,  which 
circumstances ‘rendered  necessary,  renewed  at  dif¬ 
ferent  times  at  Compiegne,  and  afterward  at 
Wismar  and  Hamburg.  France  had  already 
come  to  a  rupture  with  Spain,  in  May,  1635,  and 
the  vigorous  attack  which  she  made  upon  that 
power,  deprived  the  Emperor  of  his  most  valuable 
auxiliaries  from  the  Netherlands.  By  supporting 
the  Landgrave  William  of  Cassel,  and  Duke  Ber¬ 
nard  of  Weimar,  the  Swedes  were  enabled  to  act 
with  more  vigor  upon  the  Elbe  and  the  Danube, 
and  a  diversion  upon  the  Rhine  compelled  the 
Emperor  to  divide  his  force. 

The  war  was  now  prosecuted  with  increasing 
activity.  By  the  treaty  of  Prague,  the  Emperor 
had  lessened  the  number  of  his  adversaries  within 
the  Empire  ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  the  zeal 
and  activity  of  his  foreign  enemies  had  been  aug¬ 
mented  by  it.  In  Germany,  his  influence  was 
almost  unlimited,  for,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
states,  he  had  rendered  himself  absolute  master 
of  the  German  body  and  its  resources,  and  was 
again  enabled  to  act  in  the  character  of  emperor 
and  sovereign.  The  first  fruit  of  his  power  was 
the  elevation  of  his  son,  Ferdinand  III.,  to  the 
dignity  of  King  of  the  Romans,  to  which  he  was 
elected  by  a  decided  majority  of  votes,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  opposition  of  Treves,  and  of  the  heirs 
of  the  Elector  Palatine.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  exasperated  the  Swedes  to  desperation, 
had  armed  the  power  of  France  against  him,  and 
drawn  its  troops  into  the  heart  of  the  kingdom. 
France  and  Sweden,  with  their  German  allies, 
formed,  from  this  moment,  one  firm  and  compactly 
united  power ;  the  Emperor,  with  the  German 
stales  which  adhered  to  him,  were  equally  firm 
and  united.  The  Swedes,  who  no  longer  fought 
for  Germany,  but  for  their  own  lives,  showed  no 
more  indulgence  ;  relieved  from  the  necessity  of 
consulting  their  German  allies,  or  accounting  to 
them  for  the  plans  which  they  adopted,  they  acted 
with  more  precipitation,  rapidity,  and  boldness. 
Battles,  though  less  decisive,  became  more  ob¬ 
stinate  and  bloody  ;  greater  achievements,  both 
in  bravery  and  military  skill,  were  performed  ;  but 
they  were  but  insulated  efforts  ;  and  being  neither 
dictated  by  any  consistent  plan,  nor  improved  by 
any  commanding  spirit,  had  comparatively  little 
influence  upon  the  course  of  the  war. 

Saxony  had  bound  herself,  by  the  treaty  of 
Prague,  to  expel  the  Swedes  from  Germany, 
From  this  moment,  the  banners  of  the  Saxons 
and  Imperialists  were  united:  the  former  confe¬ 
derates  were  converted  into  implacable  enemies. 
The  bishopric  of  Magdeburg,  which,  by  the  treaty, 


238 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


was  ceded  to  a  prince  of  Saxony,  was  still  held 
by  the  Swedes,  and  every  attempt  to  acquire  it 
by  negotiation  had  proved  ineffectual.  Hostili¬ 
ties  commenced,  by  the  Elector  of  Saxony  recall¬ 
ing  all  his  subjects  from  the  army  of  Banner, 
which  was  encamped  upon  the  Elbe.  The  officers, 
long  irritated  by  the  accumulation  of  their  arrears, 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  evacuated  one  quarter 
after  another.  As  the  Saxons,  at  the  same  time, 
made  a  movement  toward  Mecklenburg,  to  take 
Dfimitz,  and  to  drive  the  Swedes  from  Pomerania 
ar.d  the  Baltic,  Banner  suddenly  marched  thither, 
relieved  Domitz,  and  totally  defeated  the  Saxon 
General  Baudissin,  with  seven  thousand  men,  of 
whom  one  thousand  were  slain,  and  about  the 
same  number  taken  prisoners.  Reinforced  by  the 
troops  and  artillery,  which  had  hitherto  been  em¬ 
ployed  in  Polish  Prussia,  but  which  the  treaty  of 
Stummsdorf  rendered  unnecessary,  this  brave  and 
impetuous  general  made,  the  following  year  (1636), 
a  sudden  inroad  into  the  Electorate  of  Saxony, 
where  he  gratified  his  inveterate  hatred  of  the 
Saxons  by  the  most  destructive  ravages.  Irri¬ 
tated  by  the  memory  of  old  grievances  which, 
during  their  common  campaigns,  he  and  the 
Swedes  had  suffered  from  the  haughtiness  of  the 
Saxons,  and  now  exasperated  to  the  utmost  by 
the  late  defection  of  the  Elector,  they  wreaked 
upon  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  all  their  rancor. 
Against  Austria  and  Bavaria,  the  Swedish  sol¬ 
dier  had  fought  from  a  sense,  as  it  wrere,  of  duty ; 
but  against  the  Saxons,  they  contended  with  all 
the  energy  of  private  animosity  and  personal  re¬ 
venge,  detesting  them  as  deserters  and  traitors  ; 
for  the  hatred  of  former  friends  is  of  all  the  most 
fierce  and  irreconcilable.  The  powerful  diver¬ 
sion  made  by  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  and  the  Land¬ 
grave  of  Hesse,  upon  the  Rhine  and  in  Westpha¬ 
lia,  prevented  the  Emperor  from  affording  the 
necessary  assistance  to  Saxony,  and  left  the 
whole  Electorate  exposed  to  the  destructive  rav¬ 
ages  of  Banner’s  army. 

At  length,  the  Elector,  having  formed  a  junc¬ 
tion  with  the  Imperial  General  Hatzfeld,  advanced 
against  Magdeburg,  which  Banner  in  vain  hast¬ 
ened  to  relieve.  The  united  army  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists  and  the  Saxons  had  spread  itself  over 
Brandenburg,  wrested  several  places  from  the 
Swedes,  and  almost  drove  them  to  the  Baltic. 
But,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  Banner,  who  had 
been  given  up  as  lost,  attacked  the  allies,  on  the 
24th  of  September,  1636,  at  Wittsbach,  where  a 
bloody  battle  took  place.  The  onset  was  terrific  ; 
and  the  whole  force  of  the  enemy  was  directed 
against  the  right  wing  of  the  Swedes,  which  was 
led  by  Banner  in  person.  The  contest  was  long 
maintained  with  equal  animosity  and  obstinacy  on 
both  sides.  Scarcely  a  squadron  among  the 
Swedes,  which  did  not  return  ten  times  to  the 
charge,  and  was  as  often  repulsed ;  when  at  last, 
Banner  was  obliged  to  retire  before  the  superior 
numbers  of  the  enemy.  His  left  wing  sustained 
the  combat  until  night,  and  the  second  line  of  the 
Swedes,  which  had  not  as  yet  been  engaged,  was 
prepared  to  renew  it  the  next  morning.  But  the 
Elector  did  not  wait  for  a  second  attack.  His 
army  was  exhausted  by  the  efforts  of  the  preceding 
day ;  and,  as  the  drivers  had  fled  with  the  horses, 


his  artillery  was  unserviceable.  He  accordingly 
retreated  in  the  night,  with  Count  Hatzfeld,  and 
relinquished  the  ground  to  the  Swedes.  About 
five  thousand  of  the  allies  fell  upon  the  field,  ex¬ 
clusive  of  those  who  were  killed  in  the  pursuit,  or 
who  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  exasperated  peas¬ 
antry.  One  hundred  and  fifty  standards  and  col¬ 
ors,  twenty-three  pieces  of  cannon,  the  whole 
baggage  and  silver  plate  of  the  Elector,  were  cap¬ 
tured,  and  more  than  two  thousand  men  taken 
prisoners.  This  brilliant  victory,  achieved  over 
an  enemy  far  superior  in  numbers,  and  in  a  very 
advantageous  position,  restored  the  Swedes  at 
once  to  their  former  reputation;  their  enemies 
were  discouraged,  and  the  friends  inspired  with 
new  hopes.  Banner  instantly  followed  up  this 
decisive  success,  and  hastily  crossing  the  Elbe, 
drove  the  Imperialists  before  him,  through  Thu¬ 
ringia  and  Hesse,  into  Westphalia.  He  then  re¬ 
turned,  and  took  up  his  winter  quarters  in 
Saxony. 

But,  without  the  material  aid  furnished  by  the 
diversion  upon  the  Rhine,  and  the  activity  there 
of  Duke  Bernard  and  the  French,  these  import¬ 
ant  successes  would  have  been  unattainable. 
Duke  Bernard,  after  the  defeat  of  Nordlingen, 
reorganized  his  broken  army  at  Wetterau  ;  but, 
abandoned  by  the  confederates  of  the  League  of 
Heilbronn,  which  had  been  dissolved  by  the  peace 
of  Prague,  and  receiving  little  support  from  the 
Swedes,  he  found  himself  unable  to  maintain  an 
army,  or  to  perform  any  enterprise  of  importance. 
The  defeat  of  Nordlingen  had  terminated  all  his 
hopes  on  the  Duchy  of  Franconia,  while  the 
weakness  of  the  Swedes,  destroyed  the  chance  of 
retrieving  his  fortunes  through  their  assistance. 
Tired,  too,  of  the  constraint  imposed  upon  him  by 
the  imperious  chancellor,  he  turned  his  attention  to 
France,  who  could  easily  supply  him  with  money, 
the  only  aid  which  he  required,  and  France  readily 
acceded  to  his  proposals.  Richelieu  desired  no¬ 
thing  so  much  as  to  diminish  the  influence  of  the 
Swedes  in  the  German  war,  and  to  obtain  the  di¬ 
rection  of  it  for  himself.  To  secure  this  end, 
nothing  appeared  more  effectual  than  to  detach 
from  the  Swedes  their  bravest  general,  to  win  him 
to  the  interests  of  France,  and  to  secure  for  the 
execution  of  its  projects  the  services  of  his  army. 
From  a  prince  like  Bernard,  who  could  not  main¬ 
tain  himself  without  foreign  support,  France  had 
nothing  to  fear,  since  no  success,  however  bril¬ 
liant,  could  render  him  independent  of  that  crown. 
Bernard  himself  came  into  France,  and  in  Octo¬ 
ber,  1635,  concluded  a  treaty  at  St.  Germaine  en 
Laye,  not  as  a  Swedish  general,  but  in  his  own 
name,  by  which  it  was  stipulated  that  he  should 
receive  for  himself  a  yearly  pension  of  one  million 
five  hundred  thousand  livres,  and  four  millions  for 
the  support  of  his  army,  which  he  was  to  com¬ 
mand  under  the  orders  of  the  French  king.  To 
inflame  his  zeal,  and  to  accelerate  the  conquest  of 
Alsace,  France  did  not  hesitate,  by  a  secret  arti¬ 
cle,  to  promise  him  that  province  for  his  services  ; 
a  promise  which  Richelieu  had  little  intention  of 
performing,  and  which  the  duke  also  estimated  at 
its  real  worth.  But  Bernard  confided  in  his  good 
fortune,  and  in  his  arms,  and  met  artifice  with 
dissimulation.  If  he  could  once  succeed  in  wrest* 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


239 


ing  Alsace  from  the  enemy,  he  did  not  despair  of 
being  able,  in  case  of  need,  to  maintain  it  also 
against  a  friend.  He  now  raised  an  army  at  the 
expense  of  France,  which  he  commanded  nomi¬ 
nally  under  the  orders  of  that  power,  but  in  re¬ 
ality  without  any  limitation  whatever,  and  without 
having  wholly  abandoned  his  engagements  with 
Sweden.  He  began  his  operations  upon  the 
Rhine,  where  another  French  army,  under  Cardinal 
Lavalette,  had  already,  in  1635,  commenced  hos¬ 
tilities  against  the  Emperor. 

Against  this  force,  the  main  body  of  the  Impe¬ 
rialists,  after  the  great  victory  of  Nordlingen,  and 
the  reduction  of  Swabia  and  Franconia,  had  ad¬ 
vanced  under  the  command  of  Gallas,  had  driven 
them  as  far  as  Mentz,  cleared  the  Rhine,  and 
took  from  the  Swedes  the  towns  of  Mentz  and 
Frankenthal,  of  which  they  were  in  possession. 
But  frustrated  by  the  vigorous  resistance  of  the 
French,  in  his  main  object,  of  taking  up  his  winter 
quarters  in  France,  he  led  back  his  exhausted 
troops  into  Alsace  and  Swabia,  At  the  opening 
of  the  next  campaign,  he  passed  the  Rhine  at 
Breysach,  and  prepared  to  carry  the  war  into  the 
interior  of  France.  He  actually  entered  Bur¬ 
gundy,  penetrated  into  Picardy;  and  John  De 
Werth,  a  formidable  general  of  the  League,  and 
a  celebrated  partisan,  pushed  his  march  into 
Champagne,  and  spread  consternation  even  to  the 
gates  of  Paris.  But  an  insignificant  fortress  in 
Franche  Comte  completely  checked  the  progress 
of  the  Imperialists ;  and  they  were  obliged,  a 
second  time,  to  abandon  their  enterprise. 

The  activity  of  Duke  Bernard  had  hitherto  been 
impeded  by  his  dependence  on  a  French  general, 
more  suited  to  the  priestly  robe,  than  to  the  baton 
of  command ;  and  although,  in  conjunction  with  him, 
he  conquered  Alsace  Saverne,  he  found  himself 
unable,  in  the  years  1636  and  1637,  to  maintain 
his  position  upon  the  Rhine.  The  ill  success  of 
the  French  arms  in  the  Netherlands  had  checked 
the  activity  of  operations  in  Alsace  and  Breisgau ; 
but  in  1638,  the  war  in  that  quarter  took  a  more 
brilliant  turn.  Relieved  from  his  former  restraint, 
and  with  an  unlimited  command  of  his  troops, 
Duke  Bernard,  in  the  beginning  of  February,  left 
his  winter  quarters,  in  the  bishopric  of  Basle,  and 
unexpectedly  appeared  upon  the  Rhine,  where,  at 
this  rude  season  of  the  year,  an  attack  was  little 
anticipated.  The  forest  towns  of  Laufenburg, 
Waldschut,  and  Seckingen,  were  surprised,  and 
Rhinefeldt  besieged.  The  Duke  of  Savelli,  the 
Imperial  general  who  commanded  in  that  quarter, 
hastened  by  forced  marches  to  the  relief  of  this 
important  place,  succeeded  in  raising  the  siege, 
and  compelled  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  with  great 
loss,  to  retire.  But,  contrary  to  all  human  ex¬ 
pectation,  he  appeared  on  the  third  day  after, 
(21st  February,  1638,)  before  the  Imperialists,  in 
order  of  battle,  and  defeated  them  in  a  bloody  en¬ 
gagement,  in  which  the  four  Imperial  generals, 
Savelli,  John  De  Werth,  Enkeford,  and  Sperreuter, 
with  two  thousand  men,  were  taken  prisoners. 
Two  of  these,  De  Werth  and  Enkeford,  were  af¬ 
terward  sent  by  Richelieu’s  orders  into  France,  in 
order  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  the  French  by  the 
sight  of  such  distinguished  prisoners,  and  by  the 
pomp  of  military  trophies,  to  withdraw  the  atten¬ 


tion  of  the  populace  from  the  public  distress. 
The  captured  standards  and  colors  were,  with  the 
same  view,  carried  in  solemn  procession  to  the 
church  of  Notre  Dame,  thrice  exhibited  before 
the  altar,  and  committed  to  sacred  custody. 

The  taking  of  Rhinefeldt,  Roteln,  and  Fribourg, 
was  the  immediate  consequence  of  the  duke> 
victory.  His  army  now  increased  by  consider¬ 
able  recruits,  and  his  projects  expanded  in  pro 
portion  as  fortune  favored  him.  The  fortress  o! 
Breysach  upon  the  Rhine  was  looked  upon  as 
holding  the  command  of  that  river,  and  as  the 
key  of  Alsace.  No  place  in  this  quarter  was  of 
more  importance  to  the  Emperor,  and  upon  none 
had  more  care  been  bestowed.  To  protect  Brey¬ 
sach,  was  principally  the  determination  of  the 
Italian  army,  under  the  Duke  of  Feria  ;  the 
strength  of  its  works,  and  its  natural  defenses, 
bade  defiance  to  assault,  while  the  Imperial  generals 
who  commanded  in  that  quarter  had  orders  to 
retain  it  at  any  cost.  Bat  the  duke,  trusting  to 
his  good  fortune,  resolved  to  attempt  the  siege. 
Its  strength  reudered  it  impregnable  ;  it  could, 
therefore,  only  be  starved  into  a  surrender  ;  and 
this  was  facilitated  by  the  carelessness  of  the  com¬ 
mandant,  who,  expecting  no  attack,  had  been 
selling  off  his  stores.  As  under  these  circum¬ 
stances  the  town  could  not  long  hold  out,  it  must 
be  immediately  relieved  or  victualed.  Accord¬ 
ingly,  the  Imperial  General  Goetz  rapidly  advanced 
at  the  head  of  12,000  men,  accompanied  by  3,000 
wagons  loaded  with  provisions,  which  he  intended 
to  throw  into  the  place.  But  he  was  attacked 
with  such  vigor  by  Duke  Bernard  at  Witteweyer, 
that  he  lost  his  whole  force,  except  3,000  men, 
together  with  the  entire  transport.  A  similar  fate 
at  Ochsenfeld,  near  Thann,  overtook  the  Duke  of 
Lorraine,  who,  with  5,000  or  6,000  men,  advanced 
to  relieve  the  fortress.  After  a  third  attempt  of 
General  Goetz  for  the  relief  of  Breysach  had 
proved  ineffectual,  the  fortress,  reduced  to  the 
greatest  extremity  by  famine,  surrendered,  after  a 
blockade  of  four  months,  on  the  17t.h  December, 
L638,  to  its  equally  persevering  and  humane  con¬ 
queror. 

The  capture  of  Breysach  opened  a  boundless 
field  to  the  ambition  of  the  Duke  of  Weimar, -and 
the  romance  of  his  hopes  was  fast  approaching  to 
reality.  Far  from  intending  to  surrender  his 
conquests  to  France,  he  destined  Breysach  for 
himself,  and  revealed  this  intention,  by  exacting 
allegiance  from  the  vanquished,  in  his  own  name, 
and  not,  in  that  of  any  other  power.  Intoxicated 
by  his  past  success,  and  excited  by  the  boldest 
hopes,  he  believed  that  he  should  be  able  to  main¬ 
tain  his  conquests,  even  against  France  herself. 
At  a  time  when  every  thing  depended  upon 
bravery,  when  even  personal  strength  was  of 
importance,  when  troops  and  generals  were  of 
more  value  than  territories,  it  was  natural  for  a 
hero  like  Bernard  to  place  confidence  in  his  own 
powers,  and,  at  the  head  of  an  excellent  army, 
who  under  his  command  had  proved  invincible,  to 
believe  himself  capable  of  accomplishing  the 
boldest  and  largest  designs.  In  order  to  secure 
himself  one  friend  among  the  crowd  of  enemies 
whom  he  was  about  to  provoke,  he  turned  his  eyes 
upon  the  Landgravine  Amelia  of  Hesse,  the  widow 


240 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


of  the  lately  deceased  Landgrave  William,  a  prin¬ 
cess  whose  talents  were  equal  to  her  courage,  and 
who,  along  with  her  hand,  would  bestow  valuable 
conquests,  an  extensive  principality,  and  a  well 
disciplined  army.  By  the  union  of  the  conquests 
of  Hesse,  with  his  own  upon  the  Rhine,  and  the 
junction  of  their  forces,  a  power  of  some  import¬ 
ance,  and  perhaps  a  third  party,  might  be  formed 
in  Germany,  which  might  decide  the  fate  of  the 
war.  But  a  premature  death  put  a  period  to 
these  extensive  schemes. 

“Courage,  Father  Joseph,  Breysach  is  ours!” 
whispered  Richelieu  in  the  ear  of  the  Capuchin, 
who  had  long  held  himself  in  readiness  to  be  dis¬ 
patched  into  that  quarter;  so  delighted  was  he 
with  this  joyful  intelligence.  Already  in  imagina¬ 
tion  he  held  Alsace,  Breisgau,  and  all  the  frontiers 
of  Austria  in  that  quarter,  without  regard  to  his 
promise  to  Duke  Bernard.  But  the  firm  deter¬ 
mination  which  the  latter  had  unequivocally  shown, 
to  keep  Breysach  for  himself,  greatly  embarrassed 
the  cardinal,  and  no  efforts  were  spared  to  retain 
the  victorious  Bernard  in  the  interests  of  France. 
He  was  invited  to  court,  to  witness  the  honors  by 
which  his  triumph  was  to  be  commemorated  ;  but 
he  perceived  and  shunned  the  seductive  snare. 
The  cardinal  even  went  so  far  as  to  offer  him  the 
hand  of  his  niece  in  marriage  ;  but  the  proud 
German  prince  declined  the  offer,  and  refused  to 
sully  the  blood  of  Saxony  by  a  misalliance.  He 
was  now  considered  as  a  dangerous  enemv,  and 
treated  as  such.  His  subsidies  were  withdrawn  ; 
and  the  Governor  of  Breysach,  and  his  principal 
officers  were  bribed,  at  least  upon  the  event  of  the 
duke’s  death,  to  take  possession  of  his  conquests, 
and  to  secure  his  troops.  These  intrigues  were  no 
secret  to  the  duke,  and  the  precautions  he  took 
in  the  conquered  places,  clearly  bespoke  the  dis¬ 
trust  of  France.  But  this  misunderstanding  with 
the  French  court  had  the  most  prejudicial  influ¬ 
ence  upon  his  future  operations.  The  preparations 
he  was  obliged  to  make,  in  order  to  secure  his 
conquests  against  an  attack  on  the  side  of  France, 
compelled  him  to  divide  his  military  strength, 
while  the  stoppage  of  his  subsidies  delayed  his 
appearance  in  the  field.  It  had  been  his  intention 
to  cross  the  Rhine,  to  support  the  Swedes,  and  to 
act  against  the  Emperor  and  Bavaria  on  the  banks 
of  the  Danube.  He  had  already  communicated 
his  plan  of  operations  to  Banner,  who  was  about 
to  carry  the  war  into  the  Austrian  territories,  and 
had  promised  to  relieve  him  so,  when  a  sudden 
death  cut  short  his  heroic  career,  in  the  thirty- 
sixth  year  of  his  age,  at  Neuburg  upon  the  Rhine 
(in  J uly,  1639). 

He  died  of  a  pestilential  disorder,  which,  in  the 
course  of  two  days,  had  carried  off  nearly  400  men 
in  his  camp.  The  black  spots  which  appeared 
upon  his  body,  his  own  dying  expressions,  and  the 
advantages  which  France  was  likely  to  reap  from 
his  sudden  decease,  gave  rise  to  a  suspicion  that 
he  had  been  removed  by  poison — a  suspicion  suf¬ 
ficiently  refuted  by  the  symptoms  of  his  disorder. 
In  him,  the  allies  lost  their  greatest  general  after 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  France  a  formidable  com¬ 
petitor  for  Alsace,  and  the  Emperor  his  most 
dangerous  enemy.  Trained  to  the  duties  of  a 
soldier  and  a  general  in  the  school  of  Gustavus 


• 

Adolphus,  he  successfully  imitated  his  eminert 
model,  and  wanted  only  a  longer  life  to  equal,  if 
not  to  surpass  it.  With  the  bravery  of  the 
soldier,  he  united  the  calm  and  cool  penetration 
of  the  general ;  the  persevering  fortitude  of  the 
man,  with  the  daring  resolution  of  youth  :  with 
the  wild  ardor  of  the  warrior,  the  sober  dignity 
of  the  prince,  the  moderation  of  the  sage,  and  the 
conscientiousness  of  the  man  of  honor.  Dis¬ 
couraged  by  no  misfortune,  he  quickly  rose  again 
in  full  vigor  from  the  severest  defeats:  no  ^ob¬ 
stacles  could  check  his  enterprise,  no  disappoint¬ 
ments  conquer  his  indomitable  perseverance.  His 
genius,  perhaps,  soared  after  unattainable  objects  ; 
but  the  prudence  of  such  men,  is  to  be  measured 
by  a  different  standard  from  that  of  ordinary 
people.  Capable  of  accomplishing  more,  he  mignt 
venture  to  form  more  daring  plans.  Bernard  af¬ 
fords,  in  modern  history,  a  splendid  example  of 
those  days  of  chivalry,  when  personal  greatness 
had  its  full  weight  and  influence,  when  individual 
bravery  could  conquer  provinces,  and  the  heroic 
exploits  of  a  German  knight  raised  him  even  to 
the  Imperial  throne. 

The  best  part  of  the  duke’s  possessions  w*re 
his  army,  which,  together  with  Alsace,  he  be¬ 
queathed  to  his  brother  William.  But  to  this 
army,  both  France  and  Sweden  thought  that  th^y 
had  well-grounded  claims  ;  the  latter,  because  it 
had  been  raised  in  the  name  of  that  crown,  and  had 
done  homage  to  it ;  the  former,  because  it  had 
been  supported  by  its  subsidies.  The  Electoral 
Prince  of  the  Palatinate  also  negotiated  for  its 
services,  and  attempted,  first  by  his  agents,  and 
latterly  in  his  own  person,  to  win  it  over  to  his 
interests,  with  the  view  of  employing  it  in  the  re- 
conquest  of  his  territories.  Even  the  Emperor 
endeavored  to  secure  it, — a  circumstance  the  less 
surprising,  when  we  reflect  that  at  this  time  the 
justice  of  the  cause  was  comparatively  unimport¬ 
ant,  and  the  extent  of  the  recompense  the  main 
object,  to  which  the  soldier  looked ;  and  when 
bravery,  like  every  other  commodity,  was  disposed 
of  to  the  highest  bidder.  But  France,  richer 
and  more  determined,  outbade  all  competitors:  it 
bought  over  General  Erlach,  the  commander  of 
Breysach,  and  the  other  officers,  who  soon  placed 
that  fortress,  with  the  whole  army,  in  their  hands. 

The  young  Palatine,  Prince  Charles  Louis, 
who  had  already  made  an  unsuccessful  campaign 
against  the  Emperor,  saw  his  hopes  again  de¬ 
ceived.  Although  intending  to  do  France  so  ill 
a  service,  as  to  compete  with  her  for  Bernard’s 
army,  he  had  the  imprudence  to  travel  through 
that  kingdom.  The  cardinal,  who  dreaded  the 
justice  of  the  Palatine’s  cause,  was  glad  to  seize 
any  opportunity  to  frustrate  his  views.  He  ac¬ 
cordingly  caused  him  to  be  seized  at  Moulin,  in 
violation  of  the  law  of  nations,  and  did  not  set 
him  at  liberty,  until  he  learned  that  the  army  of 
the  duke  of  Weimar  had  been  secured.  France 
was  now  in  possession  of  a  numerous  and  well- 
disciplined  army  in  Germany,  and  from  this  mo¬ 
ment  began  to  make  open  war  upon  the  Emperor. 

But  it  was  no  longer  against  Ferdinand  II. 
that  its  hostilities  were  to  be  conducted  ;  for  that 
prince  had  died  in  February,  1637,  in  the  59th 
year  of  his  age.  The  war  which  his  ambition  had 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 


241 


kindled,  however,  survived  him.  During  a  reign 
of  eighteen  years  he  had  never  once  laid  aside 
the  sword,  nor  tasted  the  blessings  of  peace  as 
long  as  his  hand  swayed  the  imperial  sceptre. 
Endowed  with  the  qualities  of  a  good  sovereign, 
adorned  with  many  of  those  virtues  which  insure 
the  happiness  of  a  people,  and  by  nature  gentle 
and  humane,  we  see  him,  from  erroneous  ideas  of 
the  monarch’s  duty,  "become  at  once  the  instru¬ 
ment  and  the  victim  of  the  evil  passions  of  others; 
his  benevolent  intentions  frustrated,  and  the  friend 
of  justice  converted  into  the  oppressor  of  man¬ 
kind,  the  enemy  of  peace,  and  the  scourge  of  his 
people.  Amiable  in  domestic  life,  and  respect¬ 
able  as  a  sovereign,  but  in  his  policy  ill  advised, 
while  he  gained  the  love  of  his  Roman  Catholic 
subjects,  he  incurred  the  execration  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants.  History  exhibits  many  and  greater 
despots  than  Ferdinand  II.,  yet  he  alone  has  had 
the  unfortunate  celebrity  of  kindling  a  thirty 
years’  war  ;  but  to  produce  its  lamentable  conse¬ 
quences,  his  ambition  must  have  been  seconded  by 
a  kindred  spirit  of  the  age,  a  congenial  state  of 
previous  circumstances,  and  existing  seeds  of  dis¬ 
cord.  At  a  less  turbulent  period,  the  spark  would 
have  found  no  fuel ;  and  the  peacefulness  of  the 
age  would  have  choked  the  voice  of  individual 
ambition ;  but  now  the  flash  fell  upon  a  pile  of  ac¬ 
cumulated  combustibles,  and  Europe  was  in  flames. 

His  son,  Ferdinand  III.,  who,  a  few  months  be¬ 
fore  his  father’s  death,  had  been  raised  to  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  King  of  the  Romans,  inherited  his  throne, 
his  principles,  and  the  war  which  he  had  caused. 
But  Ferdinand  III.  had  been  a  closer  witness  of 
the  sufferings  of  the  people,  and  the  devastation 
of  the  country,  and  felt  more  keenly  and  ardently 
the  necessity  of  peace.  Less  influenced  by  the 
Jesuits  and  the  Spaniards,  and  more  moderate 
toward  the  religious  views  of  others,  he  was  more 
likely  than  his  father  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reason.  He  did  so,  and  ultimately  restored  to 
Europe  the  blessing  of  peace,  but  not  till  after  a 
contest  of  eleven  years  waged  with  sword  and  pen ; 
not  till  after  he  had  experienced  the  impossibility 
of  resistance,  and  necessity  had  laid  upon  him  its 
stern  laws. 

Fortune  favored  him  at  the  commencement  of 
his  reign,  and  his  arms  were  victorious  against 
the  Swedes.  The  latter,  under  the  command  of 
the  victorious  Banner,  had,  after  their  success  at 
Wittstock,  taken  up  their  winter  quarters  in  Sax¬ 
ony  ;  and  the  campaign  of  1637  opened  with  the 
siege  of  Leipsic.  The  vigorous  resistance  of  the 
garrison,  and  the  approach  of  the  Electoral  and 
Imperial  armies,  saved  the  town,  and  Banner,  to 
prevent  his  communication  with  the  Elbe  being 
cut  off,  was  compelled  to  retreat  into  Torgau. 
But  the  superior  number  of  the  Imperialists  drove 
him  even  from  that  quarter ;  and,  surrounded  by 
the  enemy,  hemmed  in  by  rivers,  and  suffering 
from  famine,  he  had  no  course  opened  to  him  but 
to  attempt  a  highly  dangerous  retreat  into  Pome¬ 
rania,  of  which,  the  boldness  and  successful  issue 
bordered  upon  romance.  The  whole  army  crossed 
the  Oder,  at  a  ford  near  Furstenberg ;  and  the 
soldiers,  wading  up  to  the  neck  in  water,  dragged 
the  artillery  across,  when  the  horses  refused  to 
draw.  Banner  had  expected  to  be  ioined  by  Ge- 
Voi*  II.— 16 


neral  Wrangel,  on  the  further  side  of  the  Odei  in 
Pomerania;  and,  in  conjunction  with  him,  to  be 
able  to  make  head  against  the  enemy.  But 
Wrangel  did  not  appear;  and  in  his  stead,  he 
joined  an  Imperial  army  posted  at  Landsberg, 
with  a  view  to  cut  off  the  retreat  of  the  Swedes. 
Banner  now  saw  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  danger¬ 
ous  snare,  from  which  escape  appeared  impossi¬ 
ble.  In  his  rear  lay  an  exhausted  country,  the 
Imperialists,  and  the  Oder  on  his  left ;  the  Oder, 
too,  guarded  by  the  Imperial  General  Bucheim, 
offered  no  retreat;  in  front,  Landsberg,  Custrin, 
the  Warta,  and  a  hostile  army;  and  on  the  right, 
Poland,  in  which,  notwithstanding  the  truce,  little 
confidence  could  be  placed.  In  these  circum¬ 
stances,  his  position  seemed  hopeless,  and  the  Im¬ 
perialists  were  already  triumphing  in  the  certainty 
of  his  fall.  Banner,  with  just  indignation,  accused 
the  French  as  the  authors  of  this  misfortune. 
They  had  neglected  to  make,  according  to  their 
promise,  a  diversion  upon  the  Rhine ;  and,  by 
their  inaction,  allowed  the  Emperor  to  combine 
his  whole  force  upon  the  Swedes.  “When  the 
day  comes,”  cried  the  incensed  general  to  the 
French  Commissioner,  who  followed  the  camp, 
“  that  the  Swedes  and  Germans  join  their  arms 
against  France,  we  shall  cross  the  Rhine  with  less 
ceremony.”  But  reproaches  were  now  useless ;  what 
the  emergency  demanded  was  energy  and  resolution. 
In  the  hope  of  drawing  the  enemy  by  stratagem 
from  the  Oder,  Banner  pretended  to  march  toward 
Poland,  and  dispatched  the  greater  part  of  his  bag¬ 
gage  in  this  direction,  with  his  own  wife  and  those 
of  the  other  officers.  The  Imperialists  immediately 
broke  up  their  camp,  and  hurried  toward  the  Pol¬ 
ish  frontier  to  block  up  the  route ;  Bucheim  left  his 
station,  and  the  Oder  was  stripped  of  its  defend¬ 
ers.  On  a  sudden,  and  under  cloud  of  night, 
Banner  turned  toward  that  river,  and  crossed  it 
about  a  mile  above  Custrin,  with  his  troops,  bag¬ 
gage,  and  artillery,  without  bridges  or  vessels,  as 
he  had  done  before  at  Furstenberg.  He  reached 
Pomerania  without  loss,  and  prepared  to  share 
with  Wrangel  the  defense  of  that  province. 

But  the  Imperialists,  under  the  command  of 
Gallas,  entered  that  duchy  at  Ribses,  and  overran 
it  by  their  superior  strength.  Usedom  and  Wol- 
gast  were  taken  by  storm,  Demmin  capitulated, 
and  the  Swedes  were  driven  far  into  Lower  Pome¬ 
rania.  It  was,  too,  more  important  for  them  at 
this  moment  than  ever,  to  maintain  a  footing  in 
that  country,  for  Bogislaus  XIV.  had  died  that 
year,  and  Sweden  must  prepare  to  establish  its 
title  to  Pomerania.  To  prevent  the  Elector  of 
Brandenburg  from  making  good  the  title  to  that 
duchy,  which  the  treaty  of  Prague  had  given  him, 
Sweden  exerted  her  utmost  energies,  and  sup 
ported  its  generals  to  the  extent  of  her  ability, 
both  with  troops  and  money.  In  other  quarters 
of  the  kingdom,  the  affairs  of  the  Swedes  began 
to  wear  a  more  favorable  aspect,  and  to  recover* 
from  the  humiliation  into  which  they  had  been 
thrown  by  the  inaction  of  France,  and  the  deser¬ 
tion  of  their  allies.  For,  after  their  hasty  retreat 
into  Pomerania,  they  had  lost  one  place  after  an¬ 
other  in  Upper  Saxony;  the  princes  of  Mecklen¬ 
burg,  closely  pressed  by  the  troops  of  the  Empe¬ 
ror,  began  to  lean  to  the  side  of  Austria,  and  even 


242 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS*  WAR. 


George,  Duke  of  Lnnenburg,  declared  against 
them.  Ehrenbreitstein  was  starved  into  a  sur¬ 
render  by  the  Bavarian  General  De  Werth,  and 
the  Austrians  possessed  themselves  of  all  the 
works  which  had  been  thrown  up  on  the  Rhine. 
France  had  been  the  sufferer  in  the  contest  with 
Spain  ;  and  the  event  had  by  no  means  justified 
the  pompous  expectations  which  had  accompanied 
the  opening  of  the  campaign.  Every  place  which 
the  Swedes  had  held  in  the  interior  of  Germany 
was  lost :  and  only  the  principal  towns  in  Pome¬ 
rania  still  remained  in  their  hands.  But  a  single 
campaign  raised  them  from  this  state  of  humilia¬ 
tion  ;  and  the  vigorous  diversion  which  the  victo¬ 
rious  Bernard  had  effected  upon  the  Rhine,  gave 
quite  a  new  turn  to  affairs. 

The  misunderstandings  between  France  and 
Sweden  were  now  at  last  adjusted,  and  the  old 
treaty  between  these  powers  confirmed  at  Ham¬ 
burg,  with  fresh  advantages  for  Sweden.  In 
Hesse,  the  politic  Landgravine  Amelia  had,  with 
the  approbation  of  the  States,  assumed  the  gov¬ 
ernment  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  and 
resolutely  maintained  her  rights  against  the  Em¬ 
peror  and  the  House  of  Darmstadt.  Meantime, 
the  Swedish-Protestant  party,  zealously  attached 
to  their  religion,  only  awaited  a  favorable  oppor¬ 
tunity  openly  to  declare  themselves.  By  artful 
delays,  and  by  prolonging  the  negotiations  with 
the  Emperor,  they  had  succeeded  in  keeping  him 
inactive,  till  they  had  concluded  a  secret  compact 
with  France,  and  the  victories  of  Duke  Bernard 
had  given  a  favorable  turn  to  the  affairs  of  the 
Protestants.  They  now  at  once  threw  off  the 
mask,  and  renewed  their  former  alliance  with  the 
Swedish  crown.  The  Electoral  Prince  of  the 
Palatinate  was  also  stimulated,  by  the  success  of 
Bernard,  to  try  his  fortune  against  the  common 
enemy.  Raising  troops  in  Holland  with  English 
money,  he  formed  a  magazine  at  Meppen,  and 
joined  the  Swedes  in  Westphalia.  His  magazine 
was,  however,  quickly  lost ;  his  army  defeated 
near  Flotha,  by  Count  Hatzfeld  ;  but  his  attempt 
served  to  occupy  for  some  time  the  attention  of 
the  enemy,  and  thereby  facilitated  the  operations 
of  the  Swedes  in  other  quarters.  Other  friends 
began  to  appear,  as  fortune  declared  in  their  fa¬ 
vor  ;  and  the  circumstance  that  the  States  of 
Lower  Saxony  embraced  a  neutrality,  was  of  it¬ 
self  no  inconsiderable  advantage. 

Under  these  advantages,  and  reinforced  by 
fourteen  thousand  fresh  troops  from  Sweden  and 
Livonia,  Banner  opened,  with  the  most  favorable 
prospects,  the  campaign  of  1638.  The  Imperial¬ 
ists  who  were  in  possession  of  Upper  Pomerania 
and  Mecklenburg,  either  abandoned  their  posi¬ 
tions,  or  deserted  in  crowds  to  the  Swedes,  to 
avoid  the  horrors  of  famine,  the  most  formidable 
enemy  in  this  exhausted  country.  The  whole 
'.ountry  betwixt  the  Elbe  and  the  Oder  was  so 
Jesolated  by  the  past  marchings  and  quarterings 
of  the  troops,  that,  in  order  to  support  his  army 
on  its  march  into  Saxony  and  Bohemia,  Banner 
was  obliged  to  take  a  circuitous  route  from  Lower 
Pomerania  into  Lower  Saxony,  and  then  into  the 
Electorate  of  Saxony  through  the  territory  of 
Ilalberstadt.  The  impatience  of  the  Lower  Saxon 
States  to  get  rid  of  such  troublesome  guests,  pro¬ 


cured  him  so  plentiful  a  supply  of  provisions,  that 
he  was  provided  with  bread  in  Magdeburg  itself, 
where  famine  had  even  overcome  the  natural  an¬ 
tipathy  of  men  to  human  flesh.  His  approach 
spread  consternation  among  the  Saxons ;  but  his 
views  were  directed  not  against  this  exhausted 
country,  but  against  the  hereditary  dominions  of 
the  Emperor.  The  victories  of  Bernard  encou¬ 
raged  him,  while  the  prosperity  of  the  Austrian 
provinces  excited  his  hopes  of  booty.  After  de¬ 
feating  the  Imperial  General,  Salis,  at  Elsterberg, 
totally  routing  the  Saxon  army  at  Chemnitz,  ard 
taking  Pirna,  he  penetrated  with  irresistible  im¬ 
petuosity  into  Bohemia,  crossed  the  Elbe,  threat¬ 
ened  Prague,  took  Brandeis  and  Leutmeritz, 
defeated  General  Hofkirchen  with  ten  regiments, 
and  spread  terror  and  devastation  through  that 
defenseless  kingdom.  Booty  was  his  sole  object, 
and  whatever  he  could  not  carry  off  he  destroyed. 
In  order  to  remove  more  of  the  corn,  the  ears 
were  cut  from  the  stalks,  and  the  latter  burned. 
Above  a  thousand  castles,  hamlets,  and  villages, 
were  laid  in  ashes ;  sometimes  more  than  a  hun¬ 
dred  were  seen  burning  in  one  night.  From  Bo¬ 
hemia  he  crossed  into  Silesia,  and  it  was  his  in¬ 
tention  to  carry  his  ravages  even  into  Moravia 
and  Austria.  But  to  prevent  this,  Count  Hatz¬ 
feld  was  summoned  from  W estphalia,  and  Picco- 
lomini  from  the  Netherlands,  to  hasten  with  all 
speed  to  this  quarter.  The  Archduke  Leopold, 
brother  to  the  Emperor,  assumed  the  command, 
in  order  to  repair  the  errors  of  his  predecessor 
Gallas.  and  to  raise  the  army  from  the  low  ebb 
to  which  it  had  fallen. 

The  result  justified  the  change,  and  the  cam¬ 
paign  of  1640  appeared  to  take  a  most  unfortunate 
turn  for  the  Swedes.  They  were  successively 
driven  out  of  all  their  posts  in  Bohemia,  and 
anxious  only  to  secure  their  plunder,  they  preci¬ 
pitately  crossed  the  heights  of  Meissen.  But  be¬ 
ing  followed  into  Saxony  by  the  pursuing  enemy, 
and  defeated  at  Plauen,  they  were  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  Thuringia.  Made  masters  of  the  field 
in  a  single  summer,  they  were  as  rapidly  dispos¬ 
sessed  ;  but  only  to  acquire  it  a  second  time,  and 
to  hurry  from  one  extreme  to  another.  The  army 
of  Banner,  weakened  and  on  the  brink  of  destruc¬ 
tion  in  its  camp  at  Erfurt,  suddenly  recovered 
itself.  The  Duke  of  Lunenburg  abandoned  the 
treaty  of  Prague,  and  joined  Banner  with  the  very 
troops  which,  the  year  before,  had  fought  against 
him.  Hesse  Cassel  sent  reinforcements,  and  the 
Duke  of  Longueville  came  to  his  support  with  the 
army  of  the  late  Duke  Bernard.  Once  more  nu¬ 
merically  superior  to  the  Imperialists,  Banner 
offered  them  battle  near  Saalfeld ;  but  their 
leader,  Piccolomini,  prudently  declined  an  en¬ 
gagement,  and  had  chosen  too  strong  a  position 
to  be  forced.  When  the  Bavarians  at  length 
separated  from  the  Imperialists,  and  marched 
toward  Franconia,  Banner  attempted  an  attack 
upon  this  divided  corps,  but  the  attempt  was 
frustrated  by  the  skill  of  the  Bavarian  general 
Yon  Mercy,  and  the  near  approach  of  the  main 
body  of  the  Imperialists.  Both  armies  now  moved 
into  the  exhausted  territory  of  Hesse,  where  they 
formed  intrenched  camps  near  each  other,  till  at 
last  famine  and  the  severity  of  the  winter  com- 


2 — G.  p.  292, 


2— E.  p.  242 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


243 


pelled  them  both  to  retire.  Piccolomini  chose 
the  fertile  banks  of  the  Weser  tor  his  winter  quar¬ 
ters,  but  being  outflanked  by  Banner,  he  was 
obliged  to  give  way  to  the  Swedes,  and  to  impose 
on  the  Franconian  sees  the  burden  of  maintaining 
his  army. 

At  this  period,  a  Diet  was  held  in  Ratisbon, 
where  the  complaints  of  the  states  were  to  be 
heard,  measures  taken  for  securing  the  repose  of 
the  empire,  and  the  question  pf  peace  or  war  finally 
settled.  The  presence  of  the  Emperor,  the  ma¬ 
jority  of  the  Roman  Catholic  voices  in  the  Elec¬ 
toral  College,  the  great  number  of  bishops,  and 
the  withdrawal  of  several  of  the  Protestant  votes, 
gave  the  Emperor  a  complete  command  of  the 
deliberations  of  the  assembly,  and  rendered  this 
Diet  any  thing  but  a  fair  representative  of  the 
opinions  of  the  German  Empire.  The  Protes¬ 
tants,  with  reason,  considered  it  as  a  mere  com¬ 
bination  of  Austria  and  its  creatures  against 
their  party;  and  it  seemed  to  them  a  laudable 
effort  to  interrupt  its  deliberations,  and  to  dis¬ 
solve  the  Diet  itself. 

Banner  undertook  this  bold  enterprise.  His 
military  reputation  had  suffered  by  his  last  retreat 
from  Bohemia,  and  it  stood  in  need  of  some  great 
exploit  to  restore  its  former  lustre.  Without 
communicating  his  designs  to  any  one,  in  the 
depth  of  the  winter  of  1641,  as  soon  as  the  roads 
and  rivers  were  frozen,  he  broke  up  from  his 
quarters  in  Lunenburg.  Accompanied  by  Mar¬ 
shal  Guebriant,  who  commanded  the  armies  of 
France  and  Weimar,  he  took  the  route  toward 
the  Danube,  through  Thuringia  and  Vogtland, 
and  appeared  before  Ratisbon,  ere  the  Diet  could 
be  apprised  of  his  approach.  The  consternation 
of  the  assembly  was  indescribable ;  and,  in  the 
first  alarm,  the  deputies  prepared  for  flight.  The 
Emperor  alone  declared  that  he  would  not  leave 
the  town,  and  encouraged  the  rest  by  his  exam¬ 
ple.  Unfortunately  for  the  Swedes,  a  thaw  came 
on,  which  broke  up  the  ice  upon  the  Danube,  so 
that  it  was  no  longer  passable  on  foot,  while  no 
boats  could  cross  it  on  account  of  the  quantities 
of  ice  which  were  swept  down  by  the  current.  In 
order  to  preform  something,  and  to  humble  the 
pride  of  the  Emperor,  Banner  discourteously  fired 
five  hundred  cannon  shots  into  the  town,  which, 
however,  did  little  mischief.  Baffled  in  his  de¬ 
signs,  he  resolved  to  penetrate  further  into  Bohe¬ 
mia,  and  the  defenseless  province  of  Moravia, 
where  a  rich  booty  and  comfortable  quarters 
awaited  his  troops.  Guebriant,  however,  began  to 
fear  that  the  purpose  of  the  Swedes  was  to  draw 
the  army  of  Bernard  away  from  the  Rhine,  and  to 
cut  off  its  communication  with  France,  till  it 
should  be  either  entirely  won  over,  or  incapa¬ 
citated  from  acting  independently.  He  therefore 
separated  from  Banner  to  return  to  the  Maine  ; 
and  the  latter  was  exposed  to  the  whole  force  of  the 
Imperialists,  which  had  been  secretly  drawn  to¬ 
gether  between  Ratisbon  and  Ingolstadt,  and  was  on 
its  march  against  him.  It  was  now  time  to  think 
of  a  rapid  retreat,  which,  having  to  be  effected  in 
the  face  of  an  army  superior  in  cavalry,  and  be¬ 
twixt  woods  and  rivers,  through  a  country  entirely 
hostile,  appeared  almost  impracticable.  He 
hastily  retired  toward  the  Forest  intending  to 


penetrate  through  Bohemia  into  Saxony;  but  he 
was  obliged  to  sacrifice  three  regiments  at  Neu- 
burg.  'These,  with  a  truly  Spartan  courage,  de¬ 
fended  themselves  for  four  days  behind  an  old 
wall,  and  gained  time  for  Banner  to  escape.  He 
retreated  by  Egra  to  Annaberg;  Piccolomini 
took  a  shorter  route  in  pursuit,  by  Schlakenwald ; 
and  Banner  succeeded,  only  by  a  single  half  hour, 
in  clearing  the  Pass  of  Prisnitz,  and  saving  his 
whole  army  from  the  Imperialists.  At  Zwickau 
he  was  again  joined  by  Guebriant ;  and  both 
generals  directed  their  march  toward  Halber- 
stadt,  after  in  vain  attempting  to  defend  the  Saalo. 
and  to  prevent  the  passage  of  the  Imperialists. 

Banner,  at  length,  terminated  his  career  at  Hal- 
berstadt,  in  May  1641,  a  victim  to  vexation  and 
disappointment.  He  sustained  with  great  renown, 
though  with  varying  success,  the  reputation  of  the 
Swedish  arms  in  Germany,  and  by  a  train  of  vic¬ 
tories  showed  himself  worthy  of  his  great  master 
in  the  art  of  war.  He  was  fertile  in  expedients, 
which  he  planned  with  secrecy,  and  executed  with 
boldness  ;  cautious  in  the  midst  of  dangers,  greater 
in  adversity  than  in  prosperity,  and  never  more 
formidable  than  when  upon  the  brink  of  destruc¬ 
tion.  But  the  virtues  of  the  hero  were  united  with 
all  the  failings  and  vices  which  a  military  life 
creates,  or  at  least  fosters.  As  imperious  in  pri¬ 
vate  life  as  he  was  at  the  head  of  his  army,  rude  as 
his  profession,  and  proud  as  a  conqueror  ;  he  op¬ 
pressed  the  German  princess  no  less  by  his  haugh¬ 
tiness,  than  their  country  by  his  contributions. 
He  consoled  himself  for  the  toils  of  war  in  volup¬ 
tuousness  and  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  in  which 
he  indulged  to  excess,  and  was  thus  brought  to  an 
early  grave.  But  though  as  much  addicted  to 
pleasure  as  Alexander  or  Mohammed  the  Second, 
he  hurried  from  the  arms  of  luxury  into  the  hardest 
fatigues,  and  placed  himself  in  all  his  vigor  at  the 
head  of  his  army  at  the  very  moment  his  soldiers 
were  murmuring  at  his  luxurious  excesses.  Nearly 
eighty  thousand  men  fell  in  the  numerous  battles 
which  he  fought,  and  about  six  hundred  hostile 
standards  and  colors,  which  he  sent  to  Stockholm, 
were  the  trophies  of  his  victories.  The  want  of 
this  great  general  was  soon  severely  felt  by  the 
Swedes,  who  feared,  with  justice,  that  the  loss 
would  not  readily  be  replaced.  The  spirit  of  re¬ 
bellion  and  insubordination,  which  had  been  over¬ 
awed  by  the  imperious  demeanor  of  this  dreaded 
commander,  awoke  upon  his  death.  The  officers, 
with  an  alarming  unanimity,  demanded  payment  of 
their  arrears  ;  and  none  of  the  four  generals  who 
shared  the  command,  possessed  influence  enough 
to  satisfy  these  demands,  or  to  silence  the  malcon¬ 
tents.  All  discipline  was  at  an  end,  increasing 
want,  and  the  imperial  citations  were  daily  dimin¬ 
ishing  the  number  of  the  army  ;  the  troops  of 
France  and  Weimar  showed  little  zeal  ;  those  of 
Lunenburg  forsook  the  Swedish  colors,  as  the 
Princes  of  the  House  of  Brunswick,  after  the 
death  of  Duke  George,  had  formed  a  separate 
treaty  with  the  Emperor;  and  at  last  even  those 
of  Hesse  quitted  them,  to  seek  better  quarters  iu 
Westphalia.  The  enemy  profited  by  these  cala¬ 
mitous  divisions  ;  and  although  defeated  by  loss  in 
two  pitched  battles,  succeeded  in  making  conside¬ 
rable  progress  in  Lower  Saxony. 


244 


HISTORY  OF  THE'  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


At  length  appeared  the  new  Swedish  general¬ 
issimo,  with  fresh  troops  and  money.  This  was 
Bernard  Torstensohn,  a  pupil  of  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus,  and  his  most  successful  imitator,  who  had 
been  his  page  during  the  Polish  war.  Though  a 
martyr  to  the  gout,  and  confined  to  a  litter,  he 
surpassed  all  his  opponents  inactivity;  and  his 
enterprises  had  wings,  while  his  body  was  held  by 
the  most  frightful  of  fetters.  Under  him,  the 
scene  of  war  was  changed,  and  new  maxims  adop¬ 
ted,  which  necessity  dictated,  and  the  issue  justi¬ 
fied.  All  the  countries  in  which  the  contest  had 
hitherto  raged  were  exhausted,  while  the  House 
of  Austria,  safe  in  its  most  distant  territories,  felt 
not  the  miseries  of  the  war  under  which  the  rest 
of  Germany  groaned.  Torstensohn  first  furnished 
them  with  this  bitter  experience,  glutted  his 
Swedes  on  the  fertile  produce  of  Austria,  and 
carried  the  torch  of  war  to  the  very  footsteps  of 
the  imperial  throne. 

In  Silesia,  the  enemy  had  gained  considerable 
advantages  over  the  Swedish  general  Stalhantsch, 
and  driven  him  as  far  as  Neumark.  Torstensohn, 
who  had  joined  the  main  body  of  the  Swedes  in 
Lunenburg,  summoned  him  to  unite  with  his 
force,  and  in  the  year  1642,  hastily  marched  into 
Silesia  through  Brandenburg,  which,  under  its 
great  Elector,  had  begun  to  maintain  an  armed 
neutrality.  Glogau  was  carried,  sword  in  hand, 
without  a  breach,  or  formal  approaches :  the 
Duke  Francis  Albert,  of  Lauenburg,  defeated  and 
killed  at  Schweidnitz;  and  Schweidnitz  itself, 
with  almost  all  the  towns  on  that  side  of  the 
Oder,  taken.  He  now  penetrated  with  irresistible 
violence  into  the  interior  of  Moravia,  where  no 
enemy  of  Austria  had  hitherto  appeared,  took 
Olmutz,  and  threw  Vienna  itself  into  conster¬ 
nation. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  Piccolomini  and  the 
Archduke  Leopold  had  collected  a  superior  force, 
which  speedily  drove  the  Swedish  conquerors  from 
Moravia,  and  after  a  fruitless  attempt  upon  Breig, 
from  Silesia.  Reinforced  by  Wrangel,  the  Swedes 
again  attempted  to  make  head  against  the  enemy, 
and  relieved  Grossglogau  ;  but  could  neither  bring 
the  Imperialists  to  an  engagement,  nor  carry  into 
effect  their  own  views  upon  Bohemia.  Overrun¬ 
ning  Lusatia,  they  took  Zittau,  in  presence  of  the 
enemy,  and  after  a  short  stay  in  that  country,  di¬ 
rected  their  march  toward  the  Elbe,  which  they 
passed  at  Torgau.  Torstensohn  now  threatened 
Leipsic  with  a  siege,  and  hoped  to  raise  a  large 
supply  of  provisions  and  contributions  from  that 
prosperous  town,  which  for  ten  years  had  been  un¬ 
visited  with  the  scourge  of  war. 

The  Imperialists,  under  Leopold  and  Piccol¬ 
omini,  immediately  hastened  by  Dresden  to  its  re¬ 
lief,  and  Torstensohn,  to  avoid  being  inclosed  be¬ 
tween  this  army  and  the  town,  boldly  advanced  to 
meet  them  in  order  of  battle.  By  a  strange  coin¬ 
cidence,  the  two  armies  met  upon  the  very  spot 
which,  eleven  years  before,  Gustavus  Adolphus 
had  rendered  remarkable  by  a  decisive  victory; 
and  the  heroism  of  their  predecessors,  now  kindled 
in  the  Swedes  a  noble  emulation  on  this  conse¬ 
crated  ground.  The  Swedish  generals,  Stahl- 
hantsch  and  Wellenberg,  led  their  divisions  with 
euch  impetuosity  upon  the  left  wing  of  the  Impe¬ 


rialists,  before  it  was  completely  formed,  that  the 
whole  cavalry  that  covered  it  were  dispersed  and 
rendered  unserviceable.  But  the  left  of  the 
Swedes  was  threatened  with  a  similar  fate,  when 
the  victorious  right  advanced  to  its  assistance, 
took  the  enemy  in  flank  and  rear,  and  divided  the 
Austrian  line.  The  infantry  on  both  sides  stood 
firm  as  a  wall,  and  when  their  ammunition  was  ex¬ 
hausted,  maintained  the  combat  with  the  butt- 
ends  of  their  muskets,  till  at  last  the  Imperialists, 
completely  surrounded,  after  a  contest  of  three 
hours,  were  compelled  to  abandon  the  field.  The 
generals  on  both  sides  had  more  than  once  to 
rally  their  flying  troops  ;  and  the  Archduke  Leo¬ 
pold,  with  his  regiment,  was  the  first  in  the  attack, 
and  last  in  flight.  But  this  bloody  victory  cost 
the  Swedes  more  than  3,000  men,  and  two  of 
their  best  generals,  Schlangen  and  Lilienhoeck. 
More  than  5,000  of  the  Imperialists  were  left  upon 
the  field,  and  nearly  as  many  taken  prisoners. 
Their  whole  artillery,  consisting  of  46  field-pieces, 
the  silver  plate  and  portfolio  of  the  archduke,  with 
the  whole  baggage  of  the  army,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  -the  victors.  Torstensohn,  too  greatly 
disabled  by  his  victory  to  pursue  the  enemy, 
moved  upon  Leipsic.  The  defeated  army  retired 
into  Bohemia,  where  its  shattered  regime  fits  reas¬ 
sembled.  The  Archduke  Leopold  could  not  re¬ 
cover  from  the  vexation  caused  by  this  defeat; 
and  the  regiment  of  cavalry  which,  by  its  prema¬ 
ture  flight,  had  occasioned  the  disaster,  experi¬ 
enced  the  effects  of  his  indignation.  At  Raconitz 
in  Bohemia,  in  presence  of  the  whole  army,  he 
publicly  declared  it  infamous,  deprived  it  of  its 
horses,  arms,  and  ensigns,  ordered  its  standards  to 
be  torn,  condemned  to  death  severalnf  the  officers, 
and  decimated  the  privates. 

The  surrender  of  Leipsic,  three  weeks  after  the 
battle,  was  its  brilliant  result.  The  city  was 
obliged  to  clothe  the  Swedish  troops  anew,  and 
to  purchase  an  exemption  from  plunder,  by  a  con¬ 
tribution  of  300,000  rix  dollars,  to  which  all  the 
foreign  merchants,  who  had  warehouses  in  the 
city,  were  to  furnish  their  quota.  In  the  middle 
of  winter,  Torstensohn  advanced  against  Frey- 
burg,  and  for  several  weeks  defied  the  inclemency 
of  the  season,  hoping  by  his  perseverance  to  weary 
out  the  obstinacy  of  the  besieged.  But  he  found 
that  he  was  merely  sacrificing  the  lives  of  his  sol¬ 
diers  ;  and  at  last,  the  approach  of  the  imperial 
general,  Piccolomini,  compelled  him,  with  his 
weakened  army,  to  retire.  He  considered  it,  how¬ 
ever,  as  equivalent  to  a  victory,  to  have  disturbed 
the  repose  of  the  enemy  in  their  winter  quarters, 
who,  by  the  severity  of  the  weather,  sustained  a 
loss  of  three  thousand  horses.  He  now  made  a 
movement  toward  the  Oder,  as  if  with  the  view 
of  reinforcing  himself  with  the  garrisons  of  Po¬ 
merania  and  Silesia;  but,  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning,  he  again  appeared  upon  the  Bohemian 
frontier,  penetrated  through  that  kingdom,  and 
relieved  Olmutz  in  Moravia,  which  was  hard 
pressed  by  the  Imperialists.  His  camp  at  Do- 
ditschau,  two  miles  from  Olmutz,  commanded  the 
whole  of  Moravia,  on  which  he  levied  heavy  con¬ 
tributions,  and  carried  his  ravages  almost  to  the 
gates  of  Vienna.  In  vain  did  the  Emperor  at¬ 
tempt  to  arm  the  Hungarian  nobility  in  defense 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


245 


of  this  province ;  they  appealed  to  their  privi¬ 
leges,  and  refused  to  serve  beyond  the  limits  of 
their  own  country.  Thus,  the  time  that  should 
have  been  spent  in  active  resistance,  was  lost  in 
fruitless  negotiation,  and  the  entire  province  was 
abandoned  to  the  ravages  of  the  Swedes. 

While  Torstensohn,  by  his  marches  and  his 
victories,  astonished  friend  and  foe,  the  armies  of 
the  allies  had  not  been  inactive  in  other  parts  of 
the  empire.  The  trbops  of  Hesse,  under  Count 
Eberstein,  and  those  of  Weimar,  under  Mares- 
chal  de  Guebriant,  had  fallen  into  the  Electorate  of 
Cologne,  in  order  to  take  up  their  winter  quarters 
there.  To  get  rid  of  these  troublesome  guests, 
the  Elector  called  to  his  assistance  the  imperial 
general,  Hatzfeld,  and  assembled  his  own  troops 
under  General  Lamboy.  The  latter  was  attacked 
by  the  allies  in  January,  1642,  and  in  a  decisive 
action  near  Kempen,  defeated,  with  the  loss  of 
about  two  thousand  men  killed,  and  about  twice 
as  many  prisoners.  This  important  victory  opened 
to  them  the  whole  Electorate  and  neighboring  ter¬ 
ritories,  so  that  the  allies  were  not  only  enabled 
to  maintain  their  winter  quarters  there,  but  drew 
from  the  country  large  supplies  of  men  and 
horses. 

Guebriant  left  the  Hessians  to  defend  their 
conquests  on  the  lower  Rhine  against  Hatzfeld, 
and  advanced  toward  Thuringia,  as  if  to  second 
the  operations  of  Torstensohn  in  Saxony.  But 
instead  of  joining  the  Swedes,  he  soon  hurried 
back  to  the  Rhine  and  the  Maine,  from  which  he 
seemed  to  think  he  had  removed  further  than  was 
expedient.  But  being  anticipated  in  the  Land- 
graviate  of  Baden,  by  the  Bavarians  under  Mercy 
and  John  de  Werth,  he  was  obliged  to  wander 
about  for  several  weeks,  exposed,  without  shelter, 
to  the  inclemency  of  the  winter,  and  generally 
encamping  upon  the  snow,  till  he  found  a  miser¬ 
able  refuge  in  Breisgau.  He  at  lasttook  the  field  ; 
and,  in  the  next  summer,  by  keeping  the  Bavarian 
army  employed  in  Swabia,  prevented  it  from  re¬ 
lieving  Thionville,  which  was  besieged  by  Conde. 
But  the  superiority  of  the  enemy  soon  drove  him 
back  to  Alsace,  where  lie  awaited  a  reinforce¬ 
ment. 

The  death  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  took  place  in 
November,  1042.  and  the  subsequent  change  in 
the  throne  and  in  the  ministry,  occasioned  by  the 
death  of  Louis  XIII.,  had  for  some  time  with¬ 
drawn  the  attention  of  France  from  the  German 
war,  and  was  the  cause  of  the  inaction  of  its  troops 
in  the  field.  But  Mazarine,  the  inheritor,  not 
only  of  Richelieu's  power,  but  also  of  his  princi¬ 
ples  and  his  projects,  followed  out  with  renewed 
zeal  the  plans  of  his  predecessor,  though  the 
French  subject  was  destined  to  pay  dearly  enough 
for  the  political  greatness  of  his  country.  The 
main  strength  of  its  armies,  which  Richelieu  had 
employed  against  the  Spaniards,  was  by  Mazarine 
directed  against  the  Emperor;  and  the  anxiety 
with  which  he  carried  on  the  war  in  Germany, 
proved  the  sincerity  of  his  opinion,  that  the  Ger¬ 
man  army  was  the  right  arm  of  his  king,  and  a 
wall  of  safety  around  France.  Immediately  upon 
the  surrender  of  Thionville,  he  sent  a  consider¬ 
able  reinforcement  to  Field-Marshal  Guebriant  in 
Alsace  ;  and  to  encourage  the  troops  to  bear  the 


fatigues  of  the  German  war,  the  celebrated  victor 
of  Rocroi,  the  Duke  of  Enguien,  afterward  Prince 
of  Cond6,  was  placed  at  their  head.  Guebriant 
now  felt  himself  strong  enough  to  appear  again 
in  Germany  with  repute.  He  hastened  across  the 
Rhine  with  the  view  of  procuring  better  winter 
quarters  in  Swabia,  and  actually  made  himself 
master  of  Rothweil,  where  a  Bavarian  magazine 
fell  into  his  hands.  But  the  place  was  too  dearly 
purchased  for  its  worth,  and  was  again  lost  even 
more  speedily  than  it  had  been  taken.  Guebriant 
received  a  wound  in  the  arm,  which  the  surgeon's 
unskillfulness  rendered  mortal,  and  the  extent  of 
his  loss  was  felt  on  the  very  day  of  his  death. 

The  French  army,  sensibly  weakened  by  an 
expedition  undertaken  at  so  severe  a  season  of  the 
year,  had,  after  the  taking  of  Rothweil,  withdrawn 
into  the  neighborhood  of  Duttlingen,  where  it  lay 
in  complete  security,  without  expectation  of  a 
hostile  attack.  In  the  mean  time,  the  enemy  col¬ 
lected  a  considerable  force,  with  a  view  to  prevent 
the  French  from  establishing  themselves  beyond 
the  Rhine,  and  posted  it  so  near  to  Bavaria  as  to 
protect  that  quarter  from  their  ravages.  The  Im¬ 
perialists,  under  Hatzfeld,  had  formed  a  junction 
with  the  Bavarians  under  Mercy ;  and  the  Duke 
of  Lorraine,  who,  during  the  whole  course  of  the 
war,  was  generally  found  everywhere  except  in  his 
own  Duchy,  joined  their  united  forces.  It  was 
resolved  to  force  the  quarters  of  the  French  in 
Duttlingen,  and  the  neighboring  villages,  by  sur¬ 
prise  ;  a  favorite  mode  of  proceeding  in  this  war, 
and  which,  being  commonly  accompanied  by  con¬ 
fusion,  occasioned  more  bloodshed  than  a  regular 
battle.  On  the  present  occasion,  there  was  the 
more  to  justify  it,  as  the  French  soldiers,  unac¬ 
customed  to  such  enterprises,  conceived  them¬ 
selves  protected  by  the  severity  of  the  winter 
against  any  surprise.  John  de  Werth,  a  master 
in  this  species  of  warfare,  which  he  had  often  put 
in  practice  against  Gustavus  Horn,  conducted  the 
enterprise,  and  succeeded,  contrary  to  all  expec¬ 
tation. 

The  attack  was  made  on  a  side  where  it  was 
least  looked  for,  on  account  of  the  woods  and  nar¬ 
row  passes,  and  a  heavy  snow  storm  which  fell 
upon  the  same  day,  (the  24th  November,  1643,) 
concealed  the  approach  of  the  vanguard  till  it 
halted  before  Duttlingen.  The  whole  of  the  artil¬ 
lery  without  the  place,  as  well  as  the  neighboring 
Castle  of  Hornberg,  were  taken  without  resistance, 
Duttlingen  itself  was  gradually  surrounded  by  the 
enemy,  and  all  connection  with  the  other  quarters 
in  the  adjacent  villages  silently  and  suddenly  cut 
off.  The  French  were  vanquished  without  firing 
a  cannon.  The  cavalry  owed  their  escape  to  the 
swiftness  of  their  horses,  and  the  few  minutes  in 
advance,  which  they  had  gained  upon  their  pur¬ 
suers.  The  infantry  were  cut  to  pieces,  or  volun¬ 
tarily  laid  down  their  arms.  About  2,000  men 
were  killed  ;  and  7,000,  with  25  staff-officers  and 
90  captains,  taken  prisoners.  This  was,  perhaps, 
the  only  battle  in  the  whole  course  of  the  war, 
which  produced  nearly  the  same  effect  upon  the 
pai»ty  which  gained,  and  that  which  lost ; — both 
these  parties  were  Germans;  the  French  dis 
graced  themselves.  The  memory  of  this  unfortu¬ 
nate  day,  which  was  renewed  100  years  after  at 


246 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


Itosbach,  was  indeed  erased  by  the  subsemient  he¬ 
roism  of  a  Turenne  and  Cond6;  but  the  Germans 
may  be  pardoned,  if  they  indemnified  themselves 
for  the  miseries  which  the  policy  of  France  had 
heaped  upon  them,  by  these  severe  reflections 
upon  her  intrepidity. 

Meantime,  this  defeat  of  the  French  was  calcu¬ 
lated  to  prove  highly  disastrous  to  Sweden,  as  the 
whole-  power  of  the  Emperor  might  now  act 
against  them,  while  the  number  of  their  enemies 
was  increased  by  a  formidable  accession.  Tors- 
tensohn  had,  in  September,  1643,  suddenly  left 
Moravia,  and  moved  into  Silesia.  The  cause  of 
this  step  was  a  secret,  and  the  freqhent  changes 
which  took  place  in  the  direction  of  his  march, 
contributed  to  increase  this  perplexity.  From 
Silesia;  after  numberless  circuits,  he  advances  to¬ 
ward  the  Elbe,  while  the  Imperialists  followed 
him  into  Lusatia.  Throwing-  a  bridge  across  the 
Elbe  at  Torgau.  he  gave,  out  that  he  intended  to 
penetrate  through  Meissen  into  the  Upper  Pala¬ 
tinate  in  Bavaria;  at  Barby  he  also  made  a  move¬ 
ment.  as  if  to  pass  that  river,  but  continued  to 
move  down  the  Elbe  as  far  as  Havelburg,  where 
he  astonished  his  troops  by  informing  them  that 
he  was  leading  them  against  the  Danes  in  Hol¬ 
stein. 

The  partiality  which  Christian  IY.  had  dis¬ 
played  against  the  Swedes  in  his  office  of  media¬ 
tor,  the  jealousy  which  led  him  to  do  all  in  his 
power  to  hinder  the  progress  of  their  arms,  the 
restraints  which  he  laid  upon  their  navigation  of 
the  Sound,  and  the  burdens  which  he  imposed 
upon  their  commerce,  had  long  roused  the  indig¬ 
nation  of  Sweden  ;  and  at  last,  when  these  griev¬ 
ances  increased  daily,  had  determined  the  Regency 
to  measures  of  retaliation.  Dangerous  as  it 
seemed,  to  involve  the  nation  in  a  new  war,  when, 
even  amidst  its  conquests,  it  was  almost  exhausted 
by  the  old,  the  desire  of  revenge,  and  the  deep- 
rooted  hatred  which  subsisted  between  Danes  and 
Swedes,  prevailed  over  all  other  considerations  ; 
and  even  the  embarrassment  in  which  hostilities 
with  Germany  had  plunged  it,  only  served  as  an 
additional  motive  to  try  its  fortune  against  Den¬ 
mark. 

Matters  were,  in  fact,  arrived  at  last  to  that 
extremity,  that  the  war  was  prosecuted  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  furnishing  food  and  employment  to 
the  troops;  that  good  winter  quarters  formed  the 
chief  subject  of  contention  ;  and  that  success,  in 
this  point,  was  more  valued  than  a  decisive  vic¬ 
tory.  But  now  the  provinces  of  Germany  were 
almost  all  exhausted  and  laid  waste.  They  were 
wholly  destitute  of  provisions,  horses,  and  men, 
which  in  Holstein  were  to  be  found  in  profusion. 
If  by  this  movement,  Torstensohn  should  succeed 
merely  in  recruiting  his  army,  providing  subsist¬ 
ence  for  his  horses  and  soldiers,  and  remounting 
his  cavalry,  all  the  danger  and  difficulty  wrould  be 
well  repaid.  Besides,  it  was  highly  important,  on 
the  eve  of  negotiations  for  peace,  to  diminish  the 
injurious  influence  which  Denmark  might  exer¬ 
cise  upon  these  deliberations,  to  delay  the  treaty 
itself,  which  threatened  to  be  prejudicial  to  the 
Swedish  interests,  by  sowing  confusion  among  the 
parties  interested,  and  with  a  view  to  the  amount 
of  indemnification,  to  increase  the  number  of  her 


conquests,  in  order  to  be  the  more  sure  of  se¬ 
curing  those  which  alone  she  was  anxious  to  re¬ 
tain.  Moreover,  the  present  state  of  Denmark 
justified  even  greater  hopes,  if  only  the  attempt 
were  executed  with  rapidity  and  silence.  The  se¬ 
cret  was  in  fact  so  well  kept  in  Stockholm,  that 
the  Danish  minister  had  not  the  slightest  sus¬ 
picion  of  it ;  and  neither  France  nor  Holland 
were  let  into  the  scheme.  Actual  hostilities  com¬ 
menced  with  the  declaration  of  war;  and  Tors¬ 
tensohn  was  in  Holstein,  before  even  an  attack 
was  expected.  The  Swedish  troops,  meeting  with 
no  resistance,  quickly  overran  this  duchy,  and 
made  themselves  masters  of  all  its  strong  places, 
except  Rensburg  and  Gluckstadt.  Another  army 
penetrated  into  Schonen,  which  made  as  little  op¬ 
position  ;  and  nothing  but  the  severity  of  the 
season  prevented  the  enemy  from  passing  the 
Lesser  Baltic,  and  carrying  the  war  into  Funen 
and  Zealand.  The  Danish  fleet  was  unsuccessful 
at  Femern  ;  and  Christian  himself,  who  was  on 
board,  lost  his  right  eye  by  a  splinter.  Cut  off 
from  all  communication  with  the  distant  force  of 
the  Emperor,  his  ally,  this  king  was  on  the  point 
of  seeing  his  whole  kingdom  overrun  by  the 
Swedes;  and  all  things  threatened  the  speedy 
fulfillment  of  the  old  prophecy  of  the  famous 
Tycho  Brahe,  that  in  the  year  1644,  Christian  IY. 
should  wander  in  the  greatest  misery  from  his  do¬ 
minions. 

But  the  Emperor  could  not  look  on  writh  indif¬ 
ference,  while  Denmark  was  sacrificed  to  Sweden, 
and  the  latter  strengthened  by  so  great  an  ac¬ 
quisition.  Notwithstanding  great  difficulties  lay 
in  the  way  of  so  long  a  march  through  desolated- 
provinces,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  dispatch  an  army 
into  Holstein  under  Count  Gallas,  who,  after  Pic- 
colomini’s  retirement,  had  resumed  the  supreme 
command  of  the  troops.  Gallas  accordingly  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  duchy,  took  Kiel,  and  hoped,  by 
forming  a  junction  with  the  Danes,  to  be  able  to 
shut  up  the  Swedish  army  in  Jutland.  Meantime, 
the  Hessians,  and  the  Swedish  General  Koenigs- 
mark,  wrere  kept  in  check  by  Hatzfeld,  and  the 
Archbishop  of  Bremen,  the  son  of  Christian  IY.; 
and  afterward  the  Swedes  drawn  into  Saxony  by 
an  attack  upon  Meissen.  But  Torstensohn,  with 
his  augmented  army,  penetrated  through  the  un¬ 
occupied  pass  betwixt  Schleswig  and  Stapelholm, 
met  Gallas,  and  drove  him  along  the  whole  course 
of  the  Elbe,  as  far  as  Bernburg,  where  the  Im¬ 
perialists  took  up  an  intrenched  position.  Tors¬ 
tensohn  passed  the  Saale,  and  by  posting  himself 
in  the  rear  of  the  enemy,  cut  off  their  communi¬ 
cation  with  Saxony  and  Bohemia.  Scarcity  and 
famine  began  now  to  destroy  them  in  great  num¬ 
bers,  and  forced  them  to  retreat  to  Magdeburg, 
where,  however,  they  were  not  much  better  off. 
The  cavalry,  which  endeavored  to  escape  into 
Silesia,  was  overtaken  and  routed  by  Torstensohn, 
near  Juterbock  ;  the  rest  of  the  army,  after  a  vain 
attempt  to  fight  its  way  through  the  Swedish 
lines,  was  almost  wholly  destroyed  near  Magde¬ 
burg.  From  this  expedition,  Gallas  brought  back 
only  a  few  thousand  men  of  all  his  formidable 
force,  and  the  reputation  of  being  a  consummate 
master  in  the  art  of  ruining  an  army.  The  King 
I  of  Denmark,  after  this  unsuccessful  effort  to  re- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


247 


lieve  him,  sued  for  peace,  which  he  obtained  at 
Bremsebor  in  the  year  1645,  under  very  unfavor¬ 
able  conditions. 

Torstenschn  rapidly  followed  up  his  victory  ;  and 
while  Axel  Lilienstern,  one  of  the  generals  who 
commanded  under  him,  overawed  Saxony,  and 
Koeni  its  mark  subdued  the  whole  of  Bremen,  he 
himself  penetrated  into  Bohemia  with  16,000  men 
and  80  pieces  of  artillery,  and  endeavored  a  second 
time  to  remove  the  seat  of  war  into  the  heredi¬ 
tary  dominions  of  Austria.  Ferdinand,  upon  this 
intelligence,  hastened  in  person  to  Prague,  in 
order  to  animate  the  courage  of  the  people  by 
his  presence ;  and  as  a  skillful  general  was  much 
required,  and  so  little  unanimity  prevailed  among 
the  numerous  leaders,  he  hoped  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  the  war  to  be  able  to  give  more 
energy  and  activity.  In  obedience  to  his  orders, 
Hatzfeld  assembled  the  whole  Austrian  and 
Bavarian  force,  and  contrary  to  his  own  inclina¬ 
tion  and  advice,  formed  the  Emperor’s  last  army, 
and  the  last  bulwark  of  his  states,  in  order  of 
battle,  to  meet  the  enemy,  who  were  approaching, 
at  Jankowitz,  on  the  24th  of  February,  1645. 
Ferdinand  depended  upon  his  cavalry,  which  out¬ 
numbered  that  of  the  enemy  by  3,000,  and  upon 
the  promise  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  had  ap¬ 
peared  to  him  in  a  dream,  and  given  him  the 
strongest  assurances  of  a  complete  victory. 

The  superiority  of  the  Imperialists  did  not  in¬ 
timidate  Torstensohn,  who  was  not  accustomed  to 
number  his  antagonists.  On  the  very  first  onset, 
the  left  wing,  which  Goetz,  the  general  of  the 
League,  had  entangled  in  a  disadvantageous  posi¬ 
tion  among  marshes  and  thickets,  was  totally 
routed  ;  the  general,  with  the  greater  part  of  his 
men,  killed,  and  almost  the  whole  ammunition  of 
the  army  taken.  This  unfortunate  commence¬ 
ment  decided  the  fate  of  the  day.  The  Swedes, 
constantly  advancing,  successively  carried  all  the 
most  commanding  heights.  After  a  bloody  en¬ 
gagement  of  eight  hours,  a  desperate  attack  on 
the  part  of  the  Imperial  cavalry,  and  a  vigorous  re¬ 
sistance  by  the  infantry,  the  latter  remained  in 
possession  of  the  field.  2,000  Austrians  were 
killed  upon  the  spot,  and  Hatzfeld  himself,  with 
3,000  men,  taken  prisoners.  Thus,  on  the  same 
day,  did  the  Emperor  lose  his  best  general  and 
his  last  army. 

This  decisive  victory  at  Jankowitz,  at  once  ex¬ 
posed  all  the  Austrian  territory  to  the  enemy. 
Ferdinand  hastily  fled  to  Vienna,  to  provide  for 
its  defense,  and  to  save  his  family  and  his  trea- 
s  ires.  In  a  very  short  time,  the  victorious  Swedes 
poured,  iike  an  inundation,  upon  Moravia  and 
Austria.  After  they  had  subdued  nearly  the  whole 
of  Moravia,  invested  Brunn,  and  taken  almost  all 
the  strongholds  upon  the  Danube,  and  carried  the 
intrenchments  at  the  Wolf’s  Bridge,  near  Vienna, 
they  at  last  appeared  in  sight  of  that  capital, 
while  the  care  which  they  had  taken  to  fortify  their 
conquests,  showed  that  their  visit  was  not  likely 
to  be  a  short  one.  After  a  long  and  destructive 
circuit  through  every  province  of  Germany,  the 
stream  of  war  had  at  last  rolled  backward  to  its 
source,  and  the  roar  of  the  Swedish  artillery  now 
reminded  the  terrified  inhabitants  of  those  balls 
which  twenty-seven  years  before,  the  Bohemian 


rebels  had  fired  into  Vienna.  The  same  theatro 
of  war  brought  again  similar  actors  on  the  scene, 
Torstensohn  invited  Ragotsky,  the  successor  of 
Bethlem  Gabor,  to  his  assistance,  as  the  Bohe¬ 
mian  rebels  had  solicited  that  of  his  predecessor  ; 
Upper  Hungary  was  already  inundated  by  his 
troops,  and  his  union  with  4he  Swedes  was  daily 
apprehended.  The  Elector  of  Saxony,  driven 
to  despair  by  the  Swedes  taking  up  their  quar¬ 
ters  within  his  territories,  and  abandoned  by  the 
Emperor,  who,  after  the  defeat  at  Jankowitz, 
was  unable  to  defend  himself,  at  length  adopted 
the  last  and  only  expedient  which  remained,  and 
concluded  a  truce  with  Sweden,  which  was  to  be 
renewed  from  year  to  year  till  a  general  peace. 
The  Emperor  thus  lost  a  friend,  while  a  new  enemy 
was  appearing  at  his  very  gates,  his  armies  dis¬ 
persed,  and  his  allies  in  other  quarters  of  Germany 
defeated.  The  French  army  had  effaced  the  dis¬ 
grace  of  their  defeat  at  Deutlingen  by  a  brilliant 
campaign,  and  had  kept  the  whole  force  of  Bava¬ 
ria  employed  upon  the  Rhine  and  in  Swabia.  Re¬ 
inforced  with  fresh  troops  from  France,  which  the 
great  Turenne,  already  distinguished  by  his  vic¬ 
tories  in  Italy,  brought  to  the  assistance  of  the 
Duke  of  Enguien,  they  appeared  on  the  4th  of 
August,  1644,  before  Freyburg,  which  Mercy  had 
lately  taken,  and  now  covered,  with  his  whole  army 
strongly  intrenched.  But  against  the  steady  firm¬ 
ness  of  the  Bavarians,  all  the  impetuous  valor  of 
the  French  was  exerted  in  vain,  and  after  a  fruit¬ 
less  sacrifice  of  6,000  men,  the  Duke  of  Enguien 
was  compelled  to  retreat.  Mazarine  shed  tears 
over  this  great  loss,  which  Conde,  who  had  no 
feeling  for  any  thing  but  glory,  disregarded.  ,l  A 
single  night  in  Paris,”  said  he,  “  gives  birth  to 
more  men  than  this  action  has  destroyed.”  The  Ba¬ 
varians,  however  were  so  disabled  by  this  mur¬ 
derous  battle,. that,  far  from  being  in  a  condition 
to  relieve  Austria  from  the  menaced  dangers, 
they  were  too  weak  even  to  defend  the  banks  of 
the  Rhine.  Spires,  Worms,  and  Manheim  capitu¬ 
lated ;  the  strong  fortress  of  Philipsburg  was 
forced  to  surrender  by  famine;  and,  by  a  timely 
submission,  Mentz  hastened  to  disarm  the  con¬ 
querors. 

Austria  and  Moravia,  however,  were  now  freed 
from  Torstensohn,  by  a  similar  means  of  deliver¬ 
ance,  as  in  the  beginning  of  the  wrar  had  saved 
them  from  the  Bohemians.  Ragotzky,  at  the 
head  of  25,000  men,  had  advanced  into  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  of  the  Swedish  quarters  upon  the  Danube. 
But  these  wild  undisciplined  hordes,  instead  of 
seconding  the  operations  of  Torstensohn  by  any 
vigorous  enterprise,  only  ravaged  the  country,  and 
increased  the  distress  which,  even  before  their 
arrival,  had  begun  to  be  felt  in  the  Swedish  camp. 
To  extort  tribute  from  the  Emperor,  and  money 
and  plunder  from  his  subjects,  was  the  sole  object 
that  had  allured  Ragotzky,  or  his  predecessor, 
Bethlem  Gabor,  into  the  field  ;  and  both  departed 
as  soon  as  they  had  gained  their  end.  To  get  rid 
of  him,  Ferdinand  granted  the  barbarian  whatever 
he  asked,  and,  by  a  small  sacrifice,  freed  his  states 
of  this  formidable  enemy. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  main  body  of  the  Swedes 
had  been  greatly  weakened  by  a  tedious  encamp¬ 
ment  before  Brunn.  Torstensohn,  who  commanded 


248 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


in  person,  for  four  entire  months  employed  in  vain 
all  his  knowledge  of  military  tactics  ;  the  obsti¬ 
nacy  of  the  resistance  was  equal  to  that  of  the 
assault ;  while  despair  roused  the  courage  of 
Souches,  the  commandant,  a  Swedish  deserter, 
who  had  no  hope  of  pardon.  The  ravages  caused 
by  pestilence,  arising  from  famine,  want  of  cleanli¬ 
ness,  and  the  use  of  unripe  fruit,  during  their 
tedious  and  unhealthy  encampment,  with  the  sud¬ 
den  retreat  of  the  Prince  of  Transylvania,  at  last 
compelled  the  Swedish  leader  to  raise  the  siege. 
As  all  the  passes  on  the  Danube  were  occupied, 
and  his  army  greatly  weakened  by  famine  and 
sickness,  he  at  last  relinquished  his  intended  plan 
of  operations  against  Austria  and  Moravia,  and 
contented  himself  with  securing  a  key  to  these 
provinces,  by  leaving  behind  him  Swedish  garri¬ 
sons  in  the  conquered  fortresses.  He  then  directed 
his  march  into  Bohemia,  whither  he  was  followed 
by  the  Imperialists,  under  the  Archduke  Leopold. 
Such  of  the  lost  places  as  had  not  been  retaken 
by  the  latter,  were  recovered,  after  his  departure, 
by  the  Austrian  General  Bucheim  ;  so  that,  in  the 
course  of  the  following  year,  the  Austrian  frontier 
was  aa-ain  cleared  of  the  enemv,  and  Vienna 
escaped  with  mere  alarm.  In  Bohemia  and  Silesia 
too,  the  Swedes  maintained  themselves  only  with 
a  very  variable  fortune  ;  they  traversed  both 
countries,  without  being  able  to  hold  their  ground 
in  either.  But  if  the  designs  of  Torstensohn  were 
not  crowned  with  all  the  success  which  they  were 
promised  at  the  commencement,  they  were,  never¬ 
theless,  productive  of  the  most  important  conse¬ 
quences  to  the  Swedish  party.  Denmark  had 
been  compelled  to  a  peace,  Saxony  to  a  truce. 
The  Emperor,  in  the  deliberations  for  a  peace, 
offered  greater  concession  ;  France  became  more 
manageable  ;  and  Sweden  itself  bolder  and  more 
confident  in  its  bearing  toward  these  two  crowns. 
Having  thus  nobly  performed  his  duty,  the  author 
of  these  advantages  retired,  adorned  with  laurels, 
into  the  tranquillity  of  private  life,  and  endeavored 
to  restore  his  shattered  health. 

By  the  retreat  of  Torstensohn,  the  Emperor 
was  relieved  from  all  fears  of  an  irruption  on  the 
side  of  Bohemia.  But  a  new  danger  soon  threat¬ 
ened  the  Austrian  frontier  from  Swabia  and  Ba¬ 
varia.  Turenne,  who  had  separated  from  Cond6, 
and  taken  the  direction  of  Swabia,  had,  in  the 
year  1645,  been  totally  defeated  by  Mercy,  near 
Mergentheim  :  and  the  victorious  Bavarians, 
under  their  brave  leader,  poured  into  Hesse. 
But  the  Duke  of  Enguien  hastened  with  consid¬ 
erable  succors  from  Alsace,  Koenigsmark  from 
Moravia,  and  the  Hessians  from  the  Rhine,  to 
recruit  the  defeated  army,  and  the  Bavarians  were 
in  turn  compelled  to  retire  to  the  extreme  limits 
of  Swabia.  Here  they  posted  themselves  at  the 
village  of  Allershein,  near  Nordlingen,  in  order 
to  cover  the  Bavarian  frontier.  But  no  obstacle 
could  check  the  impetuosity  of  the  Duke  of 
Enguien.  In  person  he  led  on  his  troops  against 
the  enemy’s  intrenchments,  and  a  battle  took 
place,  which  the  heroic  resistance  of  the  Bavarians 
rendered  most  obstinate  and  bloody;  till  at  last 
the  death  of  the  great  Mercy,  the  skill  of  Turenne, 
and  the  iron  firmness  of  the  Hessians,  decided 
Mie  day  in  favor  of  the  allies.  But  even  this 


second  barbarous  sacrifice  of  life  had  little  effect 
either  on  the  course  of  the  war,  or  on  the  negotia¬ 
tions  for  peace.  The  French  army,  exhausted  by 
this  bloody  engagement,  was  still  further  weakened 
by  the  departure  of  the  Hessians,  and  the  Bavarians 
being  reinforced  by  the  Archduke  Leopold,  Tu¬ 
renne  was  again  obliged  hastily  to  recross  the 
Rhine. 

The  retreat  of  the  French,  enabled  the  enemy 
to  turn  his  whole  force  upon  the  Swedes  in  Bohe¬ 
mia.  Gustavus  Wrangel,  no  unworthy  successor 
of  Banner  and  Torstensohn,  had,  in  1646,  been 
appointed  Commander-in-chief  of  the  Swedish 
army,  which,  besides  Koenigsmark’s  flying  corps 
and  the  numerous  garrisons  dispersed  throughout 
the  empire,  amounted  to  about  eight  thousand 
horse,  and  fifteen  thousand  foot.  The  Archduke, 
after  reinforcing  his  army,  which  already  amounted 
to  twenty-four  thousand  men,  with  twelve  Bava¬ 
rian  regiments  of  calvary,  and  eighteen  regiments 
of  infantry,  moved  against  Wrangel,  in  the  hope 
of  being  able  to  overwhelm  him  by  his  superior 
force  before  Koenigsmark  could  join  him,  or  the 
French  effect  a  diversion  in  his  favor.  Wrangel, 
however,  did  not  await  him,  but  hastened  through 
Upper  Saxony  to  the  Weser,  where  he  took  Hoe- 
ster  and  Paderborn.  From  thence  he  marched 
into  Hesse,  in  order  to  join  Turenne,  and  at  his 
camp  at  Weimar,  wras  joined  by  the  flying  corps 
of  Koenigsmark.  But  Turenne,  fettered  by  the 
instructions  of  Mazarine,  who  had  seen  with  jeal¬ 
ousy  the  warlike  prowess  and  increasing  power  of 
the  Swedes,  excused  himself  on  the  plea  of  a 
pressing  necessity  to  defend  the  frontier  of  France 
on  the  side  of  the  Netherlands,  in  consequence  of 
the  Flemings  having  failed  to  make  the  promised 
diversion.  But  as  Wrangel  continued  to  press 
his  just  demand,  and  a  longer  opposition  might 
have  excited  distrust  on  the  part  of  the  Swedes, 
or  induce  them  to  conclude  a  private  treaty  with 
Austria,  Turenne  at  last  obtained  the  wished-for 
permission  to  join  the  Swedish  army. 

This  junction  took  place  at  Giessen,  and  they 
now  felt  themselves  strong  enough  to  meet  the 
enemy.  The  latter  had  followed  the  Swedes  into 
Hesse,  in  order  to  intercept  their  commissariat, 
and  to  prevent  their  union  with  Turenne.  In  both 
designs  they  had  been  unsuccessful  ;  and  the  Im¬ 
perialists  now  saw  themselves  cut  off  from  the 
Maine,  and  exposed  to  great  scarcity  and  want 
from  the  loss  of  their  magazines.  Wrangel  took 
advantage  of  their  weakness,  to  execute  a  plan  by 
which  he  hoped  to  give  a  new  turn  to  the  war. 
He,  too,  had  adopted  the  maxim  of  hrs  prede¬ 
cessor,  to  carry  the  war  into  the  Austrian  States. 
But  discouraged  by  the  ill  success  of  Torsten- 
sohu’s  enterprise,  he  hoped  to  gain  his  end  with 
more  certainty  by  another  way.  He  determined 
to  follow  the  course  of  the  Danube,  and  to  break 
into  the  Austian  territories  through  the  midst  of 
Bavaria.  A  similar  design  had  been  formerly 
conceived  by  Gustavus  Adolphus,  which  he  had 
been  prevented  carrying  into  effect  by  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  Wallenstein’s  army,  and  the  danger  of 
Saxony.  Duke  Bernard  moving  in  his  footsteps, 
and  more  fortunate  than  Gustavus,  had  spread  his 
victorious  banners  between  the  Iser  and  the  Inn; 
but  the  near  approach  of  the  enemy,  vastly  supe- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


249 


rior  in  force,- obliged  him  to  halt  in  his  victorious 
career,  and  lead  back  his  troops.  Wrangel  now 
hoped  to  accomplish  the  object  in  which  his  pre- 
decessors  had  failed,  the  more  so,  as  the  Imperial 
and  Bavarian  army  was  far  in  his  rear  upon  Lahn, 
and  could  only  reach  Bavaria  by  a  long  march 
through  Franconia  and  the  Upper  Palatinate. 
He  moved  hastily  upon  the  Danube,  defeated  a 
Bavarian  corps  near  Donauwerth,  and  passed  that 
river,  as  well  as  the  Lech,  unopposed.  But  by 
wasting  his  time  in  the  unsuccessful  siege  of 
Augsburg,  he  gave  opportunity  to  the  Imperialists, 
not  only  to  relieve  that  city,  but  also  to  repulse 
him  as  far  as  Lauingen.  No  sooner,  however, 
had  they  turned  toward  Swabia,  with  a  view  to 
remove  the  war  from  Bavaria,  than,  seizing  the 
opportunity,  he  repassed  the  Lech,  and  guarded 
the  passage  of  it  against  the  Imperialists  them¬ 
selves.  Bavaria  now  lay  open  and  defenseless  be¬ 
fore  him  ;  the  French  and  Swedes  quickly  over¬ 
ran  it;  and  the  soldiery  indemnified  the'mselves 
for  all  dangers  by  frightful  outrages,  robberies, 
and  extortions.  The  arrival  of  the  Imperial 
troops,  who  at  last  succeeded  in  passing  the  Lech 
at  Thierhaupten,  only  increased  the  misery  of  this 
country,  which  friend  and  foe  indiscriminately 
plundered. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  during  the  whole 
course  of  this  war,  the  courage  of  Maximilian, 
which  for  eight-and-twenty  years  had  stood  un¬ 
shaken  amidst  fearful  dangers,  began  to  waver. 
Ferdinand  II.,  his  school-companion  at  Ingol- 
stadt,  and  the  friend  of  his  youth,  was  no  more ; 
and  with  the  death  of  his  friend  and  benefactor, 
the  strong  tie  was  dissolved  which  had  linked  the 
Elector  to  the  House  of  Austria.  To  the  father, 
habit,  inclination,  and  gratitude  had  attached 
him  ;  the  son  was  a  stranger  to  his  heart,  and 
political  interests  alone  could  preserve  his  fidelity 
to  the  latter  prince. 

Accordingly,  the  motives  which  the  artifices  of 
France  now  put  in  operation,  in  order  to  detach 
him  from  the  Austrian  alliance,  and  to  induce 
him  to  lay  down  his  arms,  were  drawn  entirely 
from  political  considerations.  It  was  not  without 
a  selfish  object  that  Mazarine  had  so  far  overcome 
his  jealousy  of  the  growing  power  of  the  Swedes, 
as  to  allow  the  French  to  accompany  them  into 
Bavaria.  His  intention  was  to  expose  Bavaria  to 
all  the  horrors  of  war,  in  the  hope  that  the  perse¬ 
vering  fortitude  of  Maximilian  might  be  subdued 
by  necessity  and  despair,  and  the  Emperor  de¬ 
prived  of  his  first  and  last  ally.  Brandenburg 
had,  under  its  great  sovereign,  embraced  the  neu¬ 
trality  ;  Saxony  had  been  forced  to  accede  to  it ; 
the  war  with  France  prevented  the  Spaniards 
from  taking  any  part  in  that  of  Germany ;  the 
peace  with  Sweden  had  removed  Denmark  from 
the  theatre  of  war;  and  Poland  had  been  dis¬ 
armed  by  a  long  truce.  If  they  could  succeed  in 
detaching  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  also  from  the 
Austrian  alliance,  the  Emperor  would  be  without 
a  friend  in  Germany,  and  left  to  the  mercy  of  the 
allied  powers. 

Ferdinand  III.  saw  his  danger,  and  left  no 
means  untried  to  avert  it.  But  the  Elector  of 
Bavaria  was  unfortunately  led  to  believe  that  the 
Spaniards  alone  were  disinclined  to  peace,  and 


that  nothing  but  Spanish  influence  had  induced 
the  Emperor  so  long  to  resist  a  cessation  of  hos¬ 
tilities,  Maximilian  detested  the  Spaniards,  and 
could  never  forgive  their  having  opposed  his  ap¬ 
plication  for  the  Palatine  Electorate.  Could  it 
then  be  supposed  that,  in  order  to  gratify  th3a 
hated  power,  he  would  see  his  people  sacrificed, 
his  country  laid  waste,  and  himself  ruined,  when, 
by  a  cessation  of  hostilities,  he  could  at  once 
emancipate  himself  from  all  these  distresses,  pro¬ 
cure  for  his  people  the  repose  of  which  they  stood 
so  much  in  need,  and  perhaps  accelerate  the 
arrival  of  a  general  peace?  All  doubts  disap¬ 
peared  ;  and,  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  this 
step,  he  thought  he  should  sufficiently  discharge 
his  obligations  to  the  Emperor,  if  he  invited  him 
also  to  share  in  the  benefit  of  the  truce. 

The  deputies  of  the  three  crowns,  and  of  Bava¬ 
ria,  met  at  Ulm,  to  adjust  the  conditions.  But  it 
was  soon  evident,  from  the  instructions  of  the 
Austrian  ambassador,  that  it  was  not  the  inten¬ 
tion  of  the  Emperor  to  second  the  conclusion  of  a 
truce,  but  if  possible  to  prevent  it.  It  was  ob¬ 
viously  necessary  to  make  the  terms  acceptable  to 
the  Swedes,  who  had  the  advantage,  and  had  more 
to  hope  than  to  fear  from  the  continuance  of  the 
war.  They  were  the  conquerors ;  and  yet  the 
Emperor  presumed  to  dictate  to  them.  In  the 
first  transports  of  their  indignation,  the  Swedish 
ambassadors  were  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  con¬ 
gress,  and  the  French  were  obliged  to  have  re¬ 
course  to  threats  in  order  to  detain  them. 

The  good  intentions  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaria, 
to  include  the  Emperor  in  the  benefit  of  the  truce, 
having  been  thus  rendered  unavailing,  he  felt  him¬ 
self  justified  in  providing  for  his  own  safety. 
However  hard  were  the  conditions  on  which  the 
truce  was  to  be  purchased,  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
accept  it  on  any  terms.  He  agreed  to  the  Swedes 
extending  their  quarters  in  Swabia  and  Franconia, 
and  to  his  own  being  restricted  to  Bavaria  and 
the  Palatinate.  The  conquests  which  he  had 
made  in  Swabia  were  ceded  to  the  allies,  who,  on 
their  part,  restored  to  him  what  they  had  taken 
from  Bavaria.  Cologne  and  Hesse  Cassel  were 
also  included  in  the  truce.  After  the  conclusion 
of  this  treaty,  upon  the  14th  March,  1647,  the 
French  and  Swedes  left  Bavaria,  and  in  order  not 
to  interfere  with  each  other,  took  up  different 
quarters;  the  former  in  Wurtemberg,  the  latter 
in  Upper  Swabia,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Lake  of  Bode.  On  the  extreme  north  of  this 
lake,  and  on  the  most  southern  frontier  of  Swabia, 
the  Austrian  town  of  Bregentz,  by  its  steep  and 
narrow  passes,  seemed  to  defy  attack ;  and  in 
this  persuasion,  the  whole  peasantry  of  the  sur¬ 
rounding  villages  had  with  their  property  taken 
refuge  in  this  natural  fortress.  The  rich  booty, 
which  the  store  of  provisions  it  contained,  gave 
reason  to  expect,  and  the  advantage  of  possessing 
a  pass  into  the  Tyrol,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  in¬ 
duced  the  Swedish  general  to  venture  an  attack 
upon  this  supposed  impregnable  post  and  town. 
Meantime,  Turenne,  according  to  agreement, 
marched  into  Wurtemberg,  where  he  forced  the 
Landgrave  of  Darmstadt  and  the  Elector  of  Menta 
to  imitate  the  example  of  Bavaria,  and  to  embrace 
the  neutrality. 


250 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


And  now,  at  last,  France  seemed  to  have  at- ! 
tained  the  great  object  of  its  policy,  that  of  de¬ 
priving  the  Emperor  of  the  support  of  the  League, 
and  of  his  Protestant  allies,  and  of  dictating  to 
him,  sword  in  hand,  the  conditions  of  peace.  Of 
all  his  once  formidable  power,  an  army,  not  ex¬ 
ceeding  12,000,  was  all  that  remained  to  him;  and 
this  force  he  was  driven  to  the  necessity  of  in¬ 
trusting  to  the  command  of  a  Calvinist,  the  Hes¬ 
sian  deserter  Melander,  as  the  casualties  of  wai 
had  stripped  him  of  his  best'  generals.  But  as 
this  war  had  been  remarkable  for  the  sudden 
changes  of  fortune  it  displayed  ;  and  as  every  cal-  i 
culatiou  of  state  policy  had  been  frequently  baffled 
by  some  unforeseen  event,  in  this  case  also  the 
issue  disappointed  expectation  ;  and  after  a  brief 
crisis,  the  fallen  power  of  Austria  rose  again  to 
a  formidable  strength.  The  jealousy  which  France 
entertained  of  Sweden,  prevented  it  from  permit¬ 
ting  the  total  ruin  of  the  Emperor,  or  allowing 
the  Swedes  to  obtain  such  a  preponderance 
in  Germany,  which  have  been  destructive  to 
France  herself.  Accordingly  the  French  minister 
declined  to  take  advantage  of  the  distresses  of 
Austria;  and  the  army  of  Turenne,  separating  from 
that  of  Wrangel,  retired  to  the  frontiers  of  the 
Netherlands.  Wrangel,  indeed,  after  moving  from 
Swabia  into  Franconia,  taking  Schweinfurt,  and 
incorporating  the  imperial  garrison  of  that  place 
with  his  own  army,  attempted  to  make  his  way 
into  Bohemia,  and  laid  siege  to  Egra,  the  key  of 
that  kingdom.  To  relieve  this  fortress,  the  Em¬ 
peror  put  his  last  army  in  motion,  and  placed 
himself  at  its  head.  But  obliged  to  take  a  long 
circuit,  in  order  to  spare  the  lands  of  Y on  Schlick, 
the  president  of  the  council  of  war,  he  protracted 
his  march  ;  and  on  his  arrival,  Egra  was  already 
takeu.  Both  armies  were  now  in  sight  of  each 
other;  and  a  decisive  battle  was  momentarily  ex¬ 
pected,  as  both  were  suffering  from  want,  and  the 
two  camps  were  only  separated  from  each  other 
by  the  space  of  the  intrenchments.  But  the  Im¬ 
perialists,  although  superior  in  numbers,  con¬ 
tented  themsdves  with  keeping  close  to  the 
enemy,  and  harassing  them  by  skirmishes,  by 
fatiguing  marches  and  famine,  until  the  negotia¬ 
tions  which  had  been  opened  with  Bavaria,  were 
brought  to  a  bearing. 

The  neutrality  of  Bavaria,  was  a  wound  under 
which  the  Imperial  court  writhed  impatiently; 
and  after  in  vain  attempting  to  prevent  it,  Aus¬ 
tria  now  determined,  if  possible,  to  turn  it  to  ad¬ 
vantage.  Several  officers  of  the  Bavarian  army 
had  been  offended  by  this  step  of  their  master, 
which  at  once  reduced  them  to  inaction,  and  im¬ 
posed  a  burdensome  restraint  on  their  restless  dis¬ 
position.  Even  the  brave  John  de  Werth  was  at 1 
the  head  of  the  malcontents,  and  encouraged  by 
the  Emperor,  he  formed  a  plot  to  seduce  the  whole 
army  from  their  allegiance  to  the  Elector,  and 
leading  it  over  to  the  Emperor.  Ferdinand  did 
not  blush  to  patronize  this  act  of  treachery  against 
his  father’s  most  trusty  ally.  He  formally  issued  a 
proclamation  to  the  Bavarian  troops,  in  which  he 
recalled  them  to  himself,  reminded  them  that  they 
were  the  troops  of  the  empire,  which  the  Elector 
had  merely  commanded  in  the  name  of  the  Em¬ 
peror.  Fortunately  for  Maximilian,  he  detected 


i  the  conspiracy  time  enough  to  anticipate  and 
prevent  it  by  the  most  rapid  and  effective  mea¬ 
sures. 

This  disgraceful  conduct  of  the  Emperor  might 
have  justified  a  reprisal,  but  Maximilian  was  too 
old  a  statesman  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  passion, 
where  policy  alone  ought  to  be  heard.  He  had 
not  derived  from  the  truce  the  advantages  he  ex¬ 
pected.  Far  from  tending  to  accelerate  a  gen¬ 
eral  peace,  it  had  a  pernicious  influence  upon  the 
negotiations  at  Munster  and  Osnaburg,  and  had 
made  the  allies  bolder  in  their  demands.  The 
French  and  Swedes  had  indeed  removed  from 
Bavaria;  but,  by  the  loss  of  his  quarters  in  the 
Swabian  circle,  he  found  himself  compelled  either 
to  exhaust  his  own  territories  by  the  subsistence 
of  his  troops,  or  at  once  to  disband  them,  and  to 
throw  aside  the  shield  and  spear,  at  the  very  mo¬ 
ment  when  the  sword  alone  seemed  to  be  the  ar¬ 
biter  of  right.  Before  embracing  either  of  these 
certain  evils,  he  determined  to  try  a  third  step, 
the  unfavorable  issue  of  which  was  at  least  not  so 
certain,  viz.,  to  renounce  the  truce  and  resume 
the  war. 

This  resolution,  and  the  assistance  which  he 
immediately  dispatched  to  the  Emperor  in  Bohe¬ 
mia,  threatened  materially  to  injure  the  Swedes, 
and  Wrangel  was  compelled  in  haste  to  evacuate 
that  kingdom.  He  retired  through  Thuringia  into 
Westphalia  and  Lunenburg,  in  the  hope  of  form¬ 
ing  a  junction  with  the  French  army  under  Tu¬ 
renne,  while  the  Imperial  and  Bavarian  army  fol¬ 
lowed  him  to  the  Weser,  under  Melander  and 
Gronsfeld.  His  ruin  was  inevitable,  if  the  enemy 
should  overtake  him  before  his  junction  with  Tu¬ 
renne  ;  but  the  same  consideration  which  had  just 
saved  the  Emperor,  now  proved  the  salvation  of 
the  Swedes.  Even  amidst  all  the  fury  of  the 
conquest,  cold  calculations  of  prudence  guided 
the  course  of  the  wrar,  and  the  vigilance  of  the 
different  courts  increased,  as  the  prospect  of 
peace  approached.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria  could 
not  allow  the  Emperor  to  obtain  so  decisive  a 
preponderance  as,  by  the  sudden  alteration  of  af¬ 
fairs,  might  delay  the  chances  of  a  general  peace. 
Every  change  of  fortune  was  important  now,  when 
a  pacification  was  so  ardently  desired  by  all,  and 
when  the  disturbance  of  the  balance  of  power 
among  the  contracting  parties  might  at  once  an¬ 
nihilate  the  work  of  years,  destroy  the  fruit  of 
long  and  tedious  negotiations,  and  indefinitely 
protract  the  repose  of  Europe.  If  France  sought 
to  restrain  the  Swedish  crown  within  due  bounds, 
and  measured  out  her  assistance  according  to  her 
successes  and  defeats,  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  si¬ 
lently  undertook  the  same  task  with  the  Emperor 
i  his  ally,  and  determined,  by  prudently  dealing  out 
his  aid,  to  hold  the  fate  of  Austria  in  his  own 
hands.  And  now  that  the  power  of  the  Emperor 
threatened  once  more  to  attain  a  dangerous  supe¬ 
riority,  Maximilian  at  once  ceased  to  pursue  the 
Swedes.  He  was  also  afraid  of  reprisals  from 
France,  who  had  threatened  to  direct  Turenne’s 
whole  force  against  him,  if  he  allowed  his  troops 
to  cross  the  Weser. 

Melander,  prevented  by  the  Bavarians  from 
further  pursuing  Wrangel,  crossed  by  Jena  and 
Erfurt  into  Hesse,  and  now  appeared  as  a  dan- 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR. 


251 


gerous  enemy  in  the  country  which  he  had  for¬ 
merly  defended.  If  it  was  the  desire  of  revenge 
upon  his  former  sovereign,  which  led  him  to 
choose  Hesse  for  the  scene  of  his  ravages,  he  cer¬ 
tainly  had  his  full  gratification.  Under  this 
scourge,  the  miseries  of  that  unfortunate  state 
reached  their  height.  But  he  had  soon  reason  to 
regret  that,  in  the  choice  of  his  quarters,  he  had 
listened  to  the  dictates  of  revenge  rather  than  of 
prudence.  In  this  exhausted  country,  his  army 
was  oppressed  by  want,  while  Wrangel  was  re¬ 
cruiting  his  strength,  and  remounting  his  cavalry 
in  Lunenburg.  Too  weak  to  maintain  his 
wretched  quarters  against  the  Swedish  general, 
when  he  opened  the  campaign  in  the  winter  of 
164S  and  inarched  against  Hesse,  he  was  obliged 
to  retire  with  disgrace,  and  take  refuge  on  the 
banks  of  the  Danube. 

France  had  once  more  disappointed  the  expec¬ 
tations  of  Sweden  ;  and  the  army  of  Turenne, 
disregarding  the  remonstrances  of  Wrangel,  had 
remained  upon  the  Rhine.  The  Swedish  leader 
revenged  himself,  by  drawing  into  his  service  the 
cavalry  of  Weimar,  which  had  abandoned  the 
standard  of  France,  though,  by  this  step,  he  fur¬ 
ther  increased  the  jealousy  of  that  power.  Tu¬ 
renne  received  permission  to  join  the  Swedes  ; 
and  the  last  campaign  of  this  eventful  war  was 
now  opened  by  the  united  armies.  Driving  Me- 
lander  before  them  along  the  Danube,  they  threw 
supplies  into  Egra,  which  was  besieged  by  the 
Imperialists,  and  defeated  the  Imperial  and  Ba¬ 
varian  armies  on  the  Danube,  which  ventured  to 
oppose  them  at  Susmarshausen,  where  Melander 
was  mortally  wounded.  After  this  overthrow, 
the  Bavarian  general,  Gronsfeld,  placed  himself 
on  the  further  side  of  the  Lech,  in  order  to  guard 
Bavaria  from  the  enemy. 

But  Gronsfeld  was  not  more  fortunate  than 
Tilly,  who,  in  this  same  position,  had  sacrificed 
his  life  for  Bavaria.  Wrangel  and  Turenne  chose 
the  same  spot  for  passing  the  river,  which  was  so 
gloriously  marked  by  the  victory  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  and  accomplished  it  by  the  same 
means,  too,  which  had  favored  their  predecessor. 
Bavaria  was  now  a  second  time  overrun,  and  the 
breach  of  the  truce  punished  by  the  severest 
treatment  of  its  inhabitants.  Maximilian  sought 
shelter  in  Salzburg,  while  the  Swedes  crossed 
the  Iser,  and  forced  their  way  as  far  as  the  Inn. 
A  violent  and  continued  rain,  which  in  a  few  days 
swelled  this  inconsiderable  stream  into  a  broad 
river,  saved  Austria  once  more  from  the  threat¬ 
ened  danger.  The  enemy  ten  times  attempted  to 
form  a  bridge  of  boats  over  the  Inn,  and  as  often 
it  was  destroyed  by  the  current.  Never,  during 
the  whole  course  of  the  war,  had  the  Imperialists 
been  in  so  great  consternation  as  at  present,  when 
the  enemy  were  in  the  centre  of  Bavaria,  and 
when  they  had  no  longer  a  general  left  who  could 


be  matched  against  a  Turenne,  a  W rangel,  and  a 
Koenigsmark.  At  last  the  brave  Piccolomini 
arrived  from  the  Netherlands,  to  assume  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  feeble  wreck  of  the  Imperialists. 
By  their  own  ravages  in  Bohemia,  the  allies  had 
rendered  their  subsistence  in  that  country  im¬ 
practicable,  and  were  at  last  driven  by  scarcity 
to  retreat  into  the  Upper  Palatinate,  where  the 
news  of  the  peace  put  a  period  to  their  activity. 

Koenigsmark,  with  his  flying  corps,  advanced 
toward  Bohemia,  where  Ernest  Odowalsky,  a  dis¬ 
banded  captain,  who,  after  being  disabled  in  the 
imperial  service,  had  been  dismissed  without  a 
pension,  laid  before  him  a  plan  for  surprising  the 
lesser  side  of  the  city  of  Prague.  Koenigsmark 
successfully  accomplished  the  bold  enterprise,  and 
acquired  the  reputation  of  closing  the  thirty  years’ 
war  by  the  last  brilliant  achievement.  This  deci¬ 
sive  stroke,  which  vanquished  the  Emperor’s 
irresolution,  cost  the  Swedes  only  the  loss  of  a 
single  man.  But  the  old  town,  the  larger  half  of 
Prague,  which  is  divided  into  two  parts  by  the 
Moldau,  by  its  vigorous  resistance  wearied  out 
the  efforts  of  the  Palatine,  Charles  Gustavus.  the 
successor  of  Christina  on  the  throne,  who  had 
arrived  from  Sweden  with  fresh  troops,  and  had 
assembled  the  whole  Swedish  force  in  Bohemia 
and  Silesia  before  its  walls.  The  approach  of 
winter  at  last  drove  the  besiegers  into  their  quar¬ 
ters,  and  in  the  mean  time,  the  intelligence  arrived 
that  a  peace  had  been  signed  at  Munster,  on  the 
24th  October. 

The  colossal  labor  of  concluding  this  solemn, 
and  ever  memorable  and  sacred  treaty,  which  is 
known  by  the  name  of  the  peace  of  Westphalia; 
the  endless  obstacles  which  were  to  be  sur¬ 
mounted  ;  the  contending  interests  which  it  was 
necessary  to  reconcile ;  the  concatenation  of  cir¬ 
cumstances  which  must  have  co-operated  to  bring 
to  a  favorable  termination  this  tedious,  but  pre¬ 
cious  and  permanent  work  of  policy;  the  difficul¬ 
ties  which  beset  the  very  opening  of  the  negotia¬ 
tions,  and  maintained  them,  when  opened,  during 
the  ever-fluctuating  vicissitudes  of  the  war  ;  finally, 
arranging  the  conditions  of  peace,  and,  still  more, 
the  carrying  them  into  effect; — what  were  the 
conditions  of  this  peace;  what  each  contending 
power  gained  or  lost,  by  the  toils  and  sufferings 
of  a  thirty  years’  war;  what  modification  it 
wrought  upon  the  general  system  of  European 
policy ; — these  are  matters  which  must  be  relin¬ 
quished  to  another  pen.  The  history  of  the  peace 
of  Westphalia  constitutes  a  whole,  as  important 
as  the  history  of  the  war  itself.  A  mere  abridg¬ 
ment  of  it,  would  reduce  to  a  mere  skeleton  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  characteristic  monu¬ 
ments  of  human  policy  and  passions,  and  deprive 
it  of  every  feature  calculated  to  fix  the  attention 
of  the  public,  for  which  I  write,  and  of  which  I 
]  now  respectfully  take  my  leave. 


252 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 

FIRST  PERIOD. 


ON  THE  CONNECTION  OF  HAN’S  ANIMAL 
AND  SPIRITUAL  NATURES.* 

INTRODUCTION. 

2  1. 

More  than  one  philosopher  has  maintained  that 
the  body  is,  so  to  say,  the  prison-house  of  the 
spirit;  that  it  binds  the  latter  too  much  to  things 
earthly,  and  that  it  arrests  its  so-called  flight  to 
perfection.  Again,  some  philosophers  have  more 
or  less  positively  expressed  the  opinion  that 
science  and  virtue  are  not  the  aim,  but  that  they 
are  the  means  of  happiness,  and  that  all  human 
perfection  is  concentrated  in  the  improvement  of 
man’s  body. 

It  seems  to  me  that  neither  of  these  doctrines 
is  a  complete  exposition  of  the  truth.  The  latter 
doctrine  is  almost  entirely  banished  from  our  ethi¬ 
cal  and  philosophical  systems,  and  has  been  repu¬ 
diated,  in  my  judgment  at  least,  with  too  much  fa¬ 
natical  zeal, — nothing  is  more  dangerous  to  truth 
than  the  one-sided  refutation  of  one-sided  opinions ; 
the  former  doctrine  has,  upon  the  whole,  found  the 
largest  number  of  adherents,  for  it  is  most  capable 
of  exciting  the  heart  to  virtue,  and  its  worth  has 
been  substantiated  by  truly  great  souls.  Who 
does  not  admire  the  firmness  of  Cato,  the  high 
virtue  of  Brutus  and  Aurelius,  the  equanimity 
of  Epictetus  and  Seneca?  Nevertheless,  it  is 
only  a  beautiful  aberration  of  the  understanding, 
a  real  extreme  tending  to  degrade  one  part  of 
man  with  too  much  zeal,  and  to  exalt  us  to  the 
rank  of  ideal  beings,  without  freeing  us  at  the 
same  time  from  our  humanity;  a  system  diame¬ 
trically  opposed  to  whatever  we  historically 
know,  or  are  capable  of  philosophically  explain¬ 
ing  concerning  the  evolution  of  the  individual 
and  of  the  race,  and  utterly  averse  to  the  finite¬ 
ness  of  the  human  soul.  It  is  therefore  advisable 
to  counterbalance  these  two  doctrines  with  each 
other,  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  mean  line  of 
truth.  Inasmuch  as  philosophers  have  generally 
erred  in  slighting  the  body  by  laying  undue  stress 
upon  the  mental  power  as  existing  independently 
of  the  bodily  life,  it  shall  be  the  object  of  this 
essay  to  exhibit  in  a  clearer  light  the  remarkable 
part  which  the  body  plays  in  the  actions  of  the 
soul,  and  to  show  the  large  and  real  influence  of 
the  animal  sentient  system  upon  the  mind.  Such 
an  attempt,  however,  can  no  more  be  regarded  as 
the  philosophy  of  Epicurus  than  it  is  Stoicism  to 
look  upon  virtue  as  the  highest  good. 

*  This  essay,  which  had  not  hitherto  formed  part  of 
Schiller’s  Complete  Works,  but  has  been  incorporated  in 
this  collection  by  his  sons,  appeared  in  print  as  early  as 
the  year  1780,  under  the  following  title:  “A  Treatise 
which  is  to  be  defended  in  presence  of  his  Royal  High¬ 
ness  the  Duke,  during  the  public  academical  examina¬ 
tions,  by  Johann  Christoph  Friederich  Schiller,  candidate 
for  the  degree  of  Medicine  in  the  Ducal  Military  Aca¬ 
demy.” 


Before  attempting  to  investigate  the  higher 
moral  ends  which  are  attained  with  the  aid  of 
man’s  animal  nature,  it  behooves  us  first  to  deter¬ 
mine  its  physical  necessity,  and  to  agree  upon 
certain  fundamental  definitions.  Hence  we  are 
led  to  the  first  point  of  view  from  which  we  shall 
consider  the  connection  of  the  two  natures. 


PHYSICAL  CONNECTION. 

THE  ANIMAL  NATURE  FORTIFIES  THE  AC¬ 
TIVITY  OF  THE  MIND. 

2  2. 

Organism  of  Soul-action — Nutrition — Genera¬ 
tion. 

All  the  arrangements  in  the  moral,  as  well 
as  in  the  physical  world,  which  are  designed  for 
the  perfection  of  man,  seem  to  unite  in  this  ele¬ 
mentary  proposition:  “ Man  achieves  'perfec¬ 
tion  by  exercising  his  powers  in  studying  the 
laws  of  the  universe;  inasmuch  as  the  most 
perfect  agreement  must  necessarily  exist  between 
the  measure  of  power  and  the  object  upon  which 
it  acts ,  perfection  must  consist  in  the  highest 
possible  activity  of  his  powers,  and  in  their 
reciprocal  relation  of  dependence  upon  each 
other:'  From  a  necessity  of  which  I  have  as  yet 
no  rational  perception,  and  in  a  manner  which  I 
do  not  yet  comprehend,  the  action  of  the  human 
soul  is  allied  to  the  agency  of  matter.  The 
changes  in  the  physical  world  have  to  be  modified 
and  refined,  as  it  were  by  means  of  a  special  class 
of  mediating  organic  powers,  the  senses ,  before 
those  changes  become  capable  of  exciting  a 
perception  within  me;  other  organic  powers,  the 
engines  of  voluntary  motion,  have  to  step  be¬ 
tween  the  soul  and  the  world,  in  order  to  cause  the 
changes  in  the  former  to  reach  the  latter;  even 
the  operations  of  thought  and  sensation  have  to 
correspond  with  certain  movements  of  the  inter¬ 
nal  sensorium.  All  this  constitutes  the  organism 
of  soul-action. 

But  matter  is  subject  to  perpetual  change,  and 
uses  itself  up  by  action.  Motion  displaces  and 
expels  the  elementary  atom,  and  separates  it  from 
its  whole.  On  the  contrary,  the  soul,  a  simple 
substance,  being  endowed  with  inherent  perma¬ 
nency  and  sameness,  and  neither  gaining  nor  losing 
in  its  essence,  matter  cannot  hold  equal  pace  with 
the  activity  of  the  mind,  so  that  the  organism  of 
mental  life,  and  consequently  all  soul-action,  would 
soon  cease  to  exist.  In  order  to  prevent  this  re¬ 
sult,  a  new  system  of  organic  powers  had  to  be 
joined  to  the  former,  whose  waste  it  is  designed  to 
repair,  and  whose  sinking  tissues  it  preserves  by  a 
continuous  chain  of  new  creations.  This  is  the 
organism  of  nutrition. 

This  is  not  all.  After  a  short  period  of  action, 
after  the  equilibrium  between  waste  and  supply 
has  ceased,  man  leaves  the  stage  of  life,  and  the 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


253 


law  of  mortality  depopulates  the  earth.  The 
number  of  sentient  beings  whom  the  eternal  love 
and  wisdom  has  designed  should  be  blessed  with 
the  happiness  of  existence,  would  not  find  suffi¬ 
cient  space  within  the  narrow  boundaries  of  this 
world,  and  the  life  of  the  present  generation  would 
exclude  that  of  the  next.  For  this  reason  it  be¬ 
came  necessary  that  new  men  should  take  the 
place  of  the  departed,  and  that  life  should  be  pre¬ 
served  by  an  uninterrupted  succession  of  genera¬ 
tions.  But  nothing  is  any  longer  created;  the 
new  is  new  by  development.  The  development 
of  mankind  had  to  be  the  wTork  of  man,  if  it  was 
to  be  proportionate  to  the  waste,  and  if  the  creator 
designed  the  realization  of  the  human  ideal.  For 
this  reason  a  new  system  of  organic  powers  was 
added  to  the  two  former,  whose  object  was  the 
vivification  and  development  of  the  human  germ. 
This  is  the  organism  of  generation.  These  three 
organisms,  by  their  exact  connection  as  regards 
locality  and  relation,'  form  the  human  body. 

\  3. 

The  Body. 

The  organic  powers  of  the  human  body  are 
naturally  comprehended  under  two  leading  heads. 
In  the  first  division  we  class  the  powers  which 
we  are  unable  to  comprehend  by  the  known  laws 
and  phenomena  of  the  physical  world ;  to  this 
class  belong  nervous  sensibility  and  muscular  ir¬ 
ritability.  It  having  been  impossible,  so  far,  to 
penetrate  into  the  economy  of  the  invisible,  the 
system  of  unknown  mechanics  has  been  sought  to 
be  explained  by  the  known  ;  a  nerve,  for  instance, 
has  been  regarded  as  a  canal,  through  which 
courses  an  extremely  volatile  and  active  fluid, 
which  is  said  to  surpass  the  ether  and  electricity 
in  rapidity  and  subtilty ;  this  fluid  has  been  re¬ 
garded  as  the  primary  principle  of  sensibility  and 
mobility,  on  which  account  it  has  been  denomi¬ 
nated  “  vital  spirit.”  The  irritability  of  the  mus¬ 
cular  fibre  has  been  interpreted  as  a  certain  en¬ 
deavor,  in  consequence  of  some  external  stimulus, 
to  contract  and  to  bring  about  an  approximation 
of  the  terminal  points.  These  two  orders  of  prin¬ 
ciples  constitute  the  specific  character  of  the 
animal  organism. 

The  second  class  comprehends  the  powers  which 
we  may  consider  subject  to  the  general  known 
laws  of  physics.  Among  these  powers  we  class 
the  mechanics  of  motion,  and  the  chemistry  of  the 
human  body,  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of 
vegetative  life.  The  physical  life  of  the  human 
body  is  therefore  a  most  perfect  mingling  of  vege¬ 
tative  growth  and  animal  mechanics. 

}  4. 

Animal  Life. 

Neither  is  this  all.  The  waste  being  more  or 
less  depending  upon  the  control  of  the  spirit,  the 
supply  had  necessarily  to  be  so  likewise.  Again, 
inasmuch  as  the  body  is  subject  to  all  the  conse¬ 
quences  of  composition,  and,  within  the  circle  of 
the  objects  which  act  upon  it,  exposed  to  innum¬ 
erable  hostile  agencies,  the  soul  must  have  power 
to  protect  it  against  their  hurtful  influence,  and  to 
establish  such  relations  between  it  and  the  physi¬ 
cal  world  as  are  most  suitable  to  its  preservation  ; 


hence  the  soul  had  to  acquaint  itself  with  the 
actually  existing  good  or  bad  condition  of  its 
organs ;  from  their  bad  condition  the  soul  neces¬ 
sarily  derived  displeasure,  from  their  well-being 
pleasure  ;  and  it  would  endeavor  to  prolong  and  to 
seek  the  one,  or  to  flee  from  the  other.  Already 
here  the  organism  is  united,  as  it  were,  to  the 
sentient  faculty,  and  the  soul  becomes  interested 
in  its  body.  Here  we  have  something  more 
than  the  mere  vegetative,  something  more  than 
the  mechanical  motion  of  the  nervous  or  mus¬ 
cular  power.  Here  we  have  animal  life.*  The 
state  of  animal  life  is,  as  we  are  well  aware,  exceed¬ 
ingly  important  to  the  condition  of  soul-action  ; 
the  former  can  never  be  entirely  discontinued, 
without  leading  to  a  total  discontinuance  of  the 
latter.  The  former  must,  therefore,  have  a  firm 
basis,  which  cannot  easily  be  shaken ;  in  other 
words,  the  soul  must  be  determined  to  the  acts  of 
the  physical  life  by  an  irresistible  power.  Could 
the  sensations  of  the  animal  life,  whether  agree¬ 
able  or  disagreeable,  be  spiritual  sensations  pro¬ 
duced  by  thought,  how  often  would  they  be  ob¬ 
scured  by  the  overwhelming  light  of  the  passions, 
buried  by  indolence  or  stupidity,  overlooked  by 
absence  of  mind,  or  the  hurry  of  business  ? 

Again,  would  not  the  man-animal  have  to  be 
possessed  of  a  most  perfect  knowledge  of  his 
organization  ;  would  not  the  child  have  to  be  a 
master  of  the  science,  in  which  our  Harvey’s,  our 
Boerhaves,  and  our  Hallers,  have  remained  tyros 
after  an  inquiry  of  half  a  century?  It  was,  there¬ 
fore,  absolutely  impossible  that  the  soul  should 
have  had  an  idea  of  the  condition  which  it  is 
called  upon  to  change.  How  is  it  to  come  to  a 
knowledge  of  this  condition  ?  How  is  its  activity 
to  be  excited  ? 

2  5. 

Animal  sensations. 

As  yet  we  are  unacquainted  with  any  other  sen¬ 
sations  than  those  which  emanate  from  some 
previous  operation  of  the  understanding  ;  but  now 
sensations  are  to  arise  where  the  understanding 
is  to  be  entirely  excluded.  These  sensations  are 
not  to  manifest,  but  to  specifically  define,  or  rather 
to  accompany,  the  present  condition  of  my  organs. 
These  sensations  are  to  determine  the  will  promptly 
and  intensely,  either  to  abhor  or  to  desire  ;  but 
they  are  to  hover  only  upon  the  surface  of  the 
soul — they  are  never  to  penetrate  into  the  domain 
of  reason.  The  part  which  is  enacted  by  thought 
in  the  range  of  spiritual  sensations,  is  here  enacted 
by  such  a  modification  in  the  animal  organs,  as 
either  threatens  them  with  dissolution,  or  secures 
their  preservation  ;  in  other  words,  with  a  condi- 

#  Not  the  animal  life  of  the  animal.  The  animal  lives 
to  enjoy  agreeable  sensations  j  it  enjoys  agreeable  sensa¬ 
tions  in  order  to  preserve  the  animal  life.  Hence  it  lives 
to-day  in  order  to  live  again  to-morrow.  It  is  happy  to¬ 
day  in  order  to  be  again  happy  to-morrow.  This  is  a  simple 
and  unreliable  happiness,  which  imitates  the  periods  of  the 
organism,  and  is  exposed  to  blind  choice,  since  it  is  solely 
founded  in  sensation.  Man,  too,  has  an  animal  life,  whose 
pleasures  he  enjoys  and  whose  pains  he  feels.  But  why  ? 
He  enjoys  and  he  suffers  that  he  may  preserve  his  animal 
life.  He  preserves  his  animal  life  in  order  to  perpetuate 
his  spiritual.  In  his  case  the  means  differ  from  the  end  ;  in 
the  case  of  the  animal  the  means  and  the  end  are  one.  This 
is  one  of  the  boundary  lines  between  man  and  the  animal. 


254 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


tion  of  the  organs  which  fortifies  their  structure, 
an  agreeable  emotion  of  the  soul  has  been  united 
by  an  eternal  law  of  wisdom  ;  whereas,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  painful  emotion  accompanies  the 
condition  that  undermines  their  well-being,  and 
accelerates  their  ruin.  At  the  same  time,  the 
sensation  itself  does  not  bear  the  least  analogy 
to  the  nature  of  the  organs  where  the  sensation 
is  felt.  Thus  it  is  that  animal  sensations  originate. 
Hence  they  are  founded,  first,  in  the  actual  condi¬ 
tion  of  the  organs,  and,  secondly,  in  the  sentient 
faculty. 

This  shows  why  the  animal  sensations  may  drag 
the  soul  with  an  irresistible  and  ojten  tyrannical 
power,  into  the  vortex  of  passions  and  acts,  and 
may  even  gain  a  victory  over  the  most  spiritual, 
may  even  gain  a  victory  over  the  most  spirit¬ 
ual.  The  latter  are  developed  in  the  soul  by 
annihilated  by  thought.  This  is  the  power  of 
abstraction,  and  of  philosophy  generally,  over  the 
passions,  over  opinions,  in  short,  over  every  situa¬ 
tion  of  life,  whereas  animal  sensations  are  forced 
upon  us  by  a  blind  necessity — by  mechanical 
laws  ;  the  understanding,  which  did  not  create 
these  sensations,  cannot  remove  them,  although  it 
may  obscure  them  considerably  by  turning  the  at¬ 
tention  into  an  opposite  direction.  The  most  obsti¬ 
nate  Stoician  who  is  afflicted  with  stone,  will  never 
be  able  to  boast  of  not  having  experienced  any  pain  ; 
but,  absorbed  in  speculations  concerning  its  first 
cause,  he  may  divert  the  sentient  faculty ;  and 
the  overwhelming  delight  of  a  perfect  plan,  which 
renders  even  pain  subordinate  to  the  general 
happiness,  will  subdue  the  discomfort.  It  was  not 
for  want  of  sensation,  or  because  sensation  was 
annihilated,  that  Mucius,  with  his  hand  roasting 
in  the  fire,  was  able  to  stare  at  the  enemy  with  a 
look  of  proud  repose ;  but  the  thought  of  Rome’s 
admiration  which  ruled  his  soul,  held  it  captive 
within  itself,  and  prevented  the  violent  irritation 
of  the  physical  suffering  from  disturbing  the  soul’s 
equilibrium.  For  all  that,  the  pain  of  the  Roman 
was  no  less  than  that  of  the  most  effeminate 
sensualist.  It  is  true,  he  who  is  habitually  living 
in  a  state  of  mental  obtuseness,  may  be  less  capa¬ 
ble  of  manly  firmness  at  the  critical  moment  of 
physical  pain  than  he  whose  ideas  are  habitually 
lucid  and  precise  ;  but  neither  the  highest  virtue, 
nor  the  deepest  philosophy,  nor  even  the  sublimest 
religion,  can  abrogate  the  law  of  necessity, 
although  her  worshipers  may  be  borne  upward  by 
ecstasy  while  chained  to  the  burning  pile. 

This  very  power  of  animal  sensations  over  the 
sentient  faculty  of  the  soul,  is  determined  by  the 
W’isest  design.  The  spirit  once  familiarized  with 
the  secrets  of  a  higher  delight,  would  look  down 
with  contempt  upon  the  movements  of  its  com- 

f>anion,  and  would  hardly  be  willing  to  devote  the 
east  attention  to  the  low  necessities  of  the  physi¬ 
cal  life,  if  animal  sensations  did  not  secure  its 
ministering  office.  The  mathematician  who  had 
been  roving  through  the  regions  of  the  infinite, 
and  had  lost  sight  of  the  real  world  amid  the 
dreams  of  his  abstractions,  is  roused  by  hunger 
from  his  intellectual  slumber;  the  astronomerwho 
analyses  the  mechanics  of  the  solar  system,  and 
accompanies  the  planet  on  its  wanderings  through 
immeasurable  space,  is  brought  back  to  the  sphere 


of  earth-life  by  the  prick  of  a  pin  ;  the  philoso¬ 
pher  who  unfolds  the  nature  of  deity,  and  fancies 
he  has  broken  through  the  boundaries  of  mor¬ 
tality,  is  reminded  of  his  intermediate  position 
between  beast  and  angel  by  a  cold  northeaster 
which  happens  to  blow  through  his  frail  cottage. 

If  the  animal  sensations  are  overwhelming,  the 
highest  effort  of  the  mind  against  them  becomes 
powerless  ;  in  proportion  as  they  become  more 
intense,  the  reason  is  more  and  more  blunted, 
and  the  soul  is  violently  chained  to  the  physical 
organism.  In  order  to  gratify  hunger  and  thirst, 
man  will  commit  acts  that  cause  humanity  to 
shudder;  against  his  own  will  he  becomes  a  trai¬ 
tor,  a  murderer,  a  cannibal — 

“  Tiger,  wouldst  thou  tear  thy  mother’s  bosom  with  thy 
own  teeth.” 

With  such  violence  does  the  animal  sensation 
act  upon  the  mind  ;  with  so  much  care  has  the 
preservation  of  the  bodily  organism  been  guarded 
by  the  Creator;  the  pillars  upon  which  it  rests 
are  the  firmest,  and  we  know  from  experience  that 
it  is  the  excess  of  animal  sensations  rather  than 
their  deficiency,  that  has  led  to  corruption. 

Animal  sensations  fortify  the  well-being  of  ani¬ 
mal  nature,  as  moral  and  intellectual  sensations 
strengthen  the  well-being  of  man’s  spiritual  na¬ 
ture.  The  system  of  animal  sensations  and  move¬ 
ments  bounds  the  idea  of  animal  nature.  This  is 
the  basis  upon  which  the  condition  of  the  soul’s 
instruments  rests,  and  their  condition  determines 
the  ease  and  continuance  of  soul-action.  We 
have  thus  shown  the  first  link  of  the  connection 
of  the  two  natures. 

?6. 

Objections  against  the  connection  of  the  two  na¬ 
tures  suggested  by  moral  considerations. 

All  this  may  be  granted  ;  but  then  it  may  be 
added,  here  ends  the  office  of  the  body.  Be¬ 
yond  this,  the  body  is  a  burdensome  companion 
to  the  soul,  with  whom  it  has  to  keep  up  a  con¬ 
tinual  warfare,  whose  wants  deprive'  it  of  all  leisure 
for  thought;  whose  assaults  tear  the  thread  of  the 
most  profound  speculation,  and  plunge  the  mind 
into  sensual  confusion  at  the  very  moment 
when  it  is  filled  with  the  clearest  and  most  lucid 
perceptions ;  whose  lusts  remove  the  greatest 
number  of-  our  fellow-creatures  from  their  high 
prototype  and  debase  them  to  the  level  of  brutes, 
— in  short,  who  imposes  upon  the  soul  a  bondage 
from  which  it  can  only  be  freed  by  death.  Is  it 
not  absurd  and  unjust,  we  might  complainingly 
ask,  to  entangle  a  being  which  is  sftnple  and  ne¬ 
cessary,  and  endowed  with  an  independent  exist¬ 
ence,  with  another  being  whirled  about  in  unceas¬ 
ing  changes,  exposed  to  every  chance,  and  a  vic¬ 
tim  to  necessity?  Calm  reflection  may  perhaps 
enable  us  to  discover  great  beauty  in  the  midst 
of  this  apparent  confusion  and  absence  of  design. 


PHILOSOPHICAL  CONNECTION. 

ANIMAL  INSTINCTS  AWAKEN  AND  DEVELOP 
THE  MENTAL. 

8  7. 

Method. 

In  order  to  throw  some  light  upon  this  point, 


FIRST  PERIOD* 


255 


it  may  perhaps  be  best  to  adopt  the  following 
method.  Let  ns  suppose  man  separated  from 
every  trace  of  organization  ;  in  other  words,  let 
us  suppose  that  the  body  is  separated  from  the 
spirit,  in  such  a  manner,  however,  that  the  spirit 
is  not  deprived  of  the  possibility  of  acquiring 
perceptions  and  producing  acts  in  the  physical 
world ;  and  let  us  afterward  examine  how  it  pro¬ 
duced  these  acts,  how  it  developed  its  powers, 
what  steps  it  would  have  taken  to  become  per¬ 
fect  ;  the  result  of  such  an  examination  has  to 
be  confirmed  by  facts.  Overlooking  the  forma¬ 
tion  of  the  individual,  let  us  cast  a  glance  at  the 
development  of  the  race.  First  let  us  consider 
the  abstract  case  :  we  have  percipient  power  and 
volition,  a  sphere  of  action,  a  free  transition  from 
soul  to  world,  from  world  to  soul.  Let  us  inquire 
how  this  transition  will  manifest  itself. 

§8. 

The  soul  considered  without  its  connection  with 

the  body. 

We  cannot  suppose  a  conception  without  a 
previous  volition,  to  form  it ;  no  volition  without 
sensation,  that  is,  without  a  corresponding  expe¬ 
rience  of  the  modifications  which  the  act  has 
realized  in  our  condition  ;  no  sensation  without  a 
previous  idea,  (for  in  excluding  the  body  we  ne¬ 
cessarily  exclude  the  bodily  sensations)  ;  hence  no 
idea  without  an  idea. 

Let  us  consider  the  child,  or,  in  accordance 
with  our  supposition,  a  spirit  containing  within 
itself  the  faculty  of  forming  ideas,  and  called 
upon  to  use  this  faculty  for  the  first  time.  What 
will  induce  the  child  to  think  unless  it  is  the 
pleasant  sensation  resulting  from  this  perform¬ 
ance?  What  can  have  given  it  the  experience 
of* this  agreeable  sensation?  Have  we  not  seen 
that  this  very  experience  must  have  been  the  re¬ 
sult  of  thought,  and  now  this  child-spirit  is  sup¬ 
posed  to  think  for  the  first  time.  Again,  what 
else  can  induce  it  to  contemplate  the  world, 
unless  it  is  the  experience  of  its  perfection,  which 
gratifies  its  desire  for  action,  and  by  this  gratifi¬ 
cation  affords  it  delight?  What  can  induce 
it  to  use  its  powers,  unless  it  is  the  experience 
of  their  existence?  Yet  all  these  experiences  it 
is  now  to  make  for  the  first  time.  Hence  it 
must  have  been  active  from  all  eternity,  which  is 
contrary  to  our  supposition,  or  else  its  activity 
will  never  have  a  beginning  any  more  than  that 
of  a  machine  which  remains  forever  motionless, 
unless  it  receives  an  impetus  from  without. 

\  9. 

The  soul  considered  in  connection  with  the  body. 

Now  let  us  unite  the  spirit  with  the  animal. 
Let  us  unite  these  two  natures  as  intimately  as 
they  really  are  united,  and  then  let  some  unknown 
something,  issuing  from  the  economy  of  the  phy¬ 
sical  body,  assist  the  sentient  faculty, — let  the 
soul  be  transferred  into  the  condition  of  physical 

ftain.  This  is  the  first  impetus,  the  first  ray  of 
ight  in  the  darkness  of  slumbering  powers — a  ring¬ 
ing  sound  in  the  chords  of  nature.  Now  we  have 
sensation,  the  very  thing  which  was  wanting  be¬ 
fore.  This  sort  of  sensation  seems  to  be  especially 
designed  to  remove  all  the  difficulties  of  our  former 


supposition.  There  we  were  unable  to  arrive  at 
sensations,  because  we  were  not  authorized  to  pre¬ 
suppose  an  idea  ;  here  the  modification  in  the 
bodily  organ  is  a  substitute  for  the  idea,  and  in 
this  way  the  animal  sensation  helps,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  the  expression,  to  set  the  internal  me¬ 
chanism  of  the  spirit  in  motion.  The  transition 
from  pain  to  horror  is  a  fundamental  law  of  the 
soul.  The  will  is  active,  and  the  activity  of  a 
single  power  suffices  to  set  all  the  rest  in  motion. 
The  subsequent  operations  follow  as  a  matter  of 
course,  nor  do  they  belong  to  this  chapter. 

UO. 

History  of  the  individual. 

Now  let  us  trace  the  soul-growth  of  the  individ¬ 
ual  man,  with  reference  to  the  proposition  which 
we  have  made  the  subject  of  our  demonstration, 
and  we  shall  see  how  all  his  mental  faculties  de¬ 
velop  themselves  from  sensual  instincts. 

a.  Childhood. — The  child  is  still  an  animal,  or 
rather  is  more  or  even  less  than  an  animal ;  a  man- 
animal,  (for  a  being  which  is  to  be  called  man 
at  any  future  period,  can  never  have  been  exclu¬ 
sively  an  animal).  More  miserable  than  an  ani¬ 
mal,  because  it  has  not  even  instinct.  The  animal 
may  leave  its  young  more  safely  than  the  mother 
her  babe.  Pain  may  extort  from  the  latter  cries, 
but  the  source  of  pain  will  never  be  revealed  to  it. 
The  milk  may  afford  it  delight,  but  will  never  be 
sought  by  it.  It  is  entirely  passive— 

“  Its  thinking  amounts  to  mere  feeling, 

Its  knowledge  is  confined  to  pain,  hunger  and  bandages.” 

b.  Boyhood. — Here  we  see  reflection,  whose 
only  object,  however,  is  the  gratification  of  animal 
instincts.  “  He  only  learns,”  as  Garve  remarks 
in  his  notes  to  Ferguson’s  Moral  Philosophy,  “to 
value  the  things  of  other  men  and  his  own  acts 
toward  them,  in  so  far  as  they  afford  him  sensual 
pleasure.”  The  love  of  work,  of  parents,  friends, 
even  of  the  Deity,  reaches  the  soul  by  the  road  of 
sensuality.  “  That  alone  is  a  sun  which,”  as 
Garve  states  elsewhere,  “  derives  from  itself  its 
own  light  and  warmth.  All  other  objects  are  dark 
and  cold,  but  they  may  be  illumined  and  warmed 
by  being  placed  in  such  relations  to  the  sun  as 
will  enable  them  to  receive  his  rays.”  In  the  case 
of  a  boy,  the  goods  of  the  spirit  only  acquire  a 
little  value  by  transmission,  or  mediately ;  they 
constitute  a  spiritual  means  for  the  attainment  of  a 
physical  end. 

c.  Adolescence  and  Manhood. — The  frequent 
repetition  of  these  inferences  habituates  the  mind 
to  them,  which  discovers,  in  the  transmitted 
means,  traces  of  beauty ,  although  perhaps  imagi¬ 
nary.  The  grown  man  likes  to  dwell  upon  the 
means,  without  knowing  why  he  is  impercepti¬ 
bly  led  to  reflect  upon  it.  Now  the  rays  of  spiritual 
beauty  itself,  are  enabled  to  touch  his  open  soul. 
He  is  delighted  with  manifesting  his  power  ;  and 
this  feeling  gives  him  an  inclination  for  the  object 
which  had  been  a  simple  means  hitherto.  I'he 
first  end  is  forgotten.  Enlightenment  and  an  in¬ 
crease  of  ideas  finally  reveal  to  him  the  whole 
dignity  of  spiritual  delights ;  the  means  has  become 
the  highest  aim. 

This  is  what  we  are  taught  by  the  history  of 
every  individual  that  has  acquired  some  education. 


256 


•PROSE  WRITINGS. 


and  it  might  have  been  difficult  for  wisdom  to 
choose  a  better  path  upon  which  man  can  be  led. 
Are  not  the  common  people  led  even  now  as  we 
have  supposed  our  boy  to  be?  Has  not  the 
prophet  of  Medina  shown  us  how  the  rude  im¬ 
pulses  of  Saracens  can  be  bridled  ? 

On  this  head  nothing  can  be  advanced  which  is 
more  to  the  point  than  the  following  in  Garve’s 
notes  to  Ferguson’s  Moral  Philosophy  :  “  The 

instinct  of  preservation  and  the  stimulus  of  sen¬ 
sual  delight  first  impel  both  man  and  animal  to 
action ;  lie  first  learns  to  estimate  the  things  of 
others,  and  his  own  acts  toward  them,  by  the  de¬ 
light  which  they  afford  him.  In  proportion  as  the 
number  of  objects  that  act  upon  him,  increases,  his 
desires  multiply ;  as  the  road  upon  which  these 
effects  reach  him,  is  longer,  his  desires  become 
more  artificial.  Here  is  the  first  boundary  line 
between  man  and  animal,  and  here  we  discover  a 
difference  between  one  species  of  animals  and 
another.  But  few  animals  eat  immediately  after 
experiencing  the  sensation  of  hunger  ;  the  heat  of 
the  chase  or  the  industry  of  gathering  precedes. 
But  in  the  case  of  no  animal  does  the  gratification 
of  the  desire  take  place  as  slowly  after  the  prepa¬ 
rations  for  this  gratification  have  commenced,  as 
in  the  case  of  man ;  in  the  case  of  no  animal  is  its 
endeavor  to  attain  this  gratification  continued 
through  such  a  long  series  of  means  and  inten¬ 
tions  as  in  the  case  of  man.  How  far  are  the 
labors  of  a  mechanic  or  farmer  removed  from  their 
object  which  is  to  procure  for  him  bread  or  cloth¬ 
ing!.  This  is  not  all.  After  the  means  of  preser¬ 
vation  have  been  multiplied  by  the  organization 
of  society ;  after  he  has  become  blessed  with  an 
abundance,  the  procuring  of  which  does  not  em¬ 
ploy  his  whole  time  and  strength ;  after  he  has 
become  enlightened  by  an  interchange  of  ideas : 
it  is  then  that  man  commences  to  discover  an  ul¬ 
timate  object  for  his  acts  within  himself;  it  is  then 
that  he  perceives  that,  although  he  may  be  pos¬ 
sessed  of  all  the  food,  raiment,  shelter,  or  domestic 
utensils  he  requires,  something  is  still  left  for 
him  to  do.  He  makes  another  step  forward.  He 
becomes  aware  that  these  acts  emanating  from 
certain  powers  of  the  mind,  and  giving  rise  to 
their  exercise,  lead  to  a  higher  good  than  the 
simple  realization  of  the  external  aim,  which  is  the 
procurement  of  food  and  shelter.  It  is  true  that  I 
from  this  moment  he  endeavors,  in  company  with ! 
the  rest  of  the  race  and  with  the  empire  of  all  | 
living  beings,  to  preserve  himself  and  to  procure ! 
for  himself  and  his  friends  the  means  of  phy¬ 
sical  life  ;  for  what  else  is  he  to  do  ?  What  other 
sphere  of  action  could  he  enter  upon,  if  he  stepped 
out  of  this  one  !  But  he  has  learned  that  Nature 
has  not  so  much  excited  these  instincts  in  him  for 
the  purpose  of  affording  him  those  comforts,  as 
for  the  purpose  of  availing  herself  of  these  delights 
and  advantages  as  incentives,  in  order  to  set  these 
instincts  in  motion ;  her  object  is  to  furnish  a 
thinking  being  material  for  ideas,  a  sentient  spirit 
material  for  sensations,  a  benevolent  spirit  the 
means  of  well-doing,  an  active  spirit  opportunities 
for  occupation.  Under  these  circumstances  every 
thing,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  appears  to 
him  under  a  different  form.  At  first  objects  were 
only  regarded  by  him  with  reference  to  the  pleasure 


or  pain  which  they  caused  him ;  but  now  he  meas¬ 
ures  their  value  with  reference  to  the  acts  and 
manifestations  of  his  moral  nature  which  they  de¬ 
termine.  Considered  from  the  former  point  of 
view,  events  are  at  times  good,  at  other  times 
bad ;  but,  if  considered  from  the  latter  point  of 
view,  they  are  all  equally  good.  For  there  is  no 
event,  where  the  practice  of  some  virtue,  or  the 
employment  of  some  particular  faculty  is  not  pos¬ 
sible.  First,  he  loved  mankind  because  he  im¬ 
agined  that  they  might  he  useful  to  him  ;  now,  he 
loves  them  still  more,  because  he  regards  benevo¬ 
lence  as  the  condition  of  a  perfect  spirit.” 

I  11. 

Suggestions  drawn  from  the  History  of  the  Hu¬ 
man  Race. 

Let  us  now  cast  a  more  daring  glance  at  the 
history  of  the  whole  human  race,  from  its  cradle 
to  its  manhood,  and  the  truth  of  what  we  have 
advanced  so  far,  will  be  seen  in  its  clearest 
light. 

Hunger  and  exposure  first  made  man  a  hun¬ 
ter,  fisherman,  herdsman,  farmer,  and  builder. 
Sexual  delight  founded  families,  and  the  defense¬ 
less  condition  of  individuals  united  them  into 
hordes.  This  is  the  commencement  of  social 
life.  Soon  the  increase  of  numbers  exceeded  the 
supply  of  the  field  ;  hunger  drove  men  to  distant 
climes  and  countries  which  displayed  their  pro¬ 
ductions  to  the  searching  eye  of  the  new  settlers, 
and  taught  them  new  contrivances  to  improve  the 
soil  and  to  meet  its  various  influences.  Tradi¬ 
tion  transmitted  isolated  experiences  from  tha 
grandsire  to  his  descendants,  who  enlarged  theii 
application.  Man  learned  to  use  the  forces  of 
nature  against  herself;  new  applications  and  re¬ 
lations  of  these  forces  were  discovered,  and  “the 
simple  and  beneficent  arts  w’ere  invented.  It  is 
true,  the  object  of  art  went  as  yet  no  further  than 
the  well-being  of  the  animal,  but  there  was  exer¬ 
cise  of  power,  increase  of  knowledge;  and  by  the 
same  fire  which  helped  the  rude  man  of  Nature 
to  roast  his  fish,  Boerhave  was  afterward  assisted 
in  his  inquiries  into  the  composition  of  bodies ; 
the  same  knife  'with  -which  the  savage  cut  up  his 
game,  assisted  Lionet  in  dissecting  the  nerves  of 
insects ;  with  the  same  circle  -with  which  only 
hoofs  were  measured  at  first,  Newton  afterward 
measured  heaven  and  earth.  Thus  it  is  that  the 
body  compelled  the  spirit  to  observe  phenomena, 
and  to  take  an  interest  in,  and  study  the  impor¬ 
tance  of  Nature  which  had  become  indispensable 
to  man.  The  impulse  of  an  internal  active  nature, 
accompanied  by  the  indigence  of  the  mother- 
country,  taught  our  ancestors  to  think  more  boldly, 
and  to  contrive  a  house  in  which,  under  the  guid¬ 
ance  of  stars,  they  glided  along  safely  on  rivers 
and  oceans  toward  new  zones. 

Fluctibus  ignotis  insultavere  carin®. 

Tn  the  new  countries  new  productions  were  dis¬ 
covered,  new  dangers  had  to  be  met,  new  wants 
to  be  gratified,  new  mental  efforts  to  be  made. 
The  collision  of  the  animal  instincts  brings  one 
horde  in  conflict  with  another,  forges  the  raw 
ore  into  swords,  gives  rise  to  adventurers,  heroes, 
and  despots.  Cities  are  fortified,  states  are  or- 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


257 


ganized,  and  these  develop  civil  duties  and  rights, 
arts,  numbers,  laws,  cunning  priests,  and  gods. 

Wants  increasing  and  degenerating  into  lux¬ 
ury! — What  an  immense  field  is  opened  up  before 
our  eyes!  Now  the  veins  of  the  earth  are  dug 
up,  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  is  explored,  com¬ 
merce  and  social  intercourse  flourish. 

Latet  sub  classibus  aequor. 

The  East  is  admired  in  the  West,  the  West  in 
the  East,  the  productions  of  foreign  zones  are 
acclimated  under  an  artificial  sky,  and  horticul¬ 
ture  unites  in  one  garden  the  productions  of 
three  continents.  Artists  are  taught  to  imitate 
Nature’s  wTorks,  music  softens  the  savage,  beauty 
and  harmony  ennoble  manners  and  taste,  and  art 
conducts  man  to  science  and  virtue.  “  Man,” 
says  Schlozer,  in  his  Idea  of  Universal  History, 
“this  powerful  demi-god,  removes  rocks  from  his 
path,  diverts  lakes  and  rivers,  and  plows  the 
field  where  ships  floated  before.  By  means  of 
canals  he  separates  continents  and  provinces, 
unites  rivers,  and  conducts  them  through  sandy 
deserts  which  are  changed  by  this  means  into 
smiling  fields ;  he  robs  three  continents  of  their 
productions,  and  transplants  them  to  a  fourth. 
Even  climate,  air,  and  weather  obey  his  power. 
By  uprooting  forests  and  draining  marshes,  he 
clears  up  the  sky  above  him,  humidity  and  fogs 
disappear,  the  winters  become  milder  and  shorter, 
the  rivers  cease  to  freeze.”  And,  with  the  refine¬ 
ments  of  the  climate,  the  spirit  becomes  more 
refined. 

The  state  gives  the  citizen  employment  in 
attending  to  the  wants  and  comforts  of  life.  In¬ 
dustry  renders  the  state  secure  and  peaceful  with¬ 
out  and  within,  and  thinkers  and  artists  are  af¬ 
forded  the  leisure  which  converted  the  age  of 
Augustus  into  a  golden  era.  The  arts  take  a 
bolder,  unimpeded  flight ;  knowledge  acquires  a 
purer  light,  the  natural  sciences  crush  supersti¬ 
tion,  history  shows  us  the  first  ages  of  man  re¬ 
flected  in  a  mirror,  and  philosophy  smiles  at 
human  folly.  Luxury  having  degenerated  into 
effeminacy  and  debauchery,  having  caused  epi¬ 
demic  diseases  to  rage  in  the  human  frame,  and 
to  poison  the  atmosphere:  man,  in  his  need,  fled 
from  one  kingdom  of  Nature  to  another,  in  search 
of  the  means  of  relief;  then  it  was  that  he  dis¬ 
covered  the  divine  bark  of  Peru,  that  he  dug  the 
powerful  mercury  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and  squeezed  the  precious  juice  out  of  the  orien¬ 
tal  pavot.  The  most  hidden  corners  of  Nature 
are  searched,  chemistry  breaks  up  her  productions 
into  atoms,  creates  worlds  of  her  own,  alche¬ 
mists  enrich  natural  history,  the  microscopic 
glance  of  Swammerdam  surprises  Nature  in  her 
most  secret  processes.  Man  goes  further.  Ne¬ 
cessity  and  curiosity  overleap  the  bounds  of  super¬ 
stition,  he  seizes  the  scalpel,  and  enters  upon  the 
discovery  of  the  greatest  work  of  Nature — man. 
Thus  the  worst  had  to  aid  in  attaining  the  best, 
disease  had  to  urge  us  onward  to  the  yv^i  osavtov 
“  Know  thyself.”  The  plague  formed  our  Hippo¬ 
crates  and  Sydenhams,  as  war  gave  rise  to  gen¬ 
erals;  to  the  spread  of  syphilis  we  are  indebted 
for  «.  complete  reform  of  medical  doctrines. 

We  set  out  with  the  intention  of  illustrating 


the  perfection  of  the  soul  by  the  legitimate  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  sensual  delights;  what  wonderful  aspects 
has  the  subject  presented  in  our  hands  !  We  have 
found,  that  even  sensual  excesses  and  abuses 
have  helped  man  on  the  road  to  positive  good. 
The  aberrations  from  the  original  simplicity  of 
Nature,  merchants,  conquerors  and  luxury,  have 
undoubtedly  accelerated  the  progress  which  a 
more  simple  mode  of  life  would  have  achieved 
with  more  regularity,  but  also  much  more  slowly. 
Contrast  the  old  world  with  the  new  !  In  the 
former  the  desires  were  simple  and  their  gratifica¬ 
tion  easy  ;  but  what  horrid  views  were  entertained 
about  Nature  and  her  laws  !  Now  the  gratifica¬ 
tion  of  our  desires  is  impeded  by  a  thousand  in¬ 
flections,  but  how  clear  have  our  perceptions  be¬ 
come  ! 

Let  us  repeat :  man  had  to  be  an  animal  before 
he  could  be  a  spirit ;  he  had  to  crawl  in  the 
dust  before  he  dared  to  undertake  the  Newtonian 
flight.  The  body  was  the  first  incentive  to  ac¬ 
tion  ;  sensuality  the  first  step  to  perfection. 

ANIMAL  SENSATIONS  ACCOMPANYING  THE 

SPIRITUAL. 

\  12. 

Law. 

Man’s  understanding  is  exceedingly  limited  ; 
hence  all  the  sensations  resulting  from  its  activity, 
must  necessarily  be  so  likewise.  In  order  to  en¬ 
large  the  sphere  of  these  sensations,  to  impel  the  will 
with  a  redoubled  energy  toward  that  which  is  per¬ 
fect,  and  to  remove  it  from  evil,  these  two  natures, 
the  spiritual  and  the  animal,  are  so  intimately 
blended,  that  the  modifications  which  are  im¬ 
pressed  upon  either,  are  communicated  to  the 
other.  From  their  union  we  derive  a  fundamen¬ 
tal  law  for  the  two  natures,  which  may  be  ex¬ 
pressed  in  the  following  general  formula :  “T/ie  ac¬ 
tivities  of  the  body  correspond,  with  the  activities 
of  the  spirit ;  in  other  ivords,  every  tension  of 
the  mental  faculties  is  succeeded  by  a  tension 
of  certain  bodily  functions,  whereas ,  on  the  other 
hand ,  the  equilibrium  or  harmonious  activity  of 
the  mental  poivers  is  accompanied  by  the  most  per¬ 
fect  harmony  of  the  bodily.  Again:  Mental  in 
dolence  induces  indolence  of  body  ;  complete  in  ¬ 
action  of  the  soul  may  even  lead  to  the  extinction 
of  the  bodily  functions.  Perfection  being  always 
united  with  a  feeling  of  comfort,  and  imperfection 
with  a  feeling  of  discomfort,  this  law  may  like¬ 
wise  be  formulated  in  this  proposition  :  Spiritual 
comfort  is  always  accompanied  by  animal  com¬ 
fort,  and  spiritual  discomfort  by  animal  dis¬ 
comfort. 

I  13. 

Spiritual  delight  promotes  the  well-being  of  the- 

organs. 

A  sensation  which  pervades  the  whole  soul;  af¬ 
fects  in  a  corresponding  degree,  the  whole  struc-  * 
ture  of  the  body, — heart,  blood-vessels  andi  blood, 
muscular  fibres  and  nerves ;  from  the  powerful 
and  important  impulse  of  the  heart  to  the  insig¬ 
nificant  tension  of  the  hairs  on  the  skin,  every  or¬ 
ganic  movement  feels  the  sensations  of  the  soul. 
Every  part  of  the  bodily  life  becomes  more  in¬ 
tensely  active,  if  the  sensation  is  agreeable,  the 


258 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


organs  acquire  a  higher  degree  of  harmonious  acti¬ 
vity  ;  the  heart  beats  with  more  freedom,  more  uni¬ 
formity  and  vigor  ;  the  blood,  according  as  the  sen¬ 
sation  is  more  or  less  gentle  or  intense,  courses  un¬ 
disturbedly,  gently  or  fiercely,  through  its  yielding 
canals  ;  digestion,  secretion,  and  excretion,  take 
place  without  hinderance  ;  the  irritable  fibres, 
bathed  in  their  mild  exhalations,  perform  their 
play  without  rigidity  ;  irritability,  as  well  as  sensi¬ 
bility,  becomes  exalted.  Therefore  it  is  that  a 
condition  of  the  most  exalted  soul-delight  becomes 
for  the  time  being,  a  condition  of  the  highest 
bodily  welfare. 

As  many  as  there  are  of  these  partial  activities, 
(and  is  not  every  pulsation  the  result  of  perhaps 
thousands,)  in  like  manner  a  corresponding  num¬ 
ber  of  obscure  sensations  will  be  experienced  by 
the  soul,  each  of  which  implies  the  perfect  ion  of  t  he 
mechanism.  From  the  confused  mass  of  these  sen¬ 
sations,  springs  the  sum  total  of  animal  harmony  ; 
that  is,  the  most  compound  sensation  of  animal 
delight,  which,  uniting  itself,  as  it  were,  with  the 
original  intellectual  or  moral  delight,  intensifies  it 
by  this  union.  Hence,  every  agreeable  emotion 
becomes  the  source  of  innumerable  bodily  de¬ 
lights. 

This  conclusion  is  corroborated  most  evidently 
by  those  patients  who  are  cured  by  joy.  Send 
him  whom  home-sickness  has  reduced  to  a  skele¬ 
ton,  back  to  his  native  country,  and  he  will  again 
be  blessed  with  blooming  health.  Enter  the  dun¬ 
geon  where  wretches  have  been  buried  for  ten  or 
twenty  years,  amidst  the  foul  emanations  of  their 
own  excrements,  and  have  scarcely  retained 
strength  enough  to  stir ;  surprise  them  with  a 
sudden  announcement  of  their  delivery.  One 
word  will  send  the  vigor  of  youth  through  their 
limbs ;  the  vacant  eye  will  sparkle  with  fire  and 
life.  Sailors,  drifting  about  on  the  ocean,  and 
prostrated  by  disease  and  the  want  of  bread  and 
water,  recover  almost  their  health  and  strength  on 
hearing  “ land”  shouted  from  the  mast-head ;  it 
would  be  a  great  mistake  to  ascribe  this  change 
exclusively  to  fresh  food.  The  sight  of  a  friend 
for  whom  we  had  been  pining,  will  not  only  dispel 
the  agony  caused  by  the  long  separation,  but 
will  likewise  cause  an  immediate  improvement  in 
our  physical  condition.  Joy  will  bring  about  a 
more  intense  action  in  the  nervous  system,  than 
any  tonic  which  the  pharmacies  can  furnish,  and 
may  even  remove  infarctions  in  the  labyrinthian 
canals  of  the  intestines,  which  no  dissolvents, 
not  even  mercury,  could  reach.  Who  does  not 
see  that  a  state  of  the  soul,  which  knows  how  to 
extract  delight  from  every  event,  and  how  to 
trace  even  in  every  pain  the  perfection  of  the 
universe,  must  be  best  adapted  to  the  functions 
of  the  organs  ?  This  state  of  the  soul  is 
virtue. 

3  14. 

Spiritual  pain  undermines  the  well-being  of  the 

organs. 

For  similar  reasons,  the  contrary  occurs  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  unpleasant  emotions;  the  ideas  which 
assume  so  much  intensity  during  a  paroxysm  of 
wrath  or  fright,  might  be  regarded  as  convulsions 
of  the  intellect  with  the  same  propriety  that  Plato 


denominates  the  passions  fever  of  the  soul.  These 
convulsions  are  rapidly  communicated  to  the 
whole  structure  of  the  nervous  system  ;  they  dishar¬ 
monize  the  forces  of  life,  and  disturb  the  equili¬ 
brium  of  the  functions.  The  beats  of  the  heart 
become  irregular  and  impetuous  ;  the  blood  is 
pressed  into  the  lungs,  whereas  there  is  hardly 
enough  of  it  in  the  extremities,  to  keep  up  the 
pulse.  All  the  chemical  processes  of  the  organism 
are  set  against  each  other.  The  secretions  miss 
their  proper  channels,  acting  as  hostile  principles 
in  strange  tissues ;  and  substances  which  should 
have  been  excreted  through  the  appropriate  chan¬ 
nels,  are  returned  into  the  bosom  of  the  organism. 
In  one  word,  a  condition  of  the  most  intense  soul- 
pain  is  likewise  a  condition  of  the  highest  bodily 
suffering. 

By  a  thousand  obscure  sensations,  the  soul  is 
warned  of  the  threatened  ruin  of  its  organs,  and  is 
inundated  by  a  sensation  of  pain  which  unites  it¬ 
self  with  the  original  spiritual  sensation  to  which 
it  imparts  a  higher  degree  of  intensity. 

I  15. 

Examples. 

Deep  chronic  pains  of  the  soul,  especially  if  ac¬ 
companied  by  intense  mental  exertions — among 
which  the  slow  anger  termed  indignation  holds  a 
prominent  rank — gnaw,  as  it  were,  at  the  founda¬ 
tions  of  the  body,  and  dry  up  the  vital  fluids. 
Such  people  look  pale  and  thin,  and  the  internal 
suffering  is  seen  in  their  hollow  sunken  eyes.  “  I 
must  have  fat  people  around  me,”  says  Cesar, 
“  people  with  plump  cheeks,  who  sleep  at  night. 
Cassius  has  a  famished  countenance ;  he  thinks 
too  much  ;  such  people  are  dangerous.”  Fear, 
uneasiness,  anguish  of  conscience,  despair,  have 
the  same  bad  effects  as  the  most  acute  fevers. 
Richard,  tortured  by  anxiety,  loses  his  accustomea 
cheerfulness;  he  fancies  he  can  call  it  back  by  a 
glass  of  wine.  It  is  not  a  soul-pain  alone  that 
deprives  him  of  his  cheerfulness;  it  is  a  sensation 
of  discomfort  felt  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  be¬ 
ing,  a  sensation  which  is  likewise  the  precursor  of 
some  malignant  fever.  Moor, oppressed  by  crime, 
though  at  other  times  sufficiently  acute  to  resolve 
the  sensations  of  the  human  soul  into  nothing  by 
dissecting  the  definitions,  suddenly  starts  up  from 
some  frightful  dream,  pale,  breathless,  with  his 
brow  bathed  in  cold  sweat.  The  phantoms  of  future 
punishment  which  had  been  impressed  upon  him 
in  his  childhood,  and  which  he  had  covered  up  as 
with  the  silence  of  sleep  during  his  manhood,  have 
surprised  his  clouded  understanding  in  a  dream. 
The  sensations  are  so  confused,  that  the  slowly- 
progressing  reason  is  unable  to  overtake  and  ana¬ 
lyze  them.  It  is  still  struggling  with  phantasy, 
the  mind  with  the  terrors  of  memory: 

“Moor.  No,  I  do  not  tremble.  It  was  only  a  dream. 
The  dead  do  not  rise.  Who  says  that  I  tremble  and 
look  pale  ?  I  feel  so  light,  so  well. 

“Servant.  You  are  pale  as  death;  your  voice  is  the 
voice  of  fear,  you  stutter. 

“Moor.  I  have  a  fever;  I  must  be  bled  to-morrow; 
tell  the  priest,  when  he  comes,  that  I  have  a  fever. 

“  Servant.  Oh,  you  are  very  sick. 

“  Moor.  Yes,  yes,  that  is  all ;  sickness  deranges  the 
brain,  and  breeds  strange,  foolish  dreams — dreams  do 
not  mean  any  thing.  Fie,  fie,  away  with  this  womanly 


FIBST  PERIOD. 


259 


cowardice! — dreams  arise  from  the  belly,  and  signify 
nothing.  I  just  now  had  a  merry  dream. 

[“  He  falls  doten  in  a  swoon.”'* 

Tlere  the  phantoms  of  the  dream  suddenly  start¬ 
ing  up  before  his  recollection,  agitate  the  whole 
system  of  obscure  ideas,  shaking,  as  it  were,  the 
foundations  of  the  organ  of  thought.  The  sum 
of  these  sensations  gives  rise  to  an  extremely  com¬ 
pound  sensation  of  pain,  which  racks  the  soul  to 
its  foundation,  and  paralyses  the  W'hole  structure 
of  the  nervous  system  by  a  principle  of  sympathy. 

The  shiverings  that  seize  the  one  who  is  about 
to  commit,  or  has  just  committed,  a  vicious  deed, 
are  the  same  chill  that  shakes  the  fever-patient. 
The  nightly  startings  of  those  who  are  tormented 
by  remorse,  which  is  always  accompanied  by  a 
feverish  beating  of  the  pulse,  are  real  fevers,  occa¬ 
sioned  by  the  agreement  with  which  the  organs 
respond  to  the  soul ;  if  Lady  Macbeth  walks  in 
her  sleep,  it  is  because  she  is  a  prey  to  delirium. 
Even  the  imitated  emotion  makes  the  actor  sick 
for  the  time  being  ;  after  playing  Lear  or  Othello, 
Garrick  had  to  lie  down,  and  was  tormented  for  a 
fewr  hours  by  convulsive  twitchings.  The  illusion 
of  the  spectator,  sympathy  with  artificial  passions, 
has  caused  shudderings,  convulsions  and  fainting 
fits. 

Is  not  he  who  is  tormented  by  ill-humor,  and 
extracts  poison  and  bile  from  every  circumstance 
of  life  ;  is  not  the  vicious  who  is  a  prey  to  chronic 
wrath  and  hatred  ;  is  not  the  envious,  whom  every 
perfection  of  his  fellow-man  disturbs  ;  are  not  such 
people  the  greatest  enemies  of  their  health  ?  Can 
any  thing  be  wanting  to  render  vice  repulsive,  if 
it  not  only  destroys  happiness,  but  health? 

§  16. 

Exceptions. 

But  also  an  agreeable  emotion  has  destroyed 
life;  and  disagreeable  emotions  have  effected  won¬ 
derful  cures.  Both  these  propositions  have  been 
confirmed  by  experience.  Does  this  alter  the 
boundaries  of  the  law  which  we  have  set  up  ? 

Joy  destroys  life,  if  it  ceases  to  be  simple  joy, 
but  is  changed  to  ecstasy.  Nature  is  unable  to 
bear  this  instantaneous  concussion  of  the  whole 
nervous  system ;  the  movement  of  the  brain  is  not 
harmony  but  convulsion ;  a  supreme,  instantane¬ 
ous  paroxysm  of  action  which  at  once  leads  to  the 
ruin  of  the  organic  whole,  because  it  transgresses 
the  fundamental  boundary  of  health,  (for  the  idea 
of  health  implies  the  idea  of  a  normal  condition 
of  the  natural  movements)  ;  even  the  joy  of  finite 
beings  has  its  limits,  as  well  as  pain :  if  it  trans¬ 
gresses  these  limits,  it  perishes. 

As  regards  the  second  case,  we  have  many  in¬ 
stances  of  moderate  paroxysms  of  wrath,  which, 
if  permitted  to  vent  themselves  freely,  have  ter¬ 
minated  the  most  obstinate  constipation  ;  parox¬ 
ysms  of  fright,  at  a  fire,  for  instance,  which  have 
relieved  old  pains  in  the  limbs  and  incurable  para¬ 
lysis.  Dysentery  has  removed  infarctions  of  the 
portal  system;  the  itch  has  cured  melancholy  and 
rage.  Is  the  itch  on  this  account  any  the  less  a 
disease  ?  or  is  dysentery  health  ? 

•  Life  of  Moor. — Tragedy  by  Krake,  Act  V.  Sc.  1. 


?  17. 

Indolence  of  soul  retards  the  movements  of  or 

gans. 

Since,  according  to  Haller’s  testimony,  mental 
activity,  consequent  upon  the  business  of  the  day, 
has  power  to  accelerate  the  pulse  toward  evening, 
will  not  mental  indolence  weaken  the  pulse?  may 
not  a  complete  cessation  of  mental  action  lead  to 
a  cessation  of  the  pulse?  For,  although  the  move¬ 
ment  of  the  blood  does  not  seem  to  be  altogether 
dependent  upon  the  soul,  we  may,  however,  infer, 
not  without  reason,  that  the  heart  which  derives 
the  best  portion  of  its  energy  from  the  brain,  must 
necessarily  undergo  a  great  loss  of  power,  if  the 
soul  no  longer  keeps  up  the  movement  of  the 
brain.  A  phlegmatic  temperament  is  charac¬ 
terized  by  a  sluggish  pulse ;  the  blood  is  watery 
and  viscid  ;  the  abdominal  circulation  is  embar¬ 
rassed.  The  imbeciles  of  whom  Muzell  has  left 
us  a  description  in  his  “  Medical  and  Chirurgical 
Notices ,”  breathed  slowly  and  heavily,  had  no 
desire  to  eat  or  drink,  or  to  perform  the  natural 
excretory  functions;  the  pulse  was  slow,  all  the 
bodily  functions  were  performed  with  a  sleepy  lan¬ 
guor.  The  concussion  of  the  soul  by  fright,  sur¬ 
prise,  &c.,  is  sometimes  attended  by  a  general 
discontinuance  of  all  physical  action.  Is  the  soul 
the  cause  of  this  condition,  or  is  it  the  body  which 
leads  to  this  stupor  of  the  soul?  But  this  subject 
leads  to  subtilties  :  it  need  not  be  discussed  in 
this  place. 

I  18. 

Second  Law. 

What  has  been  said  concerning  the  transmis¬ 
sion  of  spiritual  sensations  to  animal,  likewise  ap¬ 
plies  to  the  opposite  case,  the  transmission  of 
animal  to  spiritual  sensations.  Bodily  diseases, 
generally  the  natural  consequences  of  excess, 
punish  themselves  by  physical  pain ;  but  in  such 
a  case,  the  soul  had  likewise  to  be  attacked  in  its 
foundations,  in  order  to  be  reminded  by  the  double 
pain  so  much  more  urgently  of  the  necessity  of 
restraining  its  desires.  For  similar  reasons  the 
physical  delight  of  bodily  health  had  to  be  inten¬ 
sified  by  the  more  refined  sensations  of  a  spiritual 
improvement,  in  order  that  man  might  be  stimu¬ 
lated  so  much  more  energetically  to  preserve  the 
normal  condition  of  his  body.  From  these  facts, 
we  deduce  a  second  law  of  the  two  natures  :  That 
the  free  activity  of  the  organs  is  united  with  a 
spontaneous  development  of  sensations  and  ideas  ; 
and ,  that  a  disorganization  of  the  organs  leads  to 
a  disorganization  of  the  intellectual  and  emotive 
faculties.  Or,  more  briefly:  That  the  universal 
sensation  of  physical  harmony  is  the  source  of 
spiritual  delight  ;  and,  that  animal  discomfort  is 
the  source  of  spiritual  discomfort. 

In  all  these  respects,  body  and  soul  may  be  com¬ 
pared  to  two  equally  tuned  string-instruments, 
placed  side  by  side.  If  a  string  on  one  instrument 
is  touched,  and  a  certain  sound  is  elicited,  a  cor¬ 
responding  string  of  the  other  instrument  vibrates 
spontaneously,  and  the  same  sound  is  elicited, 
though  more  feebly.  Thus,  to  speak  figuratively,  a 
joyous  chord  of  the  body  awakens  a  corresponding 
chord  of  the  soul,  and  a  gloomy  sound  of  the  former 


260 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


elicits  a  similar  sound  from  the  latter.  This  is  the 
wonderful  sympathy  which  combines  the  hetero¬ 
geneous  principles  of  man  into  one  being;  man  is 
not  soul  and  body,  he  is  these  two  substances  in- 
mostly  united. 

\  19. 

The  state  of  the  spirit  is  dependent  upon  the 
state  of  the  body . 

Hence  the  heaviness ,  the  absent-mindedness , 
the  peevish  mood ,  consequent  upon  overloading 
the  stomach,  upon  sensual  excesses  of  any  kind  ; 
hence  the  marvelous  effects  of  wine  in.  the  case  of 
those  who  drink  it  in  moderation.  “  After  drink¬ 
ing  wine,”  says  brother  Martin,  “you  are  every 
thing  double  ;  your  thoughts  flow  twice  as  lightly, 
you  undertake  and  carry  out  a  thing  twice  as 
readily.”  Hence  the  good  humor,  the  feeling  of 
comfort  in  bright  and  fair  weather,  which  un¬ 
doubtedly  depends  to  some  extent  upon  the  asso¬ 
ciation  of  ideas,  but  more  particularly  upon  the 
easier  performance  of  the  natural  functions. 
Such  people  are  in  the  habit  of  saying :  I  feel 
well ;  at  such  a  time  they  are  better  disposed  to 
every  kind  of  mental  labor,  their  hearts  are  more 
open  to  the  ordinary  feelings  of  humanity,  and 
they  take  a  higher  interest  in  the  performance  of 
their  moral  duties.  These  statements  likewise 
apply  to  the  character  of  nations.  The  inhabi¬ 
tants  of  gloomy  countries  mourn  with  surround¬ 
ing  nature  ;  in  wild  and  stormy  climes  man  grows 
hard  and  unfeeling;  under  a  smiling  sky  he  feels 
friendly,  and  in  a  pure  atmosphere  his  sympathies 
become  keener.  Only  under  a  Grecian  sky,  a 
H  omer,  a  Plato,  and  a  Phidias  could  be  born  ;  it 
is  there  only  that  Muses  and  Graces  could  exist, 
whereas  foggy  Lapland  hardly  brings  forth  men, 
much  less  men  of  genius.  When  our  Germany 
was  still  covered  with  forests  and  marshes,  the 
German  was  a  hunter,  raw  like  the  game  whose 
hide  he  wrapped  round  his  shoulders.  As  soon 
as  industry  had  changed  the  face  of  the  country, 
the  epoch  of  his  moral  life  commenced.  I  do  not 
mean  to  assert  that  climate  is  the  sole  source  of 
character;  but  it  is  certain  that  if  we  wish  to 
civilize  a  people,  we  have  to  pay  particular  atten¬ 
tion  to  refining  the  climate. 

Bodily  derangements  may  derange  the  whole 
system  of  moral  emotions,  and  may  pave  the  way 
for  the  worst  passions.  A  person  whom  lust  has 
ruined,  is  more  readily  impelled  to  extreme  re¬ 
solves  than  one  who  keeps  his  body  healthy.  This 
is  an  abominable  trick  of  those  who  ruin  the 
young,  and  yonder  pirate  must  have  possessed  a 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  whose 
motto  was  :  “  Body  and  soul  must  be  corrupted.” 
Catilina  was  a  debauchee,  before  he  became  a 
murderer;  and  Doria  was  greatly  mistaken,  when 
he  imagined  that  he  need  not  dread  the  debauched 
Fiesco.  In  general,  we  often  find  that  wicked¬ 
ness  inhabits  diseased  bodies. 

In  sickness  this  sympathy  is  still  more  striking. 
All  diseases  of  any  importance,  especially  those 
which  emanate  from  derangements  of  the  abdomi¬ 
nal  organs,  are  accompanied  by  a  more  or  less 
remarkable  revolution  in  the  patient’s  character. 
At  a  time  when  the  disease  is  still  crawling  along 
in  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  system,  slowly  un¬ 


dermining  the  nervous  power,  the  soul  experiences 
obscure  forebodings  of  the  fall  of  its  companion. 
These  forebodings  constitute  a  feature  of  the  con¬ 
dition  which  a  great  physician  has  described  to 
us  under  the  name  of  “  horrores .”  Hence  the  mo¬ 
rose  character  of  such  people,  for Which  nobody 
can  assign  a  reason,  the  change  in  their  disposi¬ 
tion,  the  loathing  of  every  thing  that  they  liked 
best  heretofore.  A  person  of  meek  disposition 
becomes  quarrelsome ;  one  who  is  fond  of  laugh¬ 
ing  becomes  peevish  ;  a  person  who  had  found 
delight  in  a  crowd  now  flees  frOm  the  sight  of 
man,  and  seeks  refuge  in  melancholy  silence. 
Under,  this  insidious  quiet,  the  disease  is  prepar¬ 
ing  for  a  fatal  outbreak.  The  general  tumult  of 
the  organs  consequent  upon  the  breaking  out  of 
the  disease  in  all  its  fury,  furnishes  the  most  pal¬ 
pable  evidence  to  what  an  extent  the  soul  is  de¬ 
pendent  upon  the  body.  The  sensation  charac¬ 
terizing  the  general  subversion  of  the  organs,  and 
resulting  from  the  commingling  of  a  thousand 
feelings  of  pain,  causes  a  frightful  disorder  in  the 
system  of  spiritual  sensations.  The  most  fright¬ 
ful  ideas  torment  the  patient.  The  wicked  man 
who  could  not  be  moved  by  any  thing,  succumbs 
to  the  power  of  animal  terrors.  A  dying  Win¬ 
chester  utters  the  piercing  howls  of  despair.  The 
soul  seems  purposely  to  catch  at  every  thing  that 
may  plunge  it  into  a  more  gloomy  despair  ;  it 
seems  to  start  back  from  every  attempt  at  conso¬ 
lation,  with  the  repugnance  of  rage.  The  diapa¬ 
son  of  pain  is  universal,  and  as  the  soul’s  deep 
suffering  has  arisen  from  derangements  of  the  or¬ 
gans,  so  it  helps  in  its  turn  to  render  these  de¬ 
rangements  more  violent  and  more  general. 

$  20. 

Limitation  of  the  former. remarks. 

Every  day  furnishes  instances  of  patients  whose 
courage  seems  to  exalt  them  above  their  bodily 
sufferings;  instances  of  dying  mortals  who,  in 
the  midst  of  the  agony  of  the  struggling  organism, 
ask  the  question  :  “  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?” 
Is  not  wisdom,  we  might  be  tempted  to  ask,  suffi¬ 
cient  to  arm  us  against  the  blind  terrors  of  the 
organism  ?  And,  what  is  still  more  than  wisdom, 
is  not  religion  sufficient  to  protect  her  friends 
against  the  assaults  of  the  dust  ?  Does  it  not  de- 
pend  upon  the  previous  condition  of  the  soul,  how 
it  is  to  be  affected  by  the  changes  in  the  move¬ 
ments  of  the  physical  life  ? 

This  is  an  undeniable  truth.  Philosophy,  and 
still  more,  a  heart  exalted  by  religion,  are  capa¬ 
ble  of  weakening  the  animal  sensations,  which  as¬ 
sail  the  moral  sense  of  the  patient,  and  of  tearing 
the  soul,  as  it  were,  loose  from  its  association  with 
matter.  The  thought  of  the  Deity  who  pervades 
the  hours  of  death  as  well  as  the  universe,  the 
harmony  of  the  past  life,  and  the  presentiments 
of  an  ever-blissful  future,  spread  a  halo  of  light 
over  the  ideas,  whereas  the  soul  of  the  fool  and  in¬ 
fidel  is  vailed  by  the  night  of  the  darkening  sen¬ 
sations  of  the  dying  body.  Even  if  pains  are  in¬ 
voluntarily  experienced  by  the  Christian  and  the 
sage,  (for  is  he  any  the  less  a  man  ?)  he  will  be 
delighted  at  the  approaching  decay  of  the  organs, 

“  The  soul  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 

At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point: 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


261 


The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  hitnself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years, 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements, 

The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds.” 

This  uncommon  cheerfulness  of  patients  afflict¬ 
ed  with  a  fatal  disease,  frequently  depends  upon  a 
physical  cause,  and  is  extremely  important  to  the 
practical  physician.  It  is  often  associated  with 
the  most  prominent  symptoms  of  the  hippocratic 
condition,  although  no  preceding  crisis  may  ac¬ 
count  for  it ;  it  is  a  most  ominous  symptom.  The 
nerves  which,  during  the  acme  of  the  fever,  had 
been  assailed  with  the  most  intense  virulence, 
have  lost  their  sensibility ;  it  is  well  known  that 
the  inflamed  parts  cease  to  be  painful  as  soon  as 
gangrene  has  set  in  ;  but  what  physician  would 
rejoice,  under  such  circumstances,  at  the  stage  of 
inflammation  being  passed?  The  nervous  sensi¬ 
bility  has  become  extinguished,  and  a  fatal  indo¬ 
lence  presents  the  deceitful  appearance  of  ap¬ 
proaching  recovery.  The  soul  is  plunged  into  the 
illusion  of  a  pleasant  sensation,  because-  it  has 
become  relieved  of  a  long-lasting  pain.  It  is  free 
from  pain,  not  because  the  vigor  of  its  organs  is 
restored,  but  because  it  no  longer  feels  their  dis¬ 
harmony7-.  Sympathy  ceases  as  soon  as  the  union 
of  soul  and  body  is  dissolved. 

1  21. 

Further  developments  concerning  this  union. 

If  I  were  to  penetrate  into  this  subject  still  fur¬ 
ther  ;  if  I  were  to  speak  of  mania,  sopor,  and  stu¬ 
por,  epilepsj7,  or  catalepsy,  &c.,  where  the  free 
spirit  is  subject  to  the  despotism  of  the  abdomen  ; 
if  I  were  to  enter  upon  the  vast  field  of  hysteria 
and  hypochondria;  if  I  were  to  talk  of  tempera¬ 
ments,  idiosyncracies,  and  consensual  conditions, 
where  physicians  and  philosophers  may  lose  them¬ 
selves  as  if  in  an  abyss  ;  in  one  word,  if  I  were  to 
undertake  to  prove  the  truth  of  these  proposi¬ 
tions  by  clinical  experience,  which  is  of  chief  im¬ 
portance  to  the  psychologist,  my  subject  would 
become  endless.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  union 
of  the  spiritual  and  animal  natures  has  been  suffi¬ 
ciently  demonstrated,  and  that  this  union  is  the 
perfect  realization  of  the  human  idea. 

BODILY  PHENOMENA  BETRAY  THE  MOVE¬ 
MENTS  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 

2  22. 

Physiognomy  of  sensations. 

It  is  upon  this  intimate  union  of  the  two  na¬ 
tures  that  the  whole  doctrine  of  physiognomy  is 
founded.  By  this  nervous  connection  which,  as 
we  have  shown,  constitutes  the  channel  through 
which  sensations  are  communicated,  the  most 
secret  emotions  of  the  soul  are  exposed  to  the 
light  of  day,  and  passion  shines  even  through 
the  vail  of  hypocrisy.  Every  emotion  has  its  spe¬ 
cific  manifestations,  and  its  peculiar  dialect  as  it 
were,  by  which  it  is  known.  By  an  admirable 
law  of  wisdom  everv  noble  and  beneficent  emo- 
tion  beautifies  the  body,  wThereas  low  and  odious 
passions  degrade  it  by  brutish  appearances.  The 
more  the  spirit  recedes  from  the  divine  image, 
the  more  the  external  form  seems  to  assume  the 
manner  of  a  brute,  more  especially  of  the  brute 


which  rejoices  in  similar  propensities.  Thus  the 
meek  expression  of  the  philanthropist  attracts 
the  indigent,  whereas  the  defiant  look  of  wrath 
repels  every  one.  This  is  an  indispensable  guide 
in  social  life.  It  is  remarkable  what  an  analogy 
exists  between  the  bodily  phenomena  and  the 
emotions  ;  heroism  and  daring  pour  life  and  vigor 
through  the  blood-vessels  and  muscles;  the  eyes 
sparkle,  the  breast  expands,  every  limb  prepares, 
as  it  were,  for  battle,  man  looks  like  a  fiery  steed. 
Terror  and  fear  extinguish  the  fire  of  the  eyes, 
the  limbs  feel  heavy  and  powerless,  the  marrow 
of  the  bones  seems  congealed,  the  heart  feels  op¬ 
pressed,  a  general  sense  of  fainting  paralyses  the 
organs.  A  great,  bold,  and  exalted  thought  com¬ 
pels  us  to  stand  on  tiptoe,  to  raise  our  heads,  to 
dilate  our  nostrils,  and  to  open  widely  our  mouths. 
The  feeling  of  infinitude,  the  unobstructed  view 
of  a  far-reaching  horizon,  the  sea,  and  similar 
scenes,  compel  us  to  extend  our  arms  as  if  we 
w’ould  give  ourselves  up  to  the  infinite.  At  the 
sight  of  mountains  w7e  want  to  reach  upward  to 
the  skies  ;  w7e  feel  like  rushing  onward  with  hurri¬ 
canes  and  waves ;  a  precipice  hurls  us  into  the 
yawning  abyss ;  hatred  manifests  itself  in  the 
bodily  life  by  a  repelling  power,  whereas  friendship 
desires  to  realize  a  oneness  with  the  friend’s  body 
by  every  shake  of  the  hand,  every  embrace,  even 
as  the  souls  form  a  one;  pride  raises  the  body ; 
pusillanimity  lowers  the  head,  the  limbs  become 
relaxed  ;  a  servile  fear  is  shown  by  the  crawling 
gait ;  the  idea  of  pain  distorts  our  features, 
whereas  the  thought  of  delight  embellishes  our 
whole  form  ;  anger  has  torn  the  most  powerful 
bonds,  and  necessity  has  almost  conquered  im¬ 
possibilities.  By  what  system  of  mechanics,  I 
would  inquire,  does  it  happen  that  precisely  such 
movements  succeed  such  sensations,  and  that  it 
is  these  organs  which  such  emotions  call  into 
play?  Is  there  any  difference  between  these  in¬ 
quiries  and  the  question  :  How7  does  tetanus  re¬ 
sult  from  such  an  injury? 

If  the  emotion  which,  by  sympathy,  gave  rise  to 
these  movements  of  the  organs,  is  so  frequently 
renewed  that  it  becomes  a  habit  of  the  soul,  the 
movements  of  the  organs  will  likewise  become 
habitual  manifestations  of  the  bodily  life.  If  the. 
emotion  has  become  a  -permanent  feature  of  the 
character,  the  consensual  manifestations  of  the 
organs  become  likewise  more  distinct,  or,  to  use 
a  pathological  technicality,  they  remain  behind  as 
deuteropathic  impressions,  and  finally  become 
organic  conditions.  Thus  it  is  that  man’s  phy¬ 
siognomy  becomes  fixed,  and  that  it  becomes  al¬ 
most  easier  to  change  the  soul  than  to  alter  the 
features.  In  this  sense  we  may  say,  without 
sw'earing  by  Stahl,  that  the  soul  forms  the  body  ; 
the  first  years  of  man’s  life  determine  perhaps  the 
form  of  his  features  during  the  whole  course  of 
his  existence,  and  generally  constitute  the  basis 
of  his  moral  character.  An  inactive  and  feeble 
soul,  which  is  never  inflamed  by  the  fire  of  pas¬ 
sion,  is  without  any  physiognomy,  unless  wre  re¬ 
gard  this  absence  as  the  physiognomonic  mark  of 
imbeciles.  The  features  which  they  originally 
derived  from  Nature,  and  which  nutrition  had 
consolidated,  remains  unaltered.  The  face  is 
!  smooth,  it  has  never  reflected  a  soul.  The  arr  b 


262 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


of  tlie  eyebrows  remains  perfect,  for  no  passion 
has  disturbed  it.  The  whole  form  retains  its  ro¬ 
tundity,  for  the  adipose  deposit  remains  undis¬ 
turbed  ;  the  face  has  a  regular  shape,  it  may  even 
be  beautiful,  but  the  soul  is  wanting. 

A.  physiognomy  of  organs,  such  as  of  the  shape 
and  size  of  the  nose,  of  the  eyes,  mouth,  ears,  &c. ; 
of  the  color  of  the  skin,  of  the  height  of  the  neck, 
&c\,  may  not  be  impossible,  but  is  highly  impro¬ 
bable.  even  if  Lavater  should  rove  through  an 
additional  ten  quarto  volumes.  He  who  should 
undertake  to  class  the  capricious  formations  of 
Nature,  be  they  the  inflictions  of  a  stepmother, 
or  the  gifts  of  a  loving  mother,,  would  surpass 
Linne’s  boldness,  and  would  have  to  be  careful 
lest  he.  too,  should  have  to  take  his  place  as  one 
of  the  originals  that  exhibit  an  almost  endless  and 
laughable  variety. 

(Another  species  of  sympathy  may  be  mentioned 
which  is  of  importance  in  physiology  ;  I  mean  the 
sympathy  of  certain  sensations  with  the  organs  to 
which  they  belong.  A  cramp  of  the  stomach 
causes  a  sensation  of  nausea  ;  the  nausea  in  its 
turn  may  re-excite  the  cramp.  How  does  this 
happen  ?) 

EVEN  THE  DECREASE  OF  TTTE  ANIMAL  LIFE  IS 
A  SOURCE  OF  PERFECTION. 

I  23. 

.  It  seems  to  hinder  this  perfection. 

Tt  may  be  said  that  even  if  the  animal  organism 
affords  man  all  the  advantages  which  we  have 
enumerated,  it  nevertheless  remains  obje«tionable 
in  other  respects.  The  soul  being  fettered  to  the 
action  of  its  organs,  their  periodical  relaxation 
imposes  upon  the  soul  a  state  of  inaction,  annihi¬ 
lates  it.  as  it  were,  from  time  to  time.  I  allude  to 
sleep,  which  deprives  us  of  at  least  one-third  of 
our  existence.  Our  thinking  faculty  is  so  com¬ 
pletely  dependent  upon  the  laws  of  the  organs, 
that  our  thoughts  are  suddenly  arrested  by  a  re¬ 
mission  of  the  organic  life  at  the  very  moment 
w hen  we  are  on  the  point  of  reaching  the  goal  of 
truth.  Scarcely  has  the  understanding  dwelled 
upon  one  idea,  when  the  indolent  matter  refuses 
its  service;  the  fibres  of  the  thinking  organ 
become  relaxed,  after  they  have  been  strained  ever 
so  little  ;  the  body  leaves  us  in  the  lurch  when  we 
are  most  in  need  of  it.  What  astonishing  pro¬ 
gress,  we  may  object,  would  man  make  in  self¬ 
culture,  if  he  could  remain  in  a  condition  of  un¬ 
interrupted  intensity  !  How  he  would  analyse 
every  idea  into  its  ultimate  elements,  how  he  would 
pursue  every  phenomenon  to  its  remotest  begin- 
i  .ngs,  if  he  could  keep  his  soul  unceasingly  fixed 
i  pon  these  objects !  But  it  is  otherwise.  Why 
is  it  otherwise  ? 

\  24. 

Necessity  of  a  remission. 

The  following  propositions  may  lead  us  to  the 
truth  : 

1.  The  sensation  of  pleasure  was  necessary  in 
order  to  lead  man  to  perfection  ;  he  is  perfect  in 
order  that  he  may  have  pleasant  sensations. 

2.  The  nature  of  a  finite  being  renders  unplea¬ 
sant  sensations  unavoidable.  Evil  cannot  be 
exiled  even  from  the  best  of  worlds  ;  philosophers 


regard  this  very  circumstance  as  a  sign  of  per¬ 
fection. 

3.  The  nature  of  a  mixed  being  leads  to  un¬ 
pleasant  sensations,  upon  which  it  is  measurably 
founded. 

Hence  pain  and  pleasure  are  necessary. 

This  seems  a  harder  lot,  but  is  not  in  reality. 

4.  It  is  the  nature  of  every  pain  and  of  every 
pleasure  to  grow  infinitely. 

5.  Every  pain  and  every  pleasure  of  a  mixed 
being  tends  to  its  dissolution. 

I  25. 

Explanation. 

We  mean  by  this,  it  is  a  well-known  law  of  the 
association  of  ideas  that  any  sensation  of  what¬ 
ever  kind,  calls  up  another  similar  sensation,  in¬ 
creasing  it  by  this  addition.  The  more  the  sensa¬ 
tion  expands  and  multiplies,  the  more  the  number 
of  analogous  sensations  which  it  rouses  up  in  every 
direction  of  the  thinking  faculty  increases,  until 
this  one  sensation  gradually  becomes  universal, 
filling  up  the  measure  of  the  soul.  Thus  every 
sensation  grows  by  its  own  power  of  association ; 
every  present  state  of  the  sentient  faculty  gives 
rise  to  a  similar  and  more  intense  state.  This 
seems  to  be  self-evident.  We  know  that  every 
spiritual  sensation  is  associated  with  a  similar 
animal  sensation,  or  in  other  words,  is  associated 
with  nervous  movements,  the  number  of  which 
depends  upon  the  strength  and  extension  of  the 
spiritual  sensation.  Hence,  in  proportion  as  the 
spiritual  sensations  increase,  the  movements  of 
the  nervous  system  must  likewise  increase.  Thi3 
is  likewise  evident.  Pathology  teaches  us  that  no 
nerve  suffers  singly,  and  the  proposition  :  here  is 
an  excess  of  power,  would  be  equivalent  to, 
yonder  is  a  deficiency  of  power.  Hence  every 
nervous  movement  expands  by  its  own  power. 
Moreover  we  have  stated  above  that  the  move¬ 
ments  of  the  nervous  system  react  upon  the  soul 
and  increase  the  spiritual  sensations;  the  increased 
sensations  of  the  spirit  in  their  turn  increase  and 
fortify  the  nervous  movements.  Here  we  have  a 
circle  in  consequence  of  which  the  sensations 
must  be  continually  growing,  and  the  nervous 
movements  must  be  continually  becoming  more 
universal  and  more  intense.  We  know  that  the 
organic  movements  which  cause  pain,  are  contrary 
to  the  harmonious  evolution  of  organs  ;  they 
constitute  diseases.  But  disease  cannot  develop 
itself  infinitely,  and  must  end  in  the  complete  de¬ 
struction  of  the  organic  mechanism.  As  regards 
pain,  it  is  evident  that  it  aims  at  the  death  of  the 
individual. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  movements  of  the  ner¬ 
vous  system,  when  determined  by  sensations  of 
pleasure,  being  harmonious  and  favorable  to  the 
preservation  of  the  organism — a  condition  of  su¬ 
preme  soul-rest  implying  a  condition  of  supreme 
bodily  well-being — does  it  not  follow  that  agreea 
ble  sensations  should  prolong  the  existence  of  the 
organic  tissues  indefinitely?  This  conclusion  is 
too  hasty.  Within  certain  limits,  these  nervous 
movements  are  useful  to,  and  imply  a  state  of 
health.  If  they  exceed  this  limit,  they  may  con* 
stitute  a  high  degree  of  activity,  a  high  stats 
of  momentary  perfection,  but  they  are  no  longer 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


268 


health,  but  an  excess  thereof.  We  call  health 
the  normal  condition  of  natural  functions  which 
develop  similar  functions  in  the  future;  in  other 
words,  which  fortify  the  perfection  of  the  subse¬ 
quent  functions ;  hence  the  determination  of  sub¬ 
sequent  developments  forms  an  integral  portion 
of  the  idea  of  health.  The  body  of  the  enervated 
debauchee  reaches  its  highest  degree  of  harmony 
at  the  acme  of  the  debauch  ;  but  this  harmony 
only  lasts  a  moment;  the  subsequent  depression 
abundantly  demonstrates  that  excessive  tension 
is  not  health.  It  may  therefore  be  asserted  that 
the  excessive  vigor  of  physical  functions  accele¬ 
rates  the  hour  of  death  as  much  as  the  greatest 
disharmony  or  the  most  violent  sickness.  Thus 
it  is  that  both  pain  and  joy  would  drag  us  onward 
toward  an  inevitable  end,  unless  their  growth  were 
limited  by  an  inherent  law. 

I  26. 

Excellency  of  this  remission. 

This  limitation  is  effected  by  the  remission  of 
the  animal  functions.  This  limitation  of  our  frail 
organism  which  has  furnished  its  adversaries  such 
a  powerful  objection  against  its  perfection,  had  to 
remedy  the  injurious  consequences  which  other¬ 
wise  would  have  sprung  from  its  mechanism. 
This  depression  and  relaxation  of  the  organs 
which  constitute  subjects  of  complaint  in  the 
minds  of  thinkers,  prevent  us  from  usiug  up  our 
energies  in  a  short  space  of  time,  and  from  allow¬ 
ing  the  passions  to  develop  themselves  increas¬ 
ingly  until  our  ruin  is  accomplished.  This  limi¬ 
tation  assigns  to  every  emotion  periods  of  growth, 
of  acme,  and  decline,  unless  it  should  become 
completely  extinguished  by  a  total  relaxation  of 
the  body,  which  leaves  the  exhausted  spirit  time  to 
resume  its  harmonious  tone,  and  enables  the  or¬ 
gans  to  recuperate  their  energies.  Hence  it  is 
that  the  highest  degrees  of  delight,  terror  and 
wrath,  result  in  the  same  condition — exhaustion, 
debility,  or  syncope. 

“Now  he  either  had  to  sink  down  in  a  swoon.” 
&c.  But  a  more  powerful  restorer  is  sleep,  who,  as 
Shakespeare  informs  us,  “  dissolves  the  entangled 
knot  of  care,  is  a  bath  for  bruising  labor,  the  birth 
of  every  day’s  life,  and  the  second  course  of  great 
Nature.”  During  sleep  the  vital  spirits  resume 
that  healthful  equilibrium  which  is  so  necessary 
to  the  continuance  of  our  existence  ;  all  spas¬ 
modic  ideas  and  sensations,  the  excessive  tension 
of  our  powers,  which  had  tormented  us  in  the 
daytime,  cease  during  this  relaxation  of  the  sen- 
ftorium,  the  harmony  of  soul-action  is  restored, 
and,  with  a  calm  spirit,  the  newly-awakening  man 
greets  the  coming  morning. 

With  respect  to  the  constitution  of  society,  we 
cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  value  and  importance 
of  this  remission.  It  is  owing  to  this  arrange¬ 
ment  that  many  who  were  likewise  destined  for 
happiness,  are  sacrificed  to  public  order,  and  are 
burdened  with  the  lot  of  oppression.  Many, 
again,  whom  we  envy  perhaps  unjustly,  have 
to  unceasingly  torture  their  bodily  and  spirit¬ 
ual  powers,  in  order  that  the  whole  fabric  might 
be  preserved.  This  applies  to  the  sick,  to  the 
brute  creation.  Sleep  seals,  as  it  were,  the  eye 
of  grief,  relieves  the  prince  and  statesman  of  the 


heavy  load  of  government,  pours  life  into  the 
veins  of  the  sick,  and  rest  into  his  anguished  soul ; 
the  laborer  no  longer  hears  the  voice  of  his  op¬ 
pressor,  and  the  abused  cattle  escape  from  human 
tyranny.  Sleep  buries  the  cares  and  burdens  of 
the  creatures,  restores  the  equilibrium  of  things, 
inspires  man  with  new  vigor,  and  enables  him  to 
bear  the  joy  and  grief  of  the  coming  day. 

§  27. 

Separation  of  the  Connection. 

When  the  period  has  arrived,  where  the  spirit 
has  fulfilled  the  end  of  its  existence  within  the 
limits  which  we  have  traced,  an  inherent  and  in¬ 
comprehensible  mechanism  incapacitates  the  body 
from  remaining  any  longer  subservient  to  the  be¬ 
hests  of  the  spirit.  All  arrangements  for  the 
preservation  of  the  bodily  vigor  seem  to  be  lim¬ 
ited  to  this  period  ;  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  found¬ 
ing  our  physical  organism,  Eternal  Wisdom  has 
followed  certain  laws  by  means  of  which,  in  spite 
of  the  continual  compensations,  the  waste  ex¬ 
ceeds  the  supply,  freedom  abuses  the  mechanism 
of  the  organs,  and  death  unfolds  itself  from  life 
asfrom  a  germ.  Matter  relapses  into  its  ultimate 
molecules  which,  in  other  forms  and  relations, 
penetrate  the  kingdoms  of  Nature,  in  order  to 
become  subservient  to  other  ends.  The  soul  con¬ 
tinues  to  exercise  its  powers  in  other  spheres,  and 
to  contemplate  the  universe  from  another  point 
of  view.  It  may  indeed  be  said  that  this  sphere 
had  not  yet  been  exhausted  by  the  soul,  and  that 
the  soul  ought  to  have  reached  a  higher  degree 
of  perfection  before  leaving  it  ?  But  do  we  know 
whether  this  sphere  is  lost  to  the  soul  ?  We  now 
lay  down  many  a  book  that  we  do  not  under¬ 
stand  ;  perhaps  we  may  understand  it  better  a 
few  years  hence. 


ON  THE  PRESENT  GERMAN  STAGE. 

(From  the  Wurtemburg  Repertory  of  Literature,  17S2.) 

Thk  spirit  of  the  present  decade  in  Germany 
is  distinguished  from  the  period  immediately  pre¬ 
ceding  it  by  the  higher  development  which  it  has 
imparted  to  the  drama  in  almost  every  province 
of  our  fatherland ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that  at 
no  previous  period  of  our  history  have  we  had 
more  opportunities  of  applauding  soul-greatness, 
or  of  ridiculing  weaknesses  of  character.  It  is  a 
pity  that  this  should  only  be  seen  on  the  stage. 
The  Egyptians  had  a  physician  for  every  organ, 
and  thus  the  patient  perished  under  a  load  of 
physicians.  We  keep  for  every  passion  a  special 
executioner,  and  every  day  we  have  to  deplore  a 
new  victim  of  passion.  Every  virtue  has  its  eu¬ 
logist  among  us;  while  admiring,  we  seem  to  for¬ 
get  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  case  in  this  res¬ 
pect  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  subterranean  trea¬ 
sures  in  the  ghost-stories.  Do  not  overwhelm  the 
ghost  with  your  cries!  is  the  everlasting  warning 
of  the  conjuror.  Silently  the  gold  is  raised; 
utter  a  single  sound,  and  the  box  descends  into 
the  ground  to  the  depth  of  tens  of  thousands  of 
fathoms. 

It  would  indeed  seem  as  though  an  open  mir¬ 
ror  of  human  life,  where  the  most  secret  recesses 


264 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


of  the  heart  are  illumined  and  reflected  with  all 
their  genuineness  like  fresco  paintings  upon  the 
wall ;  where  the  evolutions  of  virtue  and  vice,  the 
most  complicated  intrigues  of  fortune,  the  won¬ 
derful  management  of  a  supreme  Providence, 
whose  endless  chain  frequently  disappears  from 
view  in  actual  life  ;  where  all  these  things,  con¬ 
centrated  upon  a  narrower  field  and  presented  in 
a  smaller  compass,  can  be  surveyed  by  the  fee¬ 
blest  eye ;  like  a  temple  where  the  true  Apollo 
speaks  to  the  heart  with  a  living  voice  as  he  was 
wont  to  do  at  Dodona  and  Delphos  ;  it  would 
seem  as  though  such  an  institution  should  im¬ 
press  the  idea  of  happiness  or  misery  upon  the  soul, 
with  so  much  more  force  as  the  actual  perception 
is  more  living  than  tradition  and  phrases.  Should 
not  this  be  so,  I  ask  ?  What  should  not  the  sell¬ 
er’s  wares  accomplish,  if  his  words  were  be¬ 
lieved  !  What  should  not  these  drops  and  pow¬ 
ders  effect,  if  the  patient’s  stomach  did  not  turn 
against  them  ?  So  many  Don  Quixote’s  see  their 
own  crazy  heads  pop  out  of  the  show-box  of  a 
comedy,  so  many  Tartufie’s  their  masks,  so  many 
FalstafF’s  their  horns  ;  and  yet  they  are  not 
aware  that  they  are  duped,  and  they  applaud  the 
poet  who  is  making  fools  of  them.  Tableaux  full 
of  emotion  which  melt  a  crowd  into  tears  ;  groups 
of  horror,  the  sight  of  which  tears  the  tender  web 
of  hysteric  nerves ;  situations  replete  witli  uncer¬ 
tain  expectation,  which  holds  the  half-suppressed 
respiration  in  check,  and  causes  the  rhythm  of 
the  oppressed  heart  to  be  disturbed  by  irregular 
pulsations  :  are  not  these  effects  produced  by  the 
kaleidoscopic  appearances  on  the  surface,  like 
the  delightful  trembling  of  the  sunbeam  upon 
the  water?  The  whole  sky  seems  to  be  absorbed 
in  the  flood  ;  you  jump  in,  and  find  it  to  be  cold 
water.  When  the  infernal  Macbeth,  his  brow 
bathed  in  cold  sweat,  staggers  out  of  the  bed¬ 
chamber  where  he  has  committed  the  murder, 
with  trembling  feet,  and  with  his  eye  still  riveted 
on  the  spot  of  the  crime,  whaf  spectator  does  not 
feel  an  icy  shudder  crawl  through  his  marrow? 
And  yet  what  Macbeth  among  the  people  will  let 
his  dagger  fall  from  under  his  garment  previous  | 
to  committing  the  deed,  or  his  mask  after  the  ! 
deed  had  been  committed?  Why,  it  is  not  King 
Duncan  whom  he  is  about  to  destroy.  Are  less 
girls  seduced  because  Sara  Samson  pays  for  her 
fault  with  poison  ?  Does  a  single  husband  show  j 
less  passion,  because  the  Moor  of  Venice  murdered 
his  suspected  spouse  ?  Is  Nature  less  tyrannized 
over  by  conventionalism  because  yonder  unnatu¬ 
ral  mother  repenting  of  her  deed,  causes  her  ma¬ 
niacal  laughter  to  resound  in  your  ears  ?  I  might 
multiply  these  examples.  If  Odoardo  throws  his  ! 
dagger,  which  is  still  smoking  with  the  blood  of  ! 
his  slaughtered  child,  at  the  feet  of  the  miserable 
'princely  smner,  to  whom  he  thus  conducts  his 
mistress,  what  prince  restores  to  the  father  his 
degraded  daughter?  Be  content  if  your  play  | 
shakes  his  guilty  heart  with  redoubled  force  be-  : 
neath  the  ribbon  of  his  crosses.  V ery  soon  a  tumul- 1 
tuous  allegro  drowns  the  trivial  emotion.  Be  j 
content  if  your  Emilia  who  moans  so  seductively, 
who  sinks  upon  the  boards  with  so  much  beauti¬ 
ful  carelessness,  who  spends  her  last  breath  with 
ao  much  delicate  gracefulness,  does  not  inflame  the  | 


fire  of  lust  by  her  dying  charms,  and  your  tragic 
art  is  not  humiliated  by  an  improvised  profana¬ 
tion  behind  the  scenes.  We  might  feel  tempted 
to  again  advocate  the  puppet-show,  and  to  encou¬ 
rage  machinists  to  communicate  the  arts  of  Garrick 
to  their  wooden  heroes;  for  in  such  a  case  the 
attention  of  the  public  which  is  generally  divided 
between  the  play,  the  poet,  and  the  actor,  would 
be  withdrawn  from  the  last  in  order  to  be  more 
fully  concentrated  upon  the  first.  A  cunning 
Italian  Iphigenia,  who  had  succeeded  by  her  play 
in  charming  us  off  to  Aulis,  understands  the  art 
of  designedly  destroying  the  work  of  her  own 
magic,  by  a  roguish  look  beneath  her  assumed 
expression ;  Iphigenia  and  Aulis  disappear  like  a 
mere  breath,  sympathy  is  extinguished  by  the 
admiration  which  is  felt  for  her  who  had  excited 
it.  We  should  have  studied  the  inclinations  of 
the  fair  sex  by  those  of  its  model.  Elizabeth 
would  rather  have  forgiven  an  insult  to  her  ma¬ 
jesty  than  a  doubt  of  her  beauty.  Can  an  ac¬ 
tress  be  expected  to  think  more  philosophically? 
Can  we  expect  her, — in  case  a  sacrifice  should  be 
demanded, — to  be  more  careful  of  her  glory  be¬ 
fore  than  behind  the  scenes  ?  As  long  as  the 
victims  of  lust  are  played  by  the  daughters  of 
lust ;  as  long  as  the  scenes  of  grief,  fear  and 
fright  serve  to  exhibit  the  slender  form,  the  neat 
feet,  the  grateful  motions  of  the  actress  ;  as  long 
as  the  theatre  is  simply  used  as  a  place  of  assig¬ 
nation  for  de'praved  lusts ;  or,  to  speak  more  mo¬ 
derately,  as  long  as  the  drama  is  not  so  much  a 
school  as  an  amusement;  as  long  as  it  is  princi¬ 
pally  resorted  to  as  a  means  of  dispelling  ennui, 
of  whiling  away  unpleasant  winter-evenings,  and 
of  enriching  the  legions  of  our  idle  crew  with 
the  froth  of  wisdom,  and  the  paper-money  of  sen¬ 
timent  and  the  phrases  of  fashionable  gallantry ; 
as  long  as  the  drama  is  principally  employed  in 
the  service  of  the  toilet  and  the  drinking-shop, 
our  dramatic  authors  may  safely  renounce  the 
vanity  of  being  teachers  of  the  people.  Before 
the  public  is  formed  for  the  stage,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  stage  will  be  able  to  form  its  public. 

However,  let  us  not  go  too  far  in  this  respect. 
Let  us  not  hold  the  public  responsible  for  the 
faults  of  the  poet.  I  observe  two  extreme 
fashions  in  the  drama,  between  which  nature  and 
truth  occupy  the  mean  position.  The  men  of 
Pierre  Corneille  are  cold  observers  of  their  pas¬ 
sion,  wiseacres  and  pedants  in  matters  of  senti¬ 
ment.  I  hear  the  oppressed  Roderick  lecture 
about  his  embarrassment  before  his  audience,  and 
review  his  emotions  with  the  same  care  with  which 
a  Parisian  belle  studies  her  grimaces  in  the  look¬ 
ing-glass.  In  France  the  unfortunate  conven¬ 
tionalism  has  distorted  the  man  of  nature.  Their 
cothurnus  has  been  changed  to  an  elegant  pair  of 
pumps.  In  England  and  Germany  (in  the  latter 
country  only  after  Goethe  had  driven  the  smug¬ 
glers  in  haste  back  across  the  Rhine)  nature  is 
presented  in  her  nudity,  her  freckles  are  magnified 
in  the  concave  mirror  of  an  unbridled  wit,  the 
wanton  fancy  of  fiery  poets  distorts  her  as  a 
monster  and  spreads  the  most  infamous  anecdotes 
on  her  account.  In  Paris  people  like  smooth  and 
elegant  dolls  whom  the  polish  of  art  has  robbed 
of  every  appearance  of  bold  nature.  Sentiment 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


265 


js  weighed  in  gold  scales,  and  the  food  of  mind  is  | 
served  up  according  to  the  rules  of  diet  in  order 
to  spare  the  delicate  stomach  of  a  marchioness  ; 
we  Germans,  like  the  lion-hearted  Britons,  ven¬ 
ture  to  imbibe  larger  doses  ;  our  heroes  resemble 
the  Goliath  upon  old  wall-paper,  coarse  and  gigan¬ 
tic,  intended  for  a  distant  view.  A  good  copy  of 
nature  implies  both  the  generous  boldness  of 
sucking  her  marrow  and  attaining  her  elasti¬ 
city,  but  likewise  a  becoming  timidity  which  in 
miniature  representations  seeks  to  moderate  the 
coarse  features  of  large  wall-pieces.  We  men 
6tand  before  the  universe  as  the  ant  before  a  ma¬ 
jestic  palace.  It  is  an  enormous  edifice ;  our 
insect-look  dwells  upon  one  wing,  and  finds 
perhaps  a  few  columns  or  statues  badly  placed  ;  the 
eye  of  a  higher  being  embraces  the  opposite  wing 
within  the  scope  of  its  vision,  and  perceives  the  sta¬ 
tues  and  columns  which  correspond  with  those  of 
the  former  wing  in  perfect  symmetry.  But  let  the 
poet  paint  for  ants’  eyes,  and  let  him  bring  the 
other  half,  of  a  diminished  size,  within  the  scope 
of  our  horizon  ;  let  him  prepare  us  by  the  harmony 
of  small,  to  study  the  harmony  of  great  things  ; 
let  him  prepare  us  to  study  the  symmetry  of  the 
whole  by  the  symmetry  of  a  part,  and  to  admire 
the  former  in  the  latter.  A  mistake  in  this  re¬ 
spect  is  an  injustice  against  the  Eternal  Being 
who  should  be  judged  by  the  infinite  design  of  the 
world,  not  by  a  few  isolated,  detached  fragments. 

Let  our  copy  of  Nature  be  ever  so  faithful,  as 
far  as  our  eyes  can  track  her,  Providence  will  be 
the  loser,  because  he  may  not  choose  to  complete 
until  the  next  century  the  work  which  he  has 
commenced  in  the  present. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  poet  may  be  guiltless  if 
the  end  of  the  drama  remains  unattained.  Step 
upon  the  stage  and  observe  how  the  creatures  of 
fancy  become  embodied  in  the  actor.  Two  things 
are  necessary  to  him,  although  difficult.  He  has 
to  forget  himself  and  the  listening  crowd,  in  order 
to  identify  himself  with  his  part ;  and  then  again 
he  has  to  imagine  himself  and  the  spectators  pre¬ 
sent,  he  has  to  study  the  taste  of  the  latter  and 
moderate  Nature.  Ten  times  I  find  the  former 
circumstance  sacrificed  to  the  latter,  and  yet  if  the 
actor’s  genius  is  not  adequate  to  both,  the  latter 
rule  might  safely  be  violated  for  the  benefit  of  the 
former.  From  sentiment  to  its  expression  we  ob¬ 
serve  the  same  and  ever  definite  succession  as  from 
the  lightning  to  the  thunder-clap,  and  if  I  am  full 
of  the  emotion,  I  am  so  little  permitted  to  attune 
the  body  to  its  expression  that  I  might  find  it 
difficult  or  even  impossible  to  retain  the  spontane¬ 
ous  vibration  of  the  latter.  The  actor  is,  so  to  say, 
like  a  somnambulist;  there  is  a  remarkable  simila¬ 
rity  between  the  two.  If  the  somnambulist,  in  spite 
of  an  apparently  complete  absence  of  conscious¬ 
ness,  in  spite  of  the  sepulchral  silence  of  the  exter¬ 
nal  senses  upon  his  midnight  ramble,  is  capable 
of  weighing  with  the  most  incomprehensible 
correctness  the  danger  of  every  step  he  takes, 
which  would  tax  all  the  presence  of  mind  that 
a  waking  person  is  capable  of ;  if  habit  has 
power  to  secure  his  steps  in  such  a  wonderful 
manner;  if  a  mere  dawn,  a  superficial  and  passing 
movement  of  the  senses — we  will  suppose  such  a 
condition  in  order  to  facilitate  the  explanation  of 


this  phenomenon — is  capable  of  effecting  such 
results,  why  should  the  body  which  is  otherwise 
such  a  faithful  companion  of  the  soul  in  all  its 
changes,  transgress  the  boundaries  of  its  own  pro 
priet.y  until  a  discord  results  from  this  excess?  If 
passion  does  not  permit  itself  any  extravagances, 
(indeed  no  genuine  passion  can  or  ought  to  do  so, 
nor  will  it  do  so  in  a  cultivated  soul,)  I  am  equally 
certain  that  the  organs  will  not  be  guilty  of  any 
monstrous  manifestation.  Is  it  not  possible  that  in 
spite  of  the  utmost  absence  of  perception  of 
which  the  illusion  may  render  the  actor  capable,  a 
scarcely  noticeable  perception  of  the  actual  may 
still  continue  which  may  enable  the  actor  to  pas3 
by  all  extravagances  and  improprieties,  over  the 
narrow  bridge  of  truth  and  beauty?  I  do  not  see 
any  impossibility  in  this.  What  an  inconvenience, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  the  actor,  taking  care  anx¬ 
iously  to  foster  the  consciousness  of  his  artistic 
situation,  annihilates  the  artificial  phantom  by  the 
idea  of  his  actual  surroundings !  It  is  a  bad  thing 
for  him  if  he  knows  that  a  thousand  and  more 
eyes  contemplate  his  gestures,  and  a  thousand  and 
more  ears  listen  to  every  sound  he  utters.  I 
happened  to  be  present  on  a  certain  occasion 
when  the  thought:  “lam  observed,”  hurled  the 
tender  Romeo  from  the  embrace  of  his  ecsta¬ 
tic  delight.  It  was  like  the  fall  of  a  somnambu¬ 
list  whom  the  call  of  the  night-watcher  roused 
from  his  sleep  on  the  top  of  the  roof.  The 
hidden  danger  was  no  danger  to  him,  but  the 
sudden  sight  of  the  precipitous  height  brought 
him  down  all  at  once.  The  frightened  actor  stood 
rigid  and  foolish,  the  natural  gracefulness  of  posi¬ 
tion  degenerated  into  a  bow  as  if  he  were  going 
to  have  his  measure  taken  for  a  new  coat.  The 
sympathy  of  the  spectators  exploded  in  a  fit  of 
laughter. 

Generally  our  actors  study  a  separate  movement 
of  the  body  for  every  species  of  passion,  which 
becomes  so  familiar  to  them  that  they  execute  it 
even  before  the  moment  for  the  emotion  has  ar¬ 
rived.  Pride  always  indulges  in  a  twist  of  the 
head  toward  one  shoulder,  and  pressing  the  hand 
on  the  side.  Anger  is  known  by  a  clenched  fist, 
and  by  the  gritting  of  the  teeth.  Upon  a  certain 
stage  I  have  seen  contempt  expressed  by  a  kick ; 
the  sadness  of  our  heroines  retreats  behind  a 
white  handkerchief;  and  fright,  which  comes  off 
cheapest,  throws  itself  on  the  first  seat  it  encoun¬ 
ters,  thus  freeing  itself  of  a  load  and  the  public  of 
a  blunderer.  Those  who  act  high  tragical  parts — 
and  they  are  generally  the  bassos,  the  matadors 
of  the  stage— are  in  the  habit  of  growling  out 
their  sentiment,  and  hiding  their  imperfect  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  emotions  which  they  break  upon 
the  rack  like  a  condemned  criminal,  under  a  tu¬ 
mult  of  sound  and  motion,  whereas  the  soft  and 
touching  actors  drawl  out  their  tenderness  and 
grief  in  a  strain  of.  monotonous  complaint,  which 
fatigues  the  ears  even  unto  disgust.  Declamation 
is  always  the  first  rock  upon  which  most  of  our 
actors  strand,  and  declamation  makes  up  two- 
thirds  of  the  whole  illusion.  The  ear  is  the  most 
certain  and  the  nearest  road  to  the  heart.  Music 
tamed  the  rude  conqueror  of  Bagdad,  where 
Meng  and  Correggio  would  have  exhausted  their 
talent  in  vain.  We  find  it  easier  to  close  the  of- 


266 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


fended  eyes,  than  to  stop  our  abused  ears  with 
cotton.* 

If  poets,  actors,  and  the  public  should  fail,  only 
a  miserable  fraction  would  remain  of  the  sum, 
which  some  patriotic  advocate  of  the  stage  might 
manage  to  figure  up  on  paper.  Should  such  a 
misfortune  impel  us  for  one  moment  to  deprive 
such  a  meritorious  institution  of  our  attention  ? 
Let  the  stage  take  comfort  with  its  worthy  sisters, 
morality,  and — I  utter  this  comparison  very 
timidly — religion,  both  of  which,  although  they 
appear  before  us  in  a  sacred  garb,  are  not  above 
the  pollutions  of  the  silly  and  vulgar  crowd,  Let 
it  be  satisfied,  if  row  and  then  a  friend  of  truth 
and  sound  nature  finds  his  own  world  back  in  the 
theatre  ;  if  the  fate  of  others  again  reminds  him 
of  his  own  ;  if  his  courage  is  fortified  by  scenes 
of  woe,  and  his  sensibility  is  exercised  by  the  sight 
of  unhappiness.  A  noble  and  unsophisticated 
heart  derives  new  life  and  warmth  from  the  scenes 
upon  the  stage  ;  in  the  hearts  of  the  vulgar  crowd 
a  distant  hum  at  least  is  elicited  from  some  aban¬ 
doned  chord  of  humanity. 


THE  WALK  UNDER  THE  LINDEN. 

(From  the  Wurtemberg  Repertory,  17S2.) 

Wolmar  and  Edwin  were  friends  who  resided 
together  in  a  peaceful  cottage,  to  which  they  had 
retreated  from  the  busy  world,  in  order  to  reflect 
with  philosophic  leisure  upon  the  remarkable 
events  of  their  lives.  The  happy  Edwin  embraced 
the  world  with  joyous  warmth,  whereas  the  gloomy 
Wollmar  clothed  it  in  the  sable  hues  of  his  disap¬ 
pointments.  An  avenue  of  linden  trees  was  the 
favorite  resort  for  their  contemplations.  They 
had  resumed  their  walk  on  some  lovely  May-morn¬ 
ing,  when  they  conversed  as  follows  : 

Edwin.  The  day  is  so  beautiful  ;  all  nature 
looks  cheerful,  and  you,  Wollmar,  so  pensive? 

Wollmar.  Leave  me;  you  know  that  it  is  my 
fashion  to  spoil  Nature’s  caprice. 

Edwin.  But  is  it  possible  thus  to  loathe  the 
cup  of  joy  ? 

Wollmar.  If  we  discover  a  spider  in  the  cup, 
why  not?  Look;  to  you  Nature  appears  like  a 
rosy-cheeked  girl  on  her  wedding-day.  To  me 
she  seems  like  a  decrepit  matron,  who  daubs  her 
livid  cheeks  with  rouge,  and  wreathes  her  hair 
with  inherited  diamonds.  How  approvingly  she 
smiles  at  herself  in  this  holiday-dress  !  But  they 
are  threadbare  garments  that  have  been  turned 

*  It  is  questionable  whether  a  part  does  not  gain  more 
by  a  mere  amateur  than  by  an  actor.  At  any  rate,  the 
latter  loses  the  sentiment  as  readily  as  a  physician  of 
large  practice  ceases  to  reflect  on  disease.  All  that  re¬ 
mains  is  mechanical  routine,  a  certain  affectation,  a  co¬ 
quetting  with  the  grimaces  of  passion.  We  recollect  how 
well  the  part  of  Zaire  was  played  in  France  by  begin¬ 
ners  without  much  experience  (see  “Lessing’s  Hambur¬ 
ger  Dramaturgic,''  sixteenth  essay,  p.  121  and  122). 
Would  that  everywhere  the  prejudice  were  abandoned 
which  supposes  that  persons  of  family  and  honor  are 
disgraced  by  theatrical  performances.  This  would  spread 
good  taste,  animate  and  refine  more  universally  the  sense 
of  the  beautiful,  the  good,  and  the  true;  at  the  same  time 
professional  actors  would  seek  to  uphold  with  more  zeal 
the  glory  of  their  profession. 


thousands  of  times.  This  same  green  train  she 
wore  before  Deucalion’s  time,  laden  with  the  same 
perfumes  and  embroidered  with  the  same  hues. 
For  thousands  of  years  she  has  been  feasting  on 
the  leavings  of  the  table  of  death,  has  been  dis¬ 
tilling  rouge  from  the  bones  of  her  own  children, 
and  has  been  trimming  corruption  itself  to  glit¬ 
tering  rags.  She  is  like  an  uncouth  monster 
growing  fat  on  its  own  substance  served  up  time 
and  again,  stitching  its  tattered  fragments  to¬ 
gether  into  new  garments,  which  it  displays  in 
public,  and  then  pulls  apart  like  common  rags. 
5Toung  man,  knowest  thou  in  what  company  thou 
rnayst  happen  to  walk  about  here?  Hast  thou 
ever  reflected  that  this  endless  orb  is  the  tomb  of 
thy  ancestors  ;  that  the  winds  which  waft  the  fra¬ 
grance  of  these  linden  trees  toward  thee,  drive 
perhaps  the  scattered  virtue  of  Arminius  into  thy 
nostrils  ;  that  with  the  refreshing  water  of  these 
springs  thou  imbibest  perhaps  the  atomized  bones 
of  our  great  Heinrich?  Fie,  fie!  the  world- 
shakers  of  Rome  who  tore  this  majestic  world  into 
three  parts,  as  boys  pull  a  bouquet  to  pieces  and 
place  the  flowers  on  their  hats,  are  perhaps 
doomed  to  do  homage  to  a  plaintive  aria  in  the 
throats  of  their  emasculated  descendants.  The 
atom  which  in  Plato’s  brain  seemed  vivified  by 
the  thought  of  Deity,  which  vibrated  with  mercy 
in  Titus'  heart,  is  now  perhaps  quivering  with 
beastly  lust  in  the  breast  of  some  modern  Sarda- 
napalus,  or  is  scattered  about  by  buzzards  as  the 
carrion  of  some  hung  scoundrel !  Shame!  shame! 
out  of  the  sacred  remains  of  our  forefathers  we 
have  fashioned  our  carnival-masks  ;  we  have  lined 
our  fools’  caps  wdth  the  wisdom  of  antiquity. 
You  seem  to  smile  at  all  this,  Edwin. 

Edwin:  Pardon  me!  Your  reflections  open 
before  me  comical  scenes.  What  if  our  bodies 
should  emigrate  according  to  the  same  laws  which 
are  supposed  to  be  imposed  upon  our  spirits  ?  if, 
after  the  dissolution  of  the  organism,  we  should 
have  to  continue  the  same  employment  that  they 
filled  under  the  orders  of  the  soul  ?  even  as  the 
spirits  of  the  departed  resume  the  occupations  of 
their  former  lives,  quee  cura  fuit  vivis,  eadem 
sequitur  tellure  repostos. 

Wollmar.  At  that  rate  the  ashes  of  Lycurgua 
may  remain  forever  lying  in  the  ocean. 

Edwin.  Do  you  hear  yonder  warble  of  the  ten¬ 
der  nightingale  ?  Suppose  it  ■were  the  urn  of  Ti¬ 
bullus’  ashes  who  sang  tenderly  as  herself?  Does 
perhaps  the  sublime  Pindar  elevate  himself  in 
yonder  eagle  to  the  azure  sky  ?  Does  perhaps  ar 
atom  of  Anacreon  flutter  in  yonder  wooing 
Zephyr?  Who  knows  whether  the  bodies  of 
sweet  petit  maitres  do  not  fly  in  the  shape  of  db 
licate  powder-flakes  to  the  curls  of  theirfnistresses? 
whether  the  remains  of  usurers  do  not  attach 
themselves  to  buried  coins  as  the  rust  of  a  hun¬ 
dred  years?  Whether  the  bodies  of  authors  are 
not  doomed  to  be  cast  into  type  or  made  into 
paper,  and  to  be  eternally  groaning  under  the 
pressure  of  a  press,  or  to  assist  in  perpetuating 
the  nonsense  of  their  writings  !  Who  can  prove 
that  the  stone  in  my  neighbor’s  bladder  is  not  the 
remnant  of  some  clumsy  physician  who  is  incar¬ 
cerated  there  as  a  punishment  for  the  abusive 
treatment  that  he  inflicted  upon  the  urinary  pas- 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


267 


nages  at  some  former  period,  and  has  to  remain  in 
his  dungeon  until  the  adroit  hand  of  a  surgeon 
releases  him  from  his  confinement?  See,  Woll- 
mar,  from  the  same  cup  from  which  you  draw  gall 
and  wormwood,  my  humor  extracts  mirth  and 
jests. 

Wollmar.  Edwin  !  Edwin  !  How  you  white¬ 
wash  earnest  thoughts  with  your  laughing  wit ! 
Tell  it  our  princes  who  fancy  they  can  send  forth 
annihilation  by  knitting  their  eyebrows ;  tell  it 
our  belles  who  undertake  to  fool  our  wisdom  by 
bedaubing  their  faces  with  the  hues  of  a  landscape  ! 
Tell  it  our  dandies  who  make  a  handful  of  dyed  hair 
their  god.  Let  them  see  how  roughly  Yorick’s 
skull  is  handled  by  the  spade  of  the  grave-digger. 
Let  a  woman  brag  of  her  beauty,  if  the  great 
Caesar  is  seen  mending  a  broken  wall  to  keep  off 
the  wind. 

Edwin.  What  do  you  mean  to  prove  with  all 
this  ? 

Wollmar.  Miserable  catastrophe  of  a  miser¬ 
able  farce  !  See,  Edwin  !  the  fate  of  the  soul  is 
inscribed  upon  the  fate  of  matter.  Draw  your  own 
inference. 

Edwin.  Hold  on,  Wollmar.  You  plunge  into 
phantasies.  You  know  how  apt  you  are  to  abuse 
Providence  in  this  particular. 

Wollmar.  Let  me  continue.  A  good  cause 
need  not  fear  a  close  inspection. 

Edwin  .  Let  Wollmar  inspect  when  he  is  hap¬ 
pier. 

Wollmar.  Oh  fie  !  This  is  probing  the  most 
dangerous  wound !  Should  wisdom  be  a  mere 
gossip,  a  fawning  lick-spittle  that  humors  every 
caprice,  with  the  unhappy  calumniates  mercy  it¬ 
self,  and  with  the  happy  sugars  over  even  misery  ? 
A  spoiled  stomach  makes  us  look  upon  this  planet 
like  a  perfect  hell,  a  glass  of  wine  induces  us  to 
deify  its  devils.  If  our  caprice  is  the  mould  for 
our  philosophy,  tell  me,  Edwin,  in  what  mould  is 
truth  cast  ?  I  fear,  Edwin,  you  will  become  wiser 
'if  you  first  become  more  gloomy. 

Edwin.  I  should  not  like  to  become  so,  in  order 
to  acquire  more  wisdom. 

Wollmar.  You  have  named  the  word  “  happy.” 
How  do  we  became  happy?  Labor  is  the  condi¬ 
tion  of  life  ;  wisdom  is  the  object,  and  happiness 
the  reward.  A  thousand  sails  are  floating  on  the 
boundless  ocean  in  search  of  the  happy  isle,  where 
they  intend  to  conquer  this  golden  fleece.  Tell 
me,  0  sage,  how  many  are  they  who  find  it?  I 
see  here  a  fleet  whirled  about  in  the  everlasting 
circle  of  want,  ever  pushing  off  from  this  shore, 
and  ever  again  driven  back  toward  it.  It  is  tossed 
about  in  the  anti-courts  of  its  destination,  cruis¬ 
ing  timidly  along  shore,  looking  out  for  provisions 
and  engaged  in  repairing  its  sails,  but  never 
reaching  the  high  seas.  They  are  those  who  weary 
to-day,  in  order  that  they  in  ay  again  weary  to¬ 
morrow.  Deduct  these,  and  the  number  is  re¬ 
duced  one  half.  Others  again  are  dragged  by  the 
whirlpool  of  sensuality  into  an  inglorious  grave.  | 
These  are  they  who  squander  the  whole  force  of  i 
their  existence  in  order  to  enjoy  the  sweat  of  the  j 
former.  Deduct  these,  and  hardly  a  fourth  part  ’ 
of  the  whole  number  will  be  found  remaining. 
Timidly  and  full  of  anxiety  this  small  balance, 
without  a  compass,  and  guided  by  the  deceitful  ! 


stars,  drifts  about  on  the  terrific  ocean  ;  already, 
like  a  white  cloud,  the  happy  coast  is  seen  glim¬ 
mering  on  the  border  of  the  horizon  ;  “  land,”  cries 
the  pilot,  but  behold  a  miserable  plank  gets  loose, 
the  ship  springs  a  leak,  and  sinks  in  sight  of  port. 
Apparent  rari  nant.es  in  gurgite  vasto.  Ex¬ 
hausted  the  most  skillful  swimmer  struggles  to¬ 
ward  the  shore,  and  lands  a  stranger  in  a  tropical 
zone,  where  he  wanders  about,  sighing  for  his 
northern  home  with  tearful  eyes.  Thus  I  deduct 
one  million  after  another  from  the  sum  of  your 
liberal  systems.  Children  rejoice  at  the  prospects 
of  being  invested  with  the  cuirass  of  manhood, 
and  manhood  sighs  for  the  golden  days  of  child¬ 
hood.  The  river  of  knowledge  winds  backward 
toward  its  source,  the  evening  is  dusky  like  morn¬ 
ing,  Aurora  and  Hesperus  embrace  each  other  in 
the  same  night,  and  the  sage  who  would  fain 
pierce  through  the  walls  of  mortality,  descends 
again  to  the  plays  of  boyhood.  Now,  Edwin, 
justify  the  potter  against  the  pot;  answer  me, 
Edwin  ! 

Edwin.  The  potter  is  already  justified,  if  the 
pot  can  argue  with  him. 

Wollmar.  Answer  me  ! 

Edwin.  Even  if  the  isle  should  be  missed,  the 
voyage  is  no  loss. 

Wollmar.  Is  it  a  gain  to  feast  the  eye  on  the 
picturesque  landscape  which  hies  away  from  us 
on  the  right  and  the  left?  Does  this  pay  us  for 
being  tossed  about  in  storms,  for  passing  trem¬ 
blingly  by  the  projecting  rock,  for  hovering  upon 
the  foaming  billows  round  the  jaws  of  a  three¬ 
fold  death  ?  Say  nothing  more,  my  grief  is  more 
eloquent  than  your  contentment. 

Edwin.  Am  I  to  tread  upon  the  violet,  because 
I  cannot  pluck  the  rose  ?  or,  am  I  to  renounce 
this  spring-day,  because  it  may  be  darkened  by  a 
thunder  cloud?  I  find  serenity  under  the  cloud¬ 
less  sky,  and  improve  it  to  shorten  the  ennui  of 
the  tempest.  Am  I  to  leave  the  flower  untouched, 
because  it  may  lose  its  fragrance  to-morrow?  I 
throw  it  away  if  it  fades,  and  pluck  its  young 
sister  that  is  just  unfolding  from  the  bud. 

Wollmar.  Insane!  Wherever  a  seed-grain  of 
pleasure  is  cast,  a  thousand  germs  of  woe  are  al¬ 
ready  sprouting.  Where  one  tear  of  joy  is  shed, 
a  thousand  tears  of  despair  are  already  moisten¬ 
ing  the  ground.  Here,  on  the  very  spot,  where 
man  is  shouting  with  joy,  a  thousand  insects  are 
writhing  in  agony.  At  the  very  moment  when 
our  joyous  shouts  are  rushing  upward  to  the 
skies,  a  thousand  imprecations  vibrate  through 
the  air.  It  is  a  deceitful  lottery,  the  few  miser¬ 
able  prizes  disappear  among  the  numberless 
blanks.  Every  drop  of  time  is  a  dying  moment 
of  joy,  every  floating  atom  the  tombstone  of  a 
buried  delight.  Upon  every  point  in  the  universe 
death  has  pressed  his  monarchical  seal.  Upon 
every  atom  I  read  the  saddening  inscription  : 
Past ! 

Edwin.  And  why  not,  Been ?  Let  every 
sound  be  the  dirge  of  some  bliss — it  is  likewise 
the  hymn  of  the  all-pervading  love — Wollmar, 
under  this  linden-tree  my  Juliet  pressed  her  first 
kiss  upon  my  lips. 

Wollmar  ( leaving  him  abruptly).  Under  this 
linden-tree  I  lost  my  Laura. 


268 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


A  GENEROUS  ACT  FROM  MODERN  HISTORY. 

(From  the  Wurtemberg  Repertory  of.  Literature,  1782.) 

Drama?  anti  romances  reveal  to  us  the  most 
brilliant  features  of  the  human  heart ;  onr  fancy 
is  inflamed;  our  heart  remains  cold;  at  any  rate 
the  glow  which  is  enkindled  in  it  by  these  means, 
is  only  momentary,  and  is  of  no  practical  advan¬ 
tage.  At  the  very  moment  when  the  unadorned 
na'ivet6  of  the  honest  clown  moves  us  perhaps  to 
tears,  we  send  away  a  ragged  beggar  with  heart¬ 
less  impetuosity.  Who  knows  whether  this  arti¬ 
ficial  existence  in  an  ideal  world  does  not  weaken 
our  existence  in  actual  life  ?  Here  wq,  hover  as  it 
were  around  the  two  extremes  of  morality,  angel 
and  devil ;  and  man,  who  holds  the  middle  rank,  is 
left  unnoticed. 

The  present  anecdote  of  two  Germans — I  men¬ 
tion  this  fact  with  a  proud  joy — has  one  indisput¬ 
able  merit:  it  is  true.  I  trust  it  will  leave  the 
hearts  of  my  readers  warmer  than  all  the  volumes 
of  Grandison  and  Pamela. 

Two  brothers,  Barons  W -  had  both 

fallen  in  love  with  the  charming  Lady  W - r, 

without  either  of  them  knowing  of  the  other’s  in¬ 
clination.  Each  loved  her  tenderly  and  intensely, 
it  was  his  first  love.  The  young  lady  was  beau¬ 
tiful  and  made  for  love.  Each  allowed  his  incli¬ 
nation  to  grow  up  to  a  burning  passion,  because 
neither  knew  the  danger  which  was  the  most  ter¬ 
rible  to  his  heart,  to  have  a  brother  for  a  rival. 
Both  spared  the  young  lady  a  premature  avowal 
of  their  passion,  and  thus  they  deceived  each 
other,  until  an  unexpected  event  led  each  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  other’s  love. 

The  love  of  each  had  reached  the  highest  de¬ 
gree ;  the  disastrous  passion  which  has  almost 
caused  as  cruel  devastations  among  the  human 
race  as  its  abominable  opposite,  had  taken  pos¬ 
session  of  their  hearts  so  completely  that  it  was 
useless  to  deem  a  sacrifice  possible  from  either 
brother.  The  lady,  full  of  compassion  for  the 
sad  situation  of  these  unfortunate  lovers,  had  not 
the  courage  to  decide  exclusively  for  either,  and 
subjected  her  own  inclination  to  the  judgment  of 
brotherly  love. 

Conquering  in  this  doubtful  struggle  of  duty 
and  sentiment,  which  our  philosophers  are  so 
ready  to  decide,  and  which  the  practical  man  un¬ 
dertakes  so  cautiously,  the  elder  brother  said  to 
the  younger:  “I  know  that  thou  lovest  this  girl 
intensely,  as  I  do.  I  shall  not  inquire  for  whom 
an  older  right  decides.  Remain  thou,  I  shall  go  far 
away;  I  shall  die,  so  that  I  forget  her.  If  I  suc¬ 
ceed,  brother,  she  is  thine,  and  may  heaven  bless 
thy  love.  If  I  do  not  succeed,  well,  then  go  thou 
and  do  likewise  !” 

He  left  Germany  suddenly,  and  went  to  Hol¬ 
land  ;  but  the  image  of  the  loved  girl  hastened 
after  him.  Away  from  the  country  of  his  love, 
exiled  from  the  region  which  inclosed  the  whole 
bliss  of  his  heart,  where  he  alone  was  able  to  live, 
the  unfortunate  man  became  a  prey  to  disease, 
even  as  the  plant  withers  which  the  European 
snatches  with  a  ruthless  hand  from  its  tropical 
clime,  and  forces  into  rude  beds  under  an  uncon¬ 
genial  sky.  In  a  state  of  despair  he  reached 
Amsterdam,  where  an  acute  disease  confined  him 


to  a  dangerous  couch.  The  image  of  his  beloved 
ruled  in  his  delirium,  his  recovery  depended  upon 
possessing  her.  The  physicians  despaired  of  his 
life  ;  nothing  saved  him  but  the  assurance  that 
he  should  be  restored  to  his  beloved.  A  wander¬ 
ing  skeleton,  the  frightful  image  of  gnawing 
grief,  he  returned  to  his  native  city,  staggered 
back  across  the  threshold  of  his  beloved  and  his 
brother. 

“  Brother,  I  have  come  back.  God  knows 
what  I  have  endeavored  to  accomplish  ;  I  can  do 
no  more.” 

Fainting,  he  sank  into  the  arms  of  the  lady. 

The  younger  brother  was  no  less  resolute.  In 
a  few  weeks  he  was  ready  for  the  journey. 

“  Brother,  thou  hast  carried  thy  pain  as  far  as 
Holland  ;  I  shall  endeavor  to  carry  mine  still  fur¬ 
ther.  Do  not  lead  her  to  the  altar,  until  I  write 
to  thee.  This  is  the  only  condition  that  my  bro¬ 
therly  love  imposes.  If  I  succeed  better  than 
thou  hast  done,  well,  then  she  is  thine,  and 
Heaven  bless  your  love.  If  1  do  not,  well  then 
let  Heaven  decide  further.  Farewell.  Keep  this 
sealed  package  ;  do  not  open  it  until  I  am  gone. 

I  sail  for  the  Indies.” 

Here  he  rushed  into  his  carriage. 

Almost  lifeless,  the  friends  stared  after  him. 
He  had  surpassed  his  brother  in  magnanimity. 
The  elder  brother  was  crushed  down  by  his  love 
and  by  the  pain  of  losing  the  most  noble  friend. 
The  noise  of  the  rolling  carriage  thundered 
through  his  heart.  His  life  was  in  danger.  The 
lady — but  no  !  the  end  will  tell  her  story. 

The  package  was  opened.  It  contained  a 
transfer  of  all  his  German  estates  which  the  bro¬ 
ther  was  to  own,  in  case  the  exile  should  succeed 
in  the  Indies.  He  sailed  on  board  a  Dutch  mer¬ 
chant-vessel,  and  arrived  in  Batavia.  In  a  few 
months  his  brother  received  the  following  letter  : 

“  Here,  where  I  give  thanks  to  Almighty  God  ; 
here,  upon  this  new  soil,  I  think  of  thee  and  of 
our  loved-one  with  all  the  bliss  of  a  martyr.  The 
new  scenes  and  events  have  expanded  my  soul. 
God  has  given  me  power  to  make  the  greatest 
sacrifice  to  friendship,  thine  is — God  !  here  I 
dropped  a  tear — the  last — I  have  conquered — 
thine  is  the  lady.  Brother,  it  was  not  designed 
that  I  should  possess  her  ;  she  might  not  have 
been  happy  with  me.  If  she  should  ever  think 
that  she  might  have  been.  Brother!  brother!  I 
confide  her  to  thy  soul  like  a  solemn  trust.  For¬ 
get  not  the  sacrifice  that  purchased  her  for  thee. 
Treat  the  angel  ever  as  thy  young  love  now 
teaches  thee.  Treat  her  as  the  precious  legacy 
of  a  brother  whom  thy  arms  will  never  embrace 
again.  Do  not  write  to  me  when  thou  solemnizest 
thy  marriage.  My  wound  is  still  bleeding.  Write 
to  me  that  thou  art  happy.  My  deed  is  my  guar¬ 
antee  that  God  will  not  forsake  me  in  this  distant 
world.” 

The  marriage  took  place.  For  one  year  they 
enjoyed  together  the  bliss  of  love — then  the  lady 
died.  On  her  death-bed  she  revealed  to  her  most 
intimate  friend  the  fatal  secret  of  her  bosom  : 
she  had  loved  the  younger  brother  best. 

Both  brothers  are  still  living.  The  elder  bro-  • 
ther,  on  his  estates  in  Germany,  again  married. 
The  younger  brother  remained  in  Batavia,  a 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


269 


happy  and  brilliant  man.  He  made  a  vow  never 
to  marry,  and  has  kept  it. 


THE  STAGE  CONSIDERED  AS  A  MORAL 
INSTITUTION. 

(Read  at  a  public  sitting  of  the  Electoral  German  Society  in 
Mannheim,  in  the  year  1784.) 

According  to  Sulzer’s  statement,  the  stage 
owes  its  origin  to  a  general,  irresistible  propen¬ 
sity  to  things  new  and  extraordinary,  to  a  desire 
to  enjoy  the  sensations  of  passion.  Exhausted 
by  the  higher  efforts  of  the  mind  ;  wearied  by  the 
monotonous  and  frequently  prostrating  duties  of 
his  calling ;  satiated  by  sensuality,  man  must 
have,  experienced  an  emptiness  in  his  nature 
which  was  opposed  to  his  inextinguishable  desire 
for  action.  Human  nature,  equally  incapable  of 
continually  leading  an  animal  life,  or  of  giving  it¬ 
self  up  exclusively  to  the  higher  labors  of  the  un¬ 
derstanding,  demanded  a  middle  condition  which 
would  unite  these  antagonistic  extremes,  soften 
the  rigid  tension  down  to  gentle  harmony,  and 
facilitate  the  reciprocal  transition  of  these  two 
states  from  one  to  the  other.  This  use  is  afforded 
by  the  aesthetic  sense  or  the  sentiment  of  the 
beautiful.  Since  it  should  be  the  first  object  of  a 
wise  legislator,  to  select  the  highest  of  two  effects, 
he  will  not  content  himself  with  simply  disarming 
the  inclinations  of  his  people  ;  if  possible,  he  will 
use  them  as  the  instruments  of  higher  plans,  and 
endeavor  to  convert  them  into  sources  of  happi¬ 
ness  ;  to  this  end  he  selected  the  stage  as  the  best 
means  of  opening  an  endless  sphere  to  the  spirit 
thirsting  for  action,  of  feeding  every  power  of  the 
soul  without  straining  any,  and  uniting  the  culti¬ 
vation  of  the  understanding  and  the  heart  with 
the  noblest  entertaiument. 

He  who  first  started  the  assertion  that  religion 
is  the  firmest  pillar  of  a  state  ;  that  without  reli¬ 
gion  the  laws  would  lose  their  force,  has,  perhaps 
without  designing  it,  defended  the  stage  in  its 
noblest  aspect.  This  insufficiency,  this  uncer¬ 
tainty  of  political  laws  which  renders  religion  in¬ 
dispensable  to  the  state,  likewise  determines  the 
moral  influence  of  the  stage.  He  meant  to  con¬ 
vey  the  idea  that  laws  only  revolve  round  nega¬ 
tive  duties,  religion  extends  her  demands  to  posi¬ 
tive  acts.  Laws  only  arrest  actions  which  tend 
to  disorganize  society,  religion  prescribes  actions 
whose  tendency  is  to  consolidate  the  structure  of 
society.  Laws  only  control  the  manifestations 
of  the  will,  only  deeds  are  subject  to  them  ;  reli¬ 
gion  extends  her  jurisdiction  to  the  remotest  cor¬ 
ners  of  the  heart,  and  traces  thought  to  its  in¬ 
nermost  sources.  Laws  are  smooth  and  flexible, 
changeable  as  caprice  and  passion  ;  religion  binds 
rigidly  and  eternally.  If  we  now  suppose,  which 
is  not  the  case,  that  religion  possesses  this  great 
power  over  every  man’s  heart,  will  she,  or  can 
she  achieve  the  whole  of  human  culture?  Upon 
the  whole,  religion,  whose  political  aspect  I  here 
separate  from  the  divine,  acts  more  upon  the 
senses  of  the  people ;  it  is  probably  through  the 
senses  that  she  becomes  so  infallible.  Her  power 
is  gone,  if  we  take  away  the  senses.  And  by 
what  does  the  stage  act  ?  Religion  ceases  to  be 


any  thing  for  most  men,  if  we  extirpate  her 
images,  her  problems,  if  we  annihilate  her  pictures 
of  heaven  and  hell ;  and  yet  they  are  pictures  of 
the  fancy,  riddles  without  a  solution,  phantoms, 
and  allurements  from  a  distance.  What  strength 
do  religion  and  laws  acquire  from  a  union  with 
the  stage,  where  life  is  exhibited  to  the  view, 
where  vice  and  virtue,  happiness  and  misery,  folly 
and  wisdom  are  successfully  shown  in  all  their 
various  forms,  according  to  truth  and  in  a  manner 
accessible  to  the  popular  understanding  ;  where 
Providence  disentangles  her  web  and  gives  us  the 
solution  of  his  mysterious  designs,  where  the 
human  heart  confesses  its  gentlest  emotions  as 
well  as  its  racking  passions,  where  every  mask 
must  fall,  where  all  artificial  appearances  are  at 
an  end,  and  where  truth  sits  in  judgment  incor- 
ruptibly  like  Rhadamanthus  ? 

The  jurisdiction  of  the  stage  commences  where 
the  tribunal  of  civil  laws  is  powerless.  If  jus¬ 
tice  is  blinded  by  gold,  and  has  become  subser¬ 
vient  to  the  debauchery  of  vice  ;  if  the  crimes  of 
the  mighty  scorn  her  impotence,  and  the  dread 
of  human  power  fetters  the  arm  of  legal  autho¬ 
rity,  then  it  is  that  the  stage  grasps  the  sword 
and  the  balance,  and  drags  vice  before  a  terrible 
tribunal.  The  whole  empire  of  fancy  and  his¬ 
tory,  the  past  and  the  future  obey  its  nod.  Bold 
criminals  whom  the  work  of  ages  had  converted 
into  dust,  are  summoned  by  the  all-powerful 
voice  of  poesy,  and  are  made  to  live  over  again 
an  infamous  life  for  the  benefit  of  a  revolted  pos¬ 
terity.  Powerless  like  shadows  the  terrors  of 
their  century  pass  before  our  eyes,  and  while  we 
heap  imprecations  upon  their  memory,  we  delight 
upon  the  stage  at  the  very  horror  which  they  ex¬ 
cite.  If  no  morality  is  any  longer  taught ;  if 
religion  is  no  longer  believed  in  ;  if  laws  have 
ceased  to  exist,  Medea  will  still  horrify  us  as 
she  staggers  down  the  steps  of  her  palace  after 
committing  the  infanticide.  Salutary  shudder- 
ings  will  seize  the  heart,  and  each  will  congra¬ 
tulate  himself  upon  his  good  conscience  on  see¬ 
ing  lady  Macbeth ,  an  affrighted  somnambulist, 
wash  her  hands,  and  on  hearing  her  call  for  all 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia  in  order  to  annihilate  the 
horrid  smell  of  murder.  As  surely  as  a  visible 
representation  has  a  more  powerful  effect  than 
the  dead  letter  or  a  cold  narrative,  certainly  the 
stage  acts  more  profoundly  and  more  lastingly 
than  morality  and  law. 

Here,  however,  the  stage  only  assists  human 
justice.  It  has  a  much  wider  field  opened  to  it. 
A  thousand  vices,  which  are  tolerated  by  human 
justice,  are  punished  by  the  stage  ;  a  thousand 
virtues  which  the  human  law  ignores,  are  recom¬ 
mended  by  the  stage.  Here  it  serves  as  a  com¬ 
panion  to  wisdom  and  religion.  From  this  pure 
fountain  the  stage  draws  its  teachings  and  exam¬ 
ples,  and  clothes  the  rigid  duty  in  a  charming, 
attractive  garb.  With  what  glorious  sentiments, 
resolutions,  passions  is  our  soul  swelled  ;  what 
a  godlike  ideal  it  holds  up  to  us  as  an  example, 
when  the  divine  Augustus,  great  like  his  gods, 
reaches  his  hand  to  the  traitor  Cinna,  who  fancies 
he  reads  the  fatal  sentence  upon  Cesar’s  lips,  and 
greets  him  with  the  words  :  “  Let  us  be  friends, 
Cinna  !”  who,  at  that  moment,  would  not  be  will- 


270 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


ing  to  shake  Viands  with  his  mortal  enemy,  in 
order  to  resemble  the  Roman  1  If  Francis  von 
Sickingen,  on  his  road  to  chastise  a  prince  and 
to  struggle  for  the  rights  of  a  stranger,  looks 
round  as  if  by  chance,  and  happens  to  see  the 
smoke  arising  from  his  castle,  where  his  helpless 
wife  and  children  are  confined  ;  and  if,  true  to  his 
word,  he  continues  on  his  journey;  how  great 
then  seems  man,  how  little  and  contemptible 
dreaded  and  irresistible  fate  ! 

Vices,  as  reflected  by  the  mirror  of  the  stage, 
are  just  as  hideous  as  virtue  is  amiable.  If  the 
helpless  and  childish  Lear,  in  night  and  tempest, 
in  vain  knocks  at  the  door  of  his  daughters,  if  his 
gray  hair  is  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  he  relates 
to  the  raging  elements  the  unnatural  conduct  of 
his  Regan  ;  if  he  at  least  vents  his  poignant  grief 
in  these  accents  of  despair:  “I  have  given  you 
every  thing!”  How  abominable  does  ingratitude 
then  appear  to  us  !  How  solemnly  do  we  commend 
reverence  and  filial  love  ! 

But  the  sphere  of  the  stage  is  still  more  ex¬ 
tended.  Even  where  religion  and  laws  deem  it 
beneath  their  dignity  to  accompany  human  sen¬ 
sations,  the  stage  still  continues  to  work  for  our 
culture.  The  happiness  of  society  is  disturbed 
by  folly  as  much  as  by  crimes  and  vices.  It  is  an 
experience  as  old  as  the  world  that,  in  the  web 
of  human  events,  the  heaviest  weights  are  often 
suspended  by  the  most  delicate  threads,  and,  in 
tracing  actions  back  to  their  first  beginnings,  we 
have  to  laugh  ten  times  before  we  experience  one 
movement  of  horror.  My  list  of  criminals  be¬ 
comes  less  every  day  of  my  life,  but  my  list  of 
fools  increases  in  number.  If  the  moral  guilt  of 
one  sex  emanates  from  one  source;  if  the  enor¬ 
mous  extremes  of  vice  which  have  branded  it,  are 
nothing  but  altered  forms,  higher  grades  of  a 
quality  which,  after  all,  ultimately  excites  our 
unanimous  smile  and  sympathy,  why  has  not 
Nature  adopted  the  same  course  in  the  case  of 
the  other  sex  ?  I  know  of  but  one  secret  to 
guard  man  against  depravity:  it  is  to  guard  his 
heart  against  weaknesses. 

We  may  expect  from  the  stage  a  considerable 
portion  of  this  effect.  The  stage  is  like  a  mirror 
where  fools  see  themselves  reflected,  and  see  their 
manifold  forms  of  folly  covered  with  ridicule  and 
ehame.  What  it  effected  before  through  emotion 
and  terror,  it  effects  here,  and  perhaps  more 
speedily  and  infallibly,  by  jest  and  satire.  If  we 
would  undertake  to  estimate  comedy  and  tragedy 
by  the  measure  of  the  effect  obtained,  experience 
would  probably  decide  in  favor  of  the  former. 
Derision  and  contempt  wound  man’s  pride  more 
keenly  than  detestation  tortures  his  conscience. 
Our  cowardice  hides  away  from  terrors,  but  this 
very  cowardice  exposes  us  to  the  sting  of  satire. 
Law  and  conscience  frequently  protect  us  from 
crime  and  vice;  the  ludicrous  demands  a  pecu¬ 
liarly  fine  perception  which  we  exercise  nowhere 
more  than  in  front  of  the  stage.  We  may  per¬ 
haps  authorize  a  friend  to  attack  our  morals  and 
our  hearts,  but  we  can  scarcely  prevail  upon  our¬ 
selves  to  forgive  him  a  single  laugh.  Our  trans¬ 
gressions  may  be  willing  to  put  up  with  a  mentor 
and  a  judge,  but  we  cannot  bear  any  comments 
upon  our  vulgarities  from  witnesses.  The  stage 


alone  is  empowered  to  ridicule  our  weaknesses,  be¬ 
cause  it  spares  our  sensibilities,  and  does  not  care 
to  know  the  guilty  fool.  Without  blushing  we 
see  our  masks  reflected  to  us  and  are  quietly 
grateful  for  the  gentle  rebuke. 

The  great  sphere  of  the  stage  is  not  bounded 
here.  The  stage,  more  than  any  other  public  in¬ 
stitution,  is  a  school  of  practical  wisdom,  a  guide 
through  civil  life,  an  unfailing  key  to  the  most 
secret  avenues  of  the  human  soul.  I  admit  that 
self-love  and  mental  obduracy  sometimes  neu 
tralize  its  best  effect;  that  a  thousand  vices  main¬ 
tain  themselves  with  an  impudent  mien  in  spite  of 
the  castigations  of  the  stage ;  that  a  thousand 
praiseworthy  sentiments  rebound  from  the  cold 
heart  of  the  spectator.  I  am  even  of  opinion  that 
Molihre’s  Harpagon  has  never  yet  changed  the 
heart  of  a  usurer  ;  that  the  suicide  Beverley  has  as 
yet  saved  few  of  his  companions  from  the  gaming¬ 
table  ;  that  Carl  Moor’s  unfortunate  end  will  not 
increase  the  safety  of  travelers  upon  public  roads  ; 
but  even  if  we  limit  the  great  effect  of  the  stage, 
even  if  we  commit  the  injustice  of  denying  it  al¬ 
together  :  what  a  large  share  of  influence  will  it 
still  retain  !  Even  if  the  stage  neither  augments 
nor  diminishes  the  sum  of  vices,  has  it  not  made 
us  acquainted  with  them  ?  With  these  vicious 
and  foolish  people  we  have  to  live.  We  have  to 
avoid  or  to  meet  them  ;  we  have  to  undermine 
their  agency  or  else  succumb  to  it.  Now  they  no 
longer  surprise  us.  The  stage  has  shown  us  the 
secret  of  finding  them  out  and  rendering  them 
harmless.  It  is  the  stage  that  drew  the  mask 
from  the  hypocrite’s  face,  and  revealed  the  net 
with  which  cunning  and  intrigue  have  entangled 
us.  It  has  dragged  deception  and  falsehood  from 
their  tortuous  hiding-places,  and  has  shown  their 
frightful  countenance  to  the  light  of  day.  It  may 
be  that  the  dying  Sara  does  not  frighten  a  single 
debauchee  ;  that  all  the  pictures  of  punished  se¬ 
duction  do  not  quench  his  fire,  and  that  the  artful 
actress  is  seriously  endeavoring  to  prevent  this 
effect ;  let  us  be  thankful  if  unguarded  innocence 
has  been  shown  his  snares,  and  has  been  taught 
by  the  stage  to  mistrust  his  oaths  and  to  tremble 
as  she  listened  to  his  vows  of  adoration. 

Not  only  to  men  and  human  character  but  to 
the  blows  of  fate,  the  stage  directs  our  atten¬ 
tion,  and  teaches  us  the  great  art  to  bear  them. 
In  the  web  of  life,  chance  and  design  play  an 
equally  great  part ;  the  latter  is  conducted  by 
us,  to  the  former  we  have  to  submit  blindly. 
We  have  to  regard  it  as  a  gain,  if  an  inevitable 
fate  does  not  find  us  wholly  unprepared,  if  our 
courage  and  our  discretion  had  been  exercised 
by  similar  events,  if  our  heart  had  been  hardened 
for  the  blow.  The  stage  brings  before  us  mani¬ 
fold  scenes  of  human  woe.  It  involves  us  artifi¬ 
cially  in  the  troubles  of  strangers,  and  rewards  us 
for  the  momentary  pain  by  tears  of  delight,  and  a 
splendid  increase  of  courage  and  experience.  In 
company  with  the  abandoned  Ariadne,  the  stage 
leads  us  through  the  re-echoing  Naxos,  upon  it  we 
descend  into  Ugolino’s  tower  of  starvation,  upo- 
it  we  ascend  the  frightful  scaffold,  and  witness  the 
solemn  hour  of  death.  What  has  passed  through 
our  soul  as  a  distant  presentiment,  is  presented 
to  us  upon  the  stage  as  the  loud  and  irresistible 


FIRST  PERIOD. 


271 


voice  of  Nature.  In  the  vault  of  the  tower 
the  deceived  favorite  is  abandoned  by  the  favor 
of  his  queen.  Now,  when  he  is  to  die,  the 
intimidated  Moor  is  forsaken  bv  his  treacherous 
sophistry.  Eternity  sends  forth  the  dead  in  order 
to  reveal  things  which  can  only  be  known  to  the 
living,  and  the  assured  villain  loses  his  last  horrid 
refuge  because  even  tombs  divulge  secrets. 

But  the  stage  not  only  familarizes  us  with  the 
fate  of  mankind  ;  it  likewise  teaches  us  to  be 
more  just  toward  the  unfortunate,  and  to  judge 
him  more  leniently.  It  is  only  after  fathoming 
the  whole  depth  of  his  necessities,  that  we  become 
empowered  to  pronounce  sentence  over  him.  No 
crime  is  more  humiliating  than  that  of  a  thief, 
but  do  we  not  soften  our  verdict  with  the  tear 
of  pity,  after  identifying  ourselves  with  the  horrid 
necessity  which  compels  Edward  Ruhberg  to 
commit  the  horrid  deed  ?  Suicide  is  generally 
detested,  as  a  crime,  but  if,  assailed  by  the  threats 
of  an  enraged  father,  assailed  by  love  and  by  the 
thought  of  the  horrid  walls  of  a  convent,  Ma¬ 
rianne  empties  the  poisoned  chalice,  who  would 
be  the  first  to  condemn  the  deplorable  victim  of 
an  infamous  tyranny?  Humanity  and  toleration 
commence  to  become  the  ruling  principles  of  our 
age  :  their  rays  have  penetrated  into  the  courts 
of  justice,  yea,  into  the  hearts  of  our  princes. 
What  share  in  this  divine  work  is  due  to  the 
stage  ?  Is  it  not  the  stage  that  acquaints  man 
with  man,  and  discloses  the  secret  springs  which 
moved  him  to  act? 

One  class  of  men  has  especial  cause  to  be  more 
grateful  to  the  stage  than  any  other  class.  It  is 
only  here  that  the  great  of  the  world  hear  what 
they  scarcely  ever  hear  any  where  else, — truth  ; 
what  they  scarcely  ever  or  never  see,  they  see 
here, — man. 

So  greatly  and  variedly  has  man’s  moral  cul¬ 
ture  been  promoted  by  the  higher  order  of  drama; 
his  intellectual  culture  is  no  less  indebted  to  it 
for  its  advancement.  It  is  in  this  high  range  that 
the  exalted  mind  and  the  warm-hearted  patriot  im¬ 
prove  the  stage  to  the  greatest  advantage. 

Casting  a  glance  over  the  human  race,  and  com¬ 
paring  nations  with  nations,  and  centuries  with 
centuries,  he  sees  the  mass  of  the  people  fettered 
by  the  chains  of  prejudice  and  opinion,  and  pre¬ 
vented  by  such  antagonists  from  the  enjoyment  of 
happiness  ;  the  pure  rays  of  truth  illumine  only  a 
few  isolated  minds  that  had  perhaps  to  purchase 
the  trifling  gain  by  the  expenditure  of  a  life.  By 
what  means  is  the  wise  legislator  to  secure  to  the 
nation  a  share  in  these  advantages? 

The  stage  is  a  channel  through  which  the  light 
of  wisdom  diffuses  itself  from  the  thoughtful, 
better  portion  of  the  people  in  milder  rays  over 
the  whole  face  of  society.  More  correct  notions, 
purer  principles  and  sentiments,  emanate  from  the 
stage  through  all  the  avenues  of  life  ;  the  mist  of 
barbarism,  of  gloomy  superstition,  disappears ; 
night  yields  before  the  triumphant  light.  Among 
the  many  splendid  fruits  of  the  better  stage,  let 
me  signalize  only  two.  How  universal  has  the 
toleration  of  religious  systems  and  sects  be¬ 
come  for  some  years  past!  Even  before  Nathan 
the  Jew  and  Saladin  the  Saracen  confounded  us 
with  shame  and  preached  to  us  the  divine  doc¬ 


trine  that  resignation  to  the  will  of  God  did  not 
depend  upon  our  fancied  belief  concerning  God’s 
nature;  even  before  Joseph  II.  combated  the 
dreadful  hydra  of  pious  hatred,  the  stage  was  en¬ 
gaged  in  planting  the  seeds  of  humanity  and 
meekness  in  our  hearts  ;  the  horrid  pictures  of 
priestly  fanaticism  taught  us  to  avoid  religious 
hatred  ;  in  this  frightful  mirror  Christianity  washed 
off  its  stains.  With  the  same  success  we  might- 
combat  upon  the  stage  errors  of  education  ;  we 
have  as  yet  to  hope  for  the  piece  where  this  re¬ 
markable  subject  shall  be  treated.  By  its  con¬ 
sequences  no  subject  is  of  more  importance  to  the 
state  than  this,  and  yet  no  interest  is  more  com¬ 
pletely  abandoned  to  the  illusions  and  caprice  of 
the  individual  citizen  than  education.  The  stage 
might  pass  in  review  before  him  the  victims  of  neg¬ 
lected  education  in  touching  and  soul-stirring 
forms  ;  here  our  fathers  might  learn  to  renounce 
foolish  maxims,  our  mothers  might  learn  to  love 
more  wisely.  False  notions  lead  the  hearts  of  the 
best  teachers  astray ;  it  is  still  worse  if  they 
brag  of  method,  and  systematically  ruin  the  tender 
pupil  in  the  hot-houses  of  artificial  systems. 

And,  if  the  chiefs  and  guardians  of  a  nation  un¬ 
derstood  the  task,  its  opinions  concerning  govern¬ 
ment  and  governing  classes,  might  be  enlightened 
and  corrected.  Here  the  legislating  power  might 
speak  to  the  subject  through  foreign  symbols, 
might  justify  itself  against  his  complaints  even 
before  they  are  uttered,  and  might  hush  up  his 
doubts  even  without  appearing  to  do  so.  Even 
industry  and  inventive  genius  might  be  fired  in 
front  of  the  stage,  if  poets  deemed  it  worth  their 
while  to  be  patriotic,  and  if  princes  would  con¬ 
descend  to  hear  them. 

I  cannot  overlook  the  great  influence  which  a 
standing  theatre  would  exercise  upon  the  spirit  of 
the  nation.  I  understand  by  national  spirit  the 
similarity  and  agreement  of  the  opinions  and  in¬ 
clinations  of  a  people  in  matters  concerning  which 
other  nations  think  and  feel  differently.  It  is  only 
possible  to  the  stage  to  effect  this  agreement  in  a 
high  degree,  because  it  appropriates  the  whole 
domain  of  human  knowledge,  exhausts  all  the 
situations  of  life,  and  sheds  light  into  all  the  cor¬ 
ners  of  the  human  heart ;  because  it  unites  all 
classes  and  conditions,  and  possesses  the  most 
popular  avenues  to  the  heart  and  understanding. 
If  one  characteristic  feature  were  visible  in  all  our 
pieces  ;  if  our  poets  would  agree  amongst  each 
other,  and  form  a  firm  alliance  for  the  accomplish¬ 
ment  of  this  end  ;  if  a  strict  selection  should  guide 
their  works  ;  if  their  pen  should  be  devoted  to 
national  subjects  ;  in  one  word,  if  we  should  see  a 
national  stage  inaugurated  in  our  midst,  we 
should  become  a  nation.  What  is  it  that  chained 
the  different  states  of  Greece  so  firmly  to  each 
other  ?  What  is  it  that  drew  the  people  so  irre¬ 
sistibly  to  the  stage?  Nothing  but  the  patriotic 
subjects  of  their  pieces;  it  was  the  Grecian  spirit, 
the  great  and  overpowering  interest  of  the  re¬ 
public  and  of  a  better  humanity,  which  pervaded 
them. 

The  stage  has  another  merit,  one  which  I  men¬ 
tion  with  so  much  more  pleasure  since  the  stage 
seems  to  have  gained  its  cause  against  its  per¬ 
secutors.  Heretofore  the  influence  upon  moral 


272 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


and  intellectual  culture,  which  we  have  claimed 
for  it,  has  seemed  doubtful  ;  even  its  enemies  have 
admitted  however,  that  it  deserved  the  palm 
among  all  the  contrivances  of  luxury,  and  all  the 
institutions  intended  to  minister  to  the  public 
amusement.  Its  services  in  this  respect  are  more 
important  than  people  are  willing  to  admit. 

Human  nature  cannot  bear  the  uninterrupted 
and  eternal  rack  of  business ;  sensual  excitement 
dies  with  its  own  gratification.  Man  surfeited  by 
animal  enjoyment,  weary  of  the  protracted  exer¬ 
tions,  tormented  by  an  unceasing  desire  for  ac¬ 
tivity,  thirsts  for  better  and  more  select  amuse¬ 
ments,  or  else  he  will  plunge  without  restraint 
into  wild  revelry  which  accelerates  his  ruin  and 
disturbs  the  peace  of  society.  Bacchanalian  joys, 
the  ruinous  games  of  chance,  a  thousand  revelries 
hatched  out  by  idleness,  become  inevitable,  unless 
the  legislator  should  know  how  to  direct  these 
tendencies  of  the  people.  The  business-man  is  in 
danger  of  becoming  the  victim  of  hypochondria  in 
exchange  for  his  generous  activity  for  the  benefit 
of  the  state;  the  savant  is  threatened  with  the 
dullness  of  pedantry;  the  common  man  becomes  a 
brute.  The  stage  is  an  institution  where  pleasure 
and  instruction,  rest  and  exertion,  amusement  and 
culture  are  allied ;  where  not  one  power  of  the  soul 
is  strained  at  the  expense  of  another,  where  no 
pleasure  is  enjoyed  at  the  expense  of  the  whole. 
If  grief  gnaws  at  our  heart ;  if  melancholy  poisons 


our  solitary  hours ;  if  the  world  and  business 
have  become  repulsive  to  us ;  if  a  thousand  load? 
oppress  our  souls,  and  threaten  to  extinguish  the 
irritability  of  our  nerves  by  the  labors  of  our  call¬ 
ing,  the  stage  hugs  us  to  its  bosom ;  in  the  dreams 
of  this  artificial  world  we  forget  the  real,  we  are 
restored  to  ourselves  as  it  were,  our  sensibility 
becomes  excited,  salutary  emotions  agitate  our 
slumbering  nature,  and  propel  the  current  of  the 
blood  with  more  vitalizing  vigor.  Here  the  un¬ 
fortunate  calms  his  own  grief,  by  weeping  over 
the  grief  of  a  stranger ;  the  happy  becomes  sobered 
down,  and  he  who  is  plunged  into  security,  is 
made  cautious  by  the  possibility  of  danger.  The 
sensitive  devotee  of  sensual  comfort  and  care,  is 
taught  the  glory  of  manly  privations  ;  the  brutal 
barbarian  here,  for  the  first  time,  enjoys  the  plea¬ 
sure  of  sweet  emotions.  And  then,  what  a  tri¬ 
umph,  0  Nature!  Nature  so  often  trodden  down, 
and  so  often  again  exalted  to  glory  !  if  men  from 
all  conditions  and  climes,  free  from  all  artificial 
fetters  and  fashions,  hovering  above  the  pressure 
of  destiny,  uniting  in  one  sympathy,  in  one  feeling 
of  brotherhood  and  humanity,  become  forgetful  of 
the  actual,  and  again  approximate  to  their  hea¬ 
venly  origin.  Each  enjoys  the  delight  of  all, 
which  radiates  from  every  eye  with  a  hundred-fold 
increase  of  beauty  and  intensity,  and  his  breast 
has  only  room  for  one  emotion,  which  is  :  To  be 
a  man. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


THE  CRIMINAL  FROM  LOST  HONOR. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

In  the  whole  history  of  man,  no  chapter  is  more 
instructive  for  the  heart  and  mind  than  the  annals 
of  his  errors.  In  the  perpetration  of  every 
great  crime,  a  proportionate  amount  of  power 
had  to  be  employed.  If  the  mysterious  play  of 
the  forces  of  desire  remains  hidden  in  the  faint 
light  of  ordinary  emotions,  it  assumes  colossal, 
more  prominent,  and  more  definite  forms  under 
the  sway  of  violent  passions  ;  the  more  acute 
analyzer  of  human  nature,  who  knows  how  much 
dependence  is  to  be  placed  upon  the  mechanism 
of  the  ordinary  freedom  of  the  will,  and  how  far 
we  may  be  permitted  to  reason  by  analogy,  will 
not  fail  to  transfer  many  practical  observations 
from  this  domain  to  his  psychology,  and  to  im¬ 
prove  them  for  the  benefit  of  man’s  moral  culture-. 

The  human  heart  is  something  very  simple  and 
yet  complicated.  The  same  aptitude  or  desire 
may  develop  itself  in  a  thousand  forms  or  direc¬ 
tions,  may  give  rise  to  a  thousand  contradictory 
phenomena,  may  appear  differently  combined  in 
thousands  of  characters;  whereas,  on  the  other 
hand,  thousands  of  dissimilar  characters  and  acts 
may  emanate  from  the  same  inclination,  though 
the  individual  may  least  of  all  suspect  the  existing 
relationship.  If  a  Linnaeus  should  ever  undertake 


with  the  human  race  what  has  been  undertaken 
with  the  other  kingdoms  of  Nature,  a  classifica¬ 
tion  of  mankind  in  accordance  with  instincts  and 
dispositions,  how  would  we  stare  to  see  many  a 
one  whose  vices  now  remain  smothered  in  his 
narrow  social  sphere  and  within  the  narrow  pale 
of  the  law,  classed  side  by  side  with  the  monster 
Borgia. 

Viewed  from  this  point,  much  may  be  objected 
to  the  ordinary  manner  of  treating  history,  and 
here  is  the  difficulty  which  has  rendered  the  study 
of  history,  so  far,  comparatively  fruitless  as  a  po¬ 
litical  and  moral  science.  There  is  such  a  con¬ 
trast,  such  a  distance  between  the  violent  emo¬ 
tion  of  the  active  agent  and  the  calm  mood  of 
the  reader  to  whom  the  act  is  related,  that  the 
latter  finds  it  difficult  and  even  impossible  to  sus¬ 
pect  any  connection.  There  remains  a  gap  be¬ 
tween  the  historical  subject  and  the  reader,  which 
cuts  off  the  possibility  of  comparison  or  applica¬ 
tion,  and,  instead  of  exciting  a  salutary  terror, 
extorts  from  the  secure  pride  of  the  reader  at 
most  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head.  We  regard 
the  unfortunate,  who,  at  the  moment  when  lie 
committed  the  deed,  as  well  as  at  the  moment 
when  he  is  to  pay  for  it  with  his  life,  as  a  being 
of  a  different  species,  in  whose  veins  circulates  a 
blood  different  from  ours,  whose  will  obeys  laws 
different  from  our  own  ;  his  fate  does  not  move 


SECOND 

ns  much  ;  for  emotion  is  based  upon  the  dim 
presentiment  of  a  similar  danger,  and  we  are  far 
from  suspecting  such  a  similarity.  The  instruc¬ 
tion  is  lost  where  no  relation  is  perceived,  and 
history,  instead  of  being  a  school  of  culture,  has 
to  be  content  with  gratifying  our  curiosity.  If 
history  is  to  be  to  us  something  more,  it  must 
necessarily  choose  between  these  two  methods : 
either  the  reader  must  warm  up  with  his  hero,  or 
else  the  hero  cool  down  with  the  reader. 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  best  historians  of 
modern  as  well  as  of  ancient  times,  have  followed 
the  former  method,  and  have  sought  to  bribe  the 
reader’s  heart  by  an  eloquent  and  intense  style. 
But  this  manner  implies  an  illegitimate  use  of  the 
author’s  privilege;  it  offends  the  republican  lib¬ 
erty  of  the  reading  public,  whose  right  it  is  to  sit 
in  judgment  unbiassed  by  the  author’s  views  or 
taste  ;  it  is  likewise  a  trespass  upon  the  bounda¬ 
ries  of  another  domain  ;  for  this  method  belongs 
exclusively  and  peculiarly  to  the  province  of  the 
pnet  and  the  orator.  The  historian  can  only  lay 
claim  to  the  latter. 

The  hero  has  to  cool  down  to  the  temperature 
of  the  reader,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing  in  this 
instance,  we  have  to  become  acquainted  with 
him  before  he  acts ;  we  have  not  only  to  see  him 
do,  but  also  to  will  his  act.  We  are  much  more 
interested  in  his  thoughts  than  in  his  actions,  and 
still  more  in  the  sources  of  his  thoughts  than  in 
the  consequences  of  his  acts.  The  soil  around 
Vesuvius  has  been  examined  with  a  view  of  ar¬ 
riving  at  an  explanation  of  its  explosions:  why 
is  less  attention  bestowed  upon  a  moral  than  upon 
a  physical  phenomenon  ?  Why  do  we  not  examine 
with  the  same  care  the  conditions  and  circum¬ 
stances  by  which  such  a  man  was  surrounded, 
until  the  accumulated  material  caught  fire  in  his 
inner  nature  ?  A  dreamer  who  loves  the  marvel¬ 
ous,  is  interested  in  the  strange  and  romantic 
features  of  this  phenomenon  ;  the  friend  of  truth 
seeks  to  account  for  these  anomalous  manifestations 
of  life  in  a  philosophical  manner.  He  accounts  for 
them,  with  all  the  consciousness  of  certainty,  by 
the  immutable  structure  of  the  human  soul,  and 
by  the  changeable  conditions  which  impelled  and 
determined  its  volition  from  without.  He  is  no 
longer  surprised  to  see  the  poisonous  hemlock 
prosper  in  the  same  bed  where  salubrious  plants 
should  grow,  and  to  find  wisdom  and  folly,  vice 
and  virtue  cradled  together  in  the  same  heart. 

Without  dwelling  upon  any  of  the  advantages 
which  psychology  may  derive  from  such  a  mode 
of  treating  history,  a  preference  should  be  awarded 
to  it,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  because  it  eradi¬ 
cates  the  cruel  scorn  and  the  proud  security  with 
which  erect  and  untried  virtue  generally  looks  down 
upon  the  fallen  one  ;  because  it  spreads  the  meek 
spirit  of  charity,  without  which  no  fugitive  re¬ 
turns,  no  reconciliation  of  law  with  its  transgressor 
can  take  place,  no  infected  member  of  society  can 
be  saved  from  total  corruption. 

Had  the  criminal,  whose  story  I  am  about  to 
relate,  still  a  right  to  appeal  to  this  spirit  of 
charity?  Was  he  indeed  irretrievably  lost  to  the 
state  ?  I  will  not  anticipate  the  reader’s  sentence. 
Our  charity  is  no  longer  of  any  use  to  him,  for  he 
died  by  the  hand  of  an  executioner ;  but  the  au- 
Vol.  II.— 18 


PERIOD.  273 

topsy  of  his  vices  may  perhaps  instruct  humanity 
and — who  knows  ? — -justice. 

Christian  Wolf  was  the  son  of  a  tavern-keeper 
in  a  town  of - ,  the  name  of  which,  for  rea¬ 

sons  which  will  become  apparent  hereafter,  has 
to  be  omitted.  His  father  was  dead,  and  he  as¬ 
sisted  bis  mother,  until  the  age  of  twenty,  in  tak¬ 
ing  care  of  the  business  of  the  establishment. 
T  he  re  was  not  much  custom,  and  Wolf  had  many 
idle  hours.  Even  while  at  school  he  was  known 
as  a  wild  and  reckless  boy.  Full-grown  girls  com¬ 
plained  of  his  impudence,  and  the  boys  of  the  town 
did  homage  to  his  inventive  genius.  Nature  had 
slighted  his  body.  A  small  and  unattractive  figure, 
curly  hair  of  a  disagreeable  blackness,  a  flat  nose, 
and  a  swollen  upper-lip,  disfigured  moreover  by 
the  kick  of  a  horse,  imparted  to  his  appearance  a 
repulsiveness  that  drove  every  woman  away  from 
him  and  made  him  the  butt  of  his  comrades’  wit. 

He  undertook  to  obtain  with  an  effort  that 
which  was  denied  him  ;  he  made  it  his  purpose  to 
please,  because  he  was  disliked.  The  girl  of  his 
choice  abused  him  ;  he  had  reason  to  fear  that  his 
rivals  were  more  fortunate,  but  the  girl  was  poor. 
A  heart  which  remained  closed  to  his  protesta¬ 
tions,  might  perhaps  be  unlocked  by  presents  ; 
but  he  was  himself  suffering  from  want,  and  the 
attempt  to  keep  up  polished  appearances  con¬ 
sumed  the  little  which  he  earned  by  his  scanty 
custom.  Too  easy  and  too  ignorant  to  retrieve 
his  foi^une  by  speculation  ;  too  proud  to  exchange 
his  p®ent  condition  of  gentleman  for  the  hum¬ 
bler  sphere  of  a  peasant  and  to  renounce  his  che¬ 
rished  freedom,  he  saw  but  one  expedient  at  his 
command,  an  expedient  which  thousands  before 
him  had  resorted  to  with  success — honest  theft. 
His  native  town  was  contiguous  to  a  seigneurial 
forest,  he  turned  poacher,  and  the  result  of  his 
booty  was  faithfully  handed  over  to  his  beloved. 

Among  Jeannette’s  lovers  was  Robert,  a  boy 
in  the  employ  of  the  forester.  Very  soon  this 
young  fellow  perceived  the  advantage  which  his 
rival  obtained  by  his  liberality,  and  jealously  he 
sought  to  discover  the  sources  of  this  change. 
He  was  more  industrious  in  his  visits  at  the  Sun 
— this  was  the  sign  of  the  tavern — his  watchful 
eye,  sharpened  by  jealousy  and  envy,  soon  dis¬ 
covered  to  him  the  channel  through  which  the 
money  flowed  into  Christian’s  hands.  Shortly  be¬ 
fore,  a  severe  law  had  been  passed  against  all 
poachers,  condemning  the  perpetrator  to  confine¬ 
ment  in  the  state-prison.  Robert  tracked  his 
enemy  on  his  secret  walks  with  indefatigable  zeal  ; 
at  last  he  succeeded  in  catching  his  imprudent 
rival  in  the  act.  Wolf  was  arrested,  and  had  to 
sacrifice  the  whole  of  his  little  fortune  in  order  to 
escape  the  dungeon. 

Robert  was  triumphant.  His  rival  was  crushed, 
and  Jeannette’s  favor  was  lost  to  the  beggar. 
Wolf  knew  his  enemy,  and  this  enemy  possessed 
his  Jeannette.  The  oppressive  sense  ot  poverty 
became  allied  with  offended  pride.  Want  and 
jealousy  unitedly  assail  his  sensibility,  hunger 
drives  him  away  from  home,  vengeance  and  pas¬ 
sion  chain  him  to  the  spot.  He  turns  poacher 
a  second  time  ;  but  Robert’s  redoubled  vigilance 
surprises  him  again.  Now  he  is  visited  with  the 
whole  rigor  of  the  law  ;  he  had  nothing  more  to 


274 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


i 


give,  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  was  sent  to  the  peni¬ 
tentiary. 

He  served  his  term  ;  his  passion  had  grown  by 
distance,  and  his  impudence  had  been  strength¬ 
ened  by  the  weight  of  misfortune.  Scarcely  had 
he  been  set  free,  when  he  showed  himself  to  his 
Jeannette.  She  fled  at  his  appearance.  Urgent 
want  had  curbed  his  haughty  spirits,  and  had  con¬ 
quered  his  effeminate  habits.  He  offered  himself 
to  the  wealthy  of  the  place,  ready  to  work  as  a 
day-laborer.  The  peasant  shrugged  his  shoulder 
at  the  delicate  boy  who  was  outdone  by  the  solid 
frame  of  a  muscular  competitor.  He  made  a  last 
attempt.  An  office  had  remained  vacant,  the 
out-post,  as  it  were,  of  an  honest  name  ;  he  of¬ 
fered  to  guard  the  swine  of  the  place,  but  no  pea¬ 
sant  was  willing  to  confide  his  swine  to  a  prison- 
bird.  Frustrated  in  all  his  projects,  repelled 
everywhere,  he  turned  poacher  a  third  time,  and 
a  third  time  he  was  caught  by  his  watchful  enemy. 

The  double  repetition  of  his  crime  had  aggra¬ 
vated  his  guilt.  The  judges  looked  into  the 
statute-book  of  their  laws,  without  considering 
the  mental  condition  of  the  accused.  The  law 
against  poachers  demanded  a  solemn  and  exem¬ 
plary  satisfaction,  and  Wolf  was  condemned  to 
have  the  gallows  branded  upon  his  back,  and  to 
spend  three  years  at  hard  labor  in  a  fortress. 

This  term,  too,  came  to  an  end,  and  Wolf  left 
the  fortress,  but  very  differently  from  what  he  en¬ 
tered.  Here  commences  a  new  epoch  in  h'^  life  ; 
we  will  record  in  his  own  language  the  facts’Vhich 
he  afterward  confessed  to  his  spiritual  adviser 
and  to  the  court:  “1  entered  the  fortress,”  he 
said,  “  like  one  who  had  gone  astray,  and  I  left  it 
like  a  scoundrel.  I  had  had  some  little  left  in  the 
world  that  was  dear  to  me,  and  my  pride  writhed 
under  the  infamy.  When  I  arrived  in  the  fortress, 
I  was  incarcerated  in  the  same  dungeon  with 
twenty-three  prisoners,  among  whom  were  two 
murderers,  and  the  balance  vagabonds  and  thieves. 
I  was  derided  when  I  undertook  to  mention  the 
name  of  God,  and  I  was  urged  to  revile  the  Re¬ 
deemer.  They  sang  wanton  songs,  which  I,  al¬ 
though  a  vicious  rascal,  could  not  hear  without 
horror;  my  sense  of  shame  was  still  more  offend¬ 
ed  by  what  I  saw  them  do.  No  day  passed  when 
we  were  not  regaled  by  the  story  of  a  horrid  life, 
or  when  a  criminal  plot  was  not  concocted.  At 
first  I  fled  from  these  people,  and  hid  away  from 
their  conversation  as  well  as  I  was  able;  but  I 
needed  the  company  of  a  creature,  and  the  bar¬ 
barity  of  my  keepers  had  refused  me  even  my  dog. 
The  work  was  hard  and  tyrannical,  my  body 
sickly ;  I  needed  assistance,  and,  to  speak  the 
truth,  I  needed  sympathy,  which  I  now  had  to 
purchase  with  the  last  remnant  of  my  conscience. 
Thus  I  became  habituated  to  the  vilest  abomina¬ 
tions,  and  in  the  last  three  months  I  had  even 
surpassed  my  masters. 

“  Henceforth  I  sighed  for  the  hour  of  my  re¬ 
lease,  as  I  sighed  after  vengeance.  All  men  had 
offended  me,  for  all  were  better  and  happier  than 
I.  I  looked  upon  myself  as  the  martyr  of  natural 
rights,  and  as  the  victim  of  the  law.  On  seeing 
the  sun  rise  behind  the  eminence  upon  which  the 
fortress  was  built,  I  grit  my  teeth  and  shook  my 
chains ;  a  distant  prospect  is  a  double  hell  for  a 


prisoner.  The  wind  which  blew  through  the  air¬ 
holes  in  my  tower,  and  the  swallow  that  parched 
upon  the  iron  bar  in  my  grate,  seemed  to  teaze  me 
by  their  freedom,  and  made  my  imprisonment  still 
more  horrible  to  me.  At  that  time  I  vowed  ir¬ 
reconcilable  hatred  against  every  thing  in  the 
shape  of  man,  and  what  I  then  vowed,  I  have 
fulfilled  like  a  man. 

“  As  soon  as  I  had  regained  my  freedom,  my 
first  thought  was  my  native  town.  However  little 
I  might  expect  to  find  there  in  the  way  of  sub¬ 
sistence,  I  expected  to  find  abundant  means  to 
gratify  my  thirst  for  revenge.  My  heart  .beat 
more  wildly  when  I  saw  the  steeple  rise  among 
the  trees.  It  was  no  longer  the  cordial  delight 
which  I  had  experienced  on  my  first  pilgrimage ; 
the  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  persecutions  which 
I  had  suffered,  all  at  once  roused  me  as  from  a 
death-slumber;  every  wound  bled  afresh;  every 
scar  again  became  a  running  sore.  I  hastened 
my  gait,  for  I  enjoyed  by  anticipation  the  delight 
of  frightening  my  enemies  by  my  appearance,  and 
I  thirsted  for  a  new  humiliation  as  much  as  I  had 
before  trembled  to  incur  it. 

“  The  bells  were  ringing  for  the  evening  service, 
when  I  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  square.  The 
people  crowded  toward  the  church.  I  was  recog¬ 
nized  ;  everybody  who  met  me,  started  back  ir. 
affright.  I  had  always  loved  little  children,  and 
this  love  came  over  me  so  powerfully  that  I  offered 
a  penny  to  a  little  boy  who  happened  to  pass  near 
me.  The  boy  stared  at  me,  and  then  threw  the 
penny  in  my  face.  If  my  blood  had  been  a  little 
calmer,  I  should  have  known  that  the  beard  which 
I  had  brought  away  from  the  fortress,  disfigured 
my  face  in  a  most  horrible  manner;  but  my  evil 
heart  had  infected  my  reason.  Tears,  such  as  I 
had  never  shed,  rolled  down  my  cheeks. 

“  The  boy  does  not  know  who  I  am,  nor  whence 
I  came,”  said  I  to  myself,  half  aloud,  “  and  yet  he 
avoids  me  like  a  plague-stricken  beast.  Am  I 
marked  on  my  forehead,  or  have  I  ceased  to  look 
like  a  man,  because  I  can  no  longer  love  my 
fellow-creatures  ?  This  boy’s  contempt  pained  me 
more  bitterly  than  thirty  years’  confinement  at 
hard  labor  could  have  done,  for  I  had  done  him 
good,  and  could  not  accuse  him  of  personal  hatred. 

“  I  sat  down  upon  a  timber,  opposite  the  church ; 
I  know  not  what  I  intended  at  the  time ;  but  I 
recollect  that  I  rose  with  feelings  of  bitter  indig¬ 
nation  when  all  my  former  acquaintances  passed 
by  me  without  giving  me  even  a  look  of  recog¬ 
nition.  I  left  this  place  in  order  to  find  lodgings 
for  the  night ;  on  turning  a  corner,  I  stumbled 
against  my  Jeannette. — “Sun-keeper!”*  she  ex¬ 
claimed,  and  made  a  movement  to  embrace  me. 
“  Thou  back  again  !  my  dear  Sun-keeper;  God  be 
praised  that  thou  hast  come  back  !”  Hunger  and 
misery  seemed  her  garment,  an  infamous  disease 
disfigured  her  face  ;  she  looked  like  an  abandoned 
creature.  I  suspected  what  had  taken  place ;  a 
few  dragoons  whom  I  had  met  a  few  moments  be¬ 
fore,  showed  that  the  place  had  been  garrisoned. 
“  Soldier-wench  !”  I  cried,  and  laughing  loud,  I 
turned  my  back  upon  her.  It  comforted  me  to 

*  So  nicknamed  because  the  sign  of  his  tavern  was  a 
Sun. 


2— G.  p.  332 


2— E.  p.  274, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


275 


think  that  there  was  still  one  living  creature  be¬ 
low  me.  I  had  never  loved  her. 

“  My  mother  was  dead.  My  creditors  had  paid 
themselves  with  my  little  house.  I  had  no  friend, 
and  nothing  was  left  me.  Every  body  fled  from 
me  like  an  outcast,  but  I  had  learned  to  be  above 
shame.  Formerly  I  had  shunned  the  sight  of 
men  because  I  could  not  brook  contempt ;  now  I 
intruded  my  presence  upon  them,  and  I  took 
pleasure  in  frightening  them  away.  I  felt  at  ease, 
because  I  had  nothing  to  lose,  and  nothing  to  take 
care  of.  I  was  no  longer  in  need  of  any  good 
qualities,  because  I  was  no  longer  suspected  of 
possessing  any. 

“  The  whole  world  was  open  before  me.  In  some 
strange  country  I  might  perhaps  have  passed  for 
an  honest  man,  but  I  had  lost  the  courage  to  ap¬ 
pear  one.  Despair*  and  infamy  had  forced  this 
mode  of  reasoning  upon  me.  This  seemed  the 
only  resource  left,  to  learn  to  do  without  honor, 
because  I  was  no  longer  entitled  to  any.  If  my 
vanity  and  my  pride  had  outlived  my  humiliation, 
I  should  have  been  obliged  to  take  my  own  life. 

“I  did  not  know  at  that  time  what  I  had  de¬ 
termined  to  do.  I  have  an  obscure  recollection 
that  it  was  my  determination  to  commit  some  evil 
deed.  I  was  resolved  to  deserve  my  fate.  I 
thought  that  laws  were  a  blessing  and  I  therefore 
determined  to  violate  them  ;  formerly  I  had  sinned 
from  necessity  and  levity,  now  I  sinned  from  choice 
and  for  my  amusement. 

“  My  first  business  was  to  continue  my  poach¬ 
ing;  the  chase  had  become  my  passion,  and  then, 
I  had  to  earn  my  living.  This  was  not  all.  I 
took  pleasure  in  scorning  the  duke’s  edict,  and 
injuring  him  by  every  means  in  my  power.  I 
needed  no  longer  to  apprehend  being  seized,  for 
now  I  had  a  bullet  ready  for  my  discoverer,  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  miss  my  man.  I  killed 
all  the  game  which  came  in  my  way ;  I  sold  but  a 
small  portion  of  it  on  the  frontier,  and  left  the 
best  part  of  it  to  rot.  I  lived  poorly,  in  order  to 
obtain  the  money  for  powder  and  ball.  My  de¬ 
vastations  of  high  game  became  notorious,  but 
suspicion  no  longer  oppressed  me.  My  conceal¬ 
ment  extinguished  it,  my  name  was  forgotten. 

“  I  led  this  mode  of  life  for  several  months. 
One  morning  I  was  roving  through  the  woods  as 
I  was  wont,  tracking  a  deer.  For  two  hours  I 
had  made  fruitless  exertions,  and  I  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  up  the  chase,  when  all  at  once  I 
discovered  the  stag  within  reach  of  my  shot.  I 
took  aim  and  was  about  to  fire,  when  I  saw  a  hat 
lying  a  few  steps  from  me  upon  the  ground. 
Looking  around,  I  perceived  Robert  standing  be¬ 
hind  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  and  on  the  point  of 
firing  at  the  same  game  for  which  my  bullet  had 
been  intended.  A  death-chill  ran  through  me  at 
this  sight.  This  was  the  man  whom  I  hated  more 
than  any  other  living  being,  and  this  man  was 
within  reach  of  my  bullet.  It  seemed  at  this  mo¬ 
ment  as  though  the  whole  world  was  to  receive 
my  shot,  and  as  though  the  hatred  of  my  life  was 
concentrated  in  the  finger  with  which  I  was  to 
ull  the  fatal  trigger.  An  invisible,  frightful 
and  seemed  to  be  hovering  over  me;  the  hand 
on  the  dial  of  my  fate  pointed  irrevocably  to  this 
dark  minute.  My  arm  trembled  when  I  allowed 


my  gun  to  take  this  frightful  direction — my  teeth 
chattered  as  during  a  fever-chill,  and  the  breath 
remained  choked  up  in  my  breast.  For  one  min¬ 
ute  the  barrel  of  my  gun  remained  wavering 
between  Robert  and  the  deer — another  minute- — • 
and  another.  Vengeance  and  conscience  strug¬ 
gled  hard,  but  vengeance  triumphed,  and  the 
hunter  was  a  corpse.  . 

“With  the  shot  my  gun  dropped  out  of  my 
hand.  ‘Murderer’ — I  stuttered  slowly.  The  forest 
was  still,  like  a  churchyard, — I  distinctly  heard 
myself  say  ‘  murderer.’  At  my  approach,  the  man 
died.  For  a  long  time  I  stood  speechless  before 
the  corpse  ;  at  last  I  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh. 

‘  Wilt  thou  be  silent  now,  my  good  friend,’ 
said  I,  and  boldly  turned  the  face  of  the  murdered 
man  to  the  sun.  His  eyes  were  wide  open.  I  be¬ 
came  serious,  and  silent.  I  began  to  feel  strange. 

“Until  now  I  had  sinned  for  the  purpose  of  com¬ 
pensating  myself  for  my  humiliating  punishment; 
but  now  something  had  happened  for  which  I  had 
not  yet  atoned.  An  hour  before,  no  man  could 
have  persuaded  me  that  there  was  any  thing  be¬ 
neath  me  under  the  skies  ;  now  I  began  to  suspect 
that  an  hour  ago  my  fate  might  have  been  envied. 

“I  never  thought  of  God’s  judgment,  but  I  had 
some  strange  notion  of  halter  and  sword,  and  re¬ 
membered  the  execution  of  an  infanticide  which 
I  had  witnessed  when  a  boy.  There  was  some¬ 
thing  terrible  for  me  in  the  thought  that  my  life 
was  forfeited.  This  is  all  I  recollect.  Immediately 
after,  I  was  desirous  that  Robert  might  still  be 
living.  I  forced  myself  to  remember  every  wrong 
which  the  dead  man  had  done  me  in  his  lifetime, 
but  strange  !  my  memory  seemed  to  ha  ve  become 
extinct.  I  was  unable  to  call  up  any  thing  that  a 
few  minutes  previous,  had  excited  my  rage.  I  was 
unable  to  account  for  the  murder  which  I  had 
perpetrated. 

“  I  was  still  standing  before  the  corpse.  The 
report  of  a  whip,  and  the  rolling  of  a  freight- 
wagon  brought  me  back  to  my  senses.  It  was 
scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  public  road, 
where  the  murder  had  been  committed.  I  had  to 
think  of  my  safety. 

“Involuntarily  I  retreated  into  the  forest.  On 
my  way  I  remembered  that  the  dead  man  had 
possessed  a  watch.  I  was  in  need  of  money  in 
order  to  reach  the  frontier  ;  yet  I  lacked  the  cou¬ 
rage  of  returning  to  the  place  where  the  victim 
lay.  The  thought  of  the  devil,  and  of  God’s  all- 
seeing  eye  frightened  me.  I  mustered  all  my 
boldness.  Determined  to  fight  all  Hell.  I  returned 
to  the  spot.  I  found  what  I  had  sought,  and  a 
little  money  in  a  green  purse.  As  I  was  on  the 
point  of  appropriating  both,  I  reflected  a  moment. 
It  was  not  fear  or  shame  which  prevented  me  from 
aggravating  my  crime  by  plunder.  It  was  in¬ 
solence  which  caused  me  to  throw  down  the  watch, 
and  even  the  money,  of  which  I  only  kept  one- 
half.  I  wanted  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  personal 
enemy  of  the  murdered  man,  but  not  as  a  robber. 

“  I  fled  further  away  into  the  forest-  I  knew 
that  the  woods  extended  four  leagues,  to  the  north, 
and  ended  on  the  frontier.  I  ran  until  noon  ;  the 
hurry  of  my  flight  had  dispersed  my  fear,  but  the 
terrors  of  my  conscience  assailed  me  with  re¬ 
newed  force,  when  my  strength  of  body  began  to 


276 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


fail  me.  A  thousand  horrid  phantoms  flitted  be¬ 
fore  my  soul,  and  cut  up  my  breast  like  the  keen¬ 
est  blades.  I  now  had  to  choose  between  a  life 
of  restless  and  agonizing  fear,  and  suicide.  1  had 
not  the  courage  to  quit  the  world  by  destroying 
myself,  and  I  revolted  at  the  prospect  of  remain¬ 
ing  in  it.  Pressed  between  the  certain  tortures 
of  life,  and  the  uncertain  terrors  of  eternity, 
equally  incapable  of  living  and  dying,  I  spent  the 
sixth  hour  of  my  flight,  an  hour  crowded  full  of  tor¬ 
ments  such  as  no  living  man  has  ever  experienced. 

“  Absorbed  in  my  own  thoughts,  and  with  my 
hat  pressed  low  down  on  my  forehead,  as  if  to 
render  myself  unknown  to  inanimate  Nature,  I 
had  slowly  and  imperceptibly  pursued  a  narrow 
path  which  led  me  through  the  darkest  thicket, 
when  all  at  once  a  rough  and  imperious  voice 
commanded  me  to  halt.  The  voice  Avas  close  by 
me,  my  absence  of  mind  and  the  shading  of  my  eyes 
by  the  hat  had  prevented  me  from  looking  around. 
Looking  up  I  saw  a  tall  savage-looking  fellow 
walk  toward  me  with  a  stout  knotty  club.  He 
was  of  gigantic  size — it  seemed  to  me  so  in  the 
first  moment  of  my  surprise — and  the  color  of  his 
skin  was  of  a  dingy  yellow,  like  a  mulatto’s  skin, 
with  which  the  white  of  his  squinting  eye  formed 
a  keen  and  disgusting  contrast.  In  the  place  of  a 
belt  he  had  a  thick  cord  tied  double  around  a 
green  woolen  coat,  securing  a  large  butcher’s- 
knife  and  a  brace  of  pistols.  The  call  was  re¬ 
peated,  and  a  vigorous  arm  held  me  at  the  same 
time.  The  sound  of  a  human  voice  had  fright¬ 
ened  me,  but  the  sight  of  a  scoundrel  encouraged 
me.  In  my  present  situation  I  had  every  reason 
to  tremble  at  the  sight  of  an  honest  man,  but  not 
at  the  sight  of  a  robber. 

“  ‘  Who  goes  there  ?’  asked  the  man. 

“  ‘  The  like  of  thee,’  I  answered,  ‘  if  thou  really 
art  who  thou  seemest.’ 

“‘  The  way  is  not  thitherward.  What  seekest 
thou  here  ?’ 

“  ‘  What  right  hast  thou  to  question  me?’  I  re¬ 
plied  insolently. 

“  The  man  surveyed  me  twice  from  head  to 
foot  ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  contrasting  my  size 
with  his,  and  my  reply  with  his  size — ‘  Thou  talk- 
est  coarsely  like  a  beggar,’  he  uttered  at  last. 

“  ‘  May  be  ;  I  was  a  beggar  no  later  than  yes¬ 
terday.’ 

“  The  man  laughed.  ‘  One  might  swear,’  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  ‘that  thou  wouldst  pass  for  nothing 
better  now.’ 

“  ‘  Then  for  something  worse.’  I  was  going  to 
proceed. 

“  *  Softly,  friend  1  What  drives  thee  ?  Is  thy 
time  so  precious  ?’ 

“  I  bethought  myself  for  a  moment.  I  know  not 
what  gave  me  utterance  :  ‘  Life  is  short,’  said  If 
‘  and  hell  lasts  eternally.’ 

“  He  stared  at  me.  ‘  I  will  be  damned,’  said  he 
at  last,  ‘if  thou  hast  not  passed  close  by  the  gal¬ 
lows.’ 

“‘  I  may  yet.  Good-by,  comrade.’ 

“‘Hold  on,  comrade  !’  he  exclaimed,  pulling  a 
tin  bottle  from  his  pouch,  and  handing  it  to  me 
after  having  taken  a  long  draught  himself.  The 
flight  and  anxiety  had  consumed  my  strength,  and 
this  whole  horrid  day  I  had  not  yet  tasted  any 


nourishment.  I  feared  e  /en  that  I  should  die  in 
this  forest  of  starvation,  for  no  refreshments  could 
be  had  within  a  circuit  of  three  leagues.  Judge 
how  eagerly  I  responded  to  his  invitation.  New 
strength  was  poured  into  my  bones  with  this  re¬ 
freshing  draught,  and  new  courage  into  my  heart ; 
hope  and  the  love  of  life  were  again  kindled  in  my 
breast.  I  flattered  myself  with  the  thought  that 
I  was  not  entirely  miserable ;  such  a  power  ema¬ 
nated  from  this  welcome  drink.  I  confess,  my 
condition  again  bordered  on  happiness ;  for  at 
last,  after  a  thousand  disappointed  hopes,  I  had 
met  a  creature  that  seemed  like  me.  In  the  con¬ 
dition  to  which  I  had  sunk,  I  should  have  made 
friends  with  the  most  infernal  spirit,  in  order  to 
have  a  confidant. 

“The  man  had  stretched  himself  upon  the  grass. 
I  did  the  same. 

“‘Thy  drink  has  done  me  good,’  said  I,  ‘we 
must  become  better  acquainted.’ 

“  He  lit  his  pipe. 

“  ‘  Hast  thou  been  engaged  in  this  trade  long?’ 

“He  looked  at  me  fixedly.  ‘What  dost  thou 
mean  ?’ 

“  ‘  Was  that  stained  with  blood  more  than  once?’ 
I  drew  the  knife  from  his  belt. 

“  ‘  Who  art  thou  ?’  asked  he  terribly,  laying 
down  his  pipe. 

“  ‘  A  murderer  like  thyself,  but  only  a  beginner.’ 

“The  man  stared  at  rne,  resuming  his  pipe. 

“  ‘  Thou  art  not  born  in  this  neighborhood  ?’  he 
asked  after  a  while. 

“  Three  leagues  from  this  place.  The  Sun-keeper 
in  L - ,  if  thou  hast  heard  of  me. 

“  The  man  leaped  up,  like  one  possessed.  ‘  The 
poacher  Wolf?’  he  screamed  quickly. 

“‘The  same.’ 

“‘Welcome,  comrade!  Welcome!’  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  shaking  my  hand  violently.  ‘  Glad  I  got 
thee  at  last  !  For  years  I  have  studied  how  I 
might  win  thee.  I  know  thee  well.  I  know  every 
thing.  I  have  counted  upon  thee  long  since.’ 

“  ‘  Counted  upon  me  ?  For  what  ?’ 

“‘The  whole  country  talks  about  thee.  Thou 
hast  enemies,  a  bailiff  has  oppressed  thee,  Wolf! 
Thou  hast  been  ruined,  thy  wrongs  cry  to  heaven 
for  vengeance.’ 

“  The  man  became  excited — ‘Because  thou  hast 
killed  a  few  boars  which  the  duke  feeds  upon  our 
fields,  they  have  dragged  thee  for  years  through 
the  penitentiary  and  the  dungeons  of  a  fortress; 
they  have  robbed  thee  of  house  and  home,  have 
reduced  thee  to  beggary.  Has  it  come  to  this, 
that  man  is  to  be  valued  no  better  than  a  wild 
rabbit?  Are  we  not  better  than  cattle  ?  And  a 
fellow  like  thee  could  endure  this  ignominy?’ 

“  4  Could  I  help  it  ?’ 

“‘We  shall  see.  But  tell  me,  whence  comest 
thou  now,  and  what  is  thy  plan  ?’ 

“  I  told  him  my  whole  story.  The  man  did  not 
wait  to  the  end.  He  jumped  up  full  of  joy,  and 
dragged  me  after  him.  4  Come,  brother,’  said  he, 
‘  now  thou  art  prepared,  I  got  thee  now  where  I 
want  thee  to  be.  Thou  wilt  be  an  honor  to  me. 
Follow  me.’ 

“  ‘  Where  wilt  thou  lead  me  ?’ 

4‘ 4  Do  not  ask  any  questions.  Follow  me  1’ 
dragged  me  after  him  by  force. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


277 


“We  had  walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  The  fo¬ 
rest  became  more  and  more  declivitous,  impass¬ 
able  and  wild,  neither  of  us  spoke  a  word  until 
the  whistle  of  my  guide  finally  startled  me  out  of 
my  reverie.  I  opened  my  eyes  and  found  myself 
on  the  border  of  a  precipitous  rock  which  over¬ 
hung  a  deep  ravine.  A  second  whistle  answered 
from  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  rock,  and  a 
ladder  was  raised  as  if  of  its  own  accord  from  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine.  My  guide  descended  first, 
and  bade  me  wait  until  his  return.  *  First  I  must 
get  the  dog  chained,  thou  art  a  stranger,  and  the 
beast  might  tear  thee  to  pieces.’  He  left. 

“Now  I  stood  alone  before  the  precipice;  I 
knew  that  I  was  alone.  The  indiscretion  of  my 
guide  did  not  escape  my  attention.  All  I  had  to 
do  was  to  pull  up  the  ladder,  and  I  was  a  free 
man  and  my  flight  was  secured.  I  confess  that 
I  was  aware  of  this.  I  looked  down  into  the 
gulf  that  was  to  receive  me ;  it  reminded  me  ob¬ 
scurely  of  the  infernal  abyss,  from  which  there  is 
no  escape.  I  began  to  shudder  at  the  career 
which  I  was  about  to  enter  upon  ;  only  a  sudden 
flight  could  save  me.  I  am  making  up  my  mind 
to  it — already  my  arm  is  extended  toward  the 
ladder — but  suddenly  I  hear  a  voice  in  my  ears, 
and  the  scornful  laughter  of  demons  resounds  all 
around  me:  ‘What  does  a  murderer  risk?’  and 
my  arm  sinks  down  again  paralyzed.  My  account 
had  to  be  settled  ;  the  time  for  repentance  was 
past;  the  murder  which  I  had  committed  seemed 
to  shut  off  my  return  like  a  towpring  rock  in  my 
path.  At  the  same  time,  my  guide  had  returned, 
and  brought  me  a  message  to  come.  I  had  no 
choice  left,  and  descended  the  ladder. 

“We  had  hardly  walked  a  few  steps  beneath 
the  rock,  when  the  ground  became  more  open, 
and  a  few  cottages  became  visible.  These  cot¬ 
tages  surrounded  a  grass-plot,  upon  which  eigh¬ 
teen  or  twenty  men  had  encamped  around  a  coal- 
fire.  ‘  Here,  comrades,’  said  my  guide,  placing 
mein  the  midst  of  them;  ‘our  Sun-Keeper,  bid 
him  welcome  !’ 

“‘Sun-Iveeper!’  they  cried  with  one  voice,  and 
all  started  up,  pressing  around  me,  men  and 
women.  Let  me  confess  that  the  joy  seemed 
genuine  and  cordial.  Confidence,  respect  even, 
seemed  depicted  in  every  face  ;  one  squeezed  my 
hand,  another  shook  me  familiarly  by  my  sleeve, 
the  whole  scene  was  like  meeting  an  old  acquain¬ 
tance  whom  they  cherished.  My  arrival  had  in¬ 
terrupted  the  feast  that  was  about  to  begin.  It 
was  resumed  at  once,  and  I  was  obliged  to  join 
them  in  welcome.  The  repast  consisted  of  game 
of  every  kind,  and  the  wine-bottle  was  passed  un¬ 
ceasingly  from  neighbor  to  neighbor.  Ease  and 
harmony  seemed  to  animate  the  whole  band,  and 
all  vied  to  manifest  their  joy  at  my  arrival,  in  the 
wildest  manner. 

“  I  had  been  assigned  a  seat  between  two  fe¬ 
males,  which  was  considered  the  place  of  honor  at 
the  table.  I  expected  to  find  the  scum  of  their 
Bex,  but  how  great  was  my  astonishment  upon 
discovering  among  this  band  of  villains  the  most 
beautiful  forms  of  female  beauty  which  I  have 
ever  beheld.  Margaret,  the  oldest  and  hand¬ 
somest  of  the  two,  was  addressed  as  Miss,  and 
could  not  be  older  than  twenty-five  years.  Her 


language  was  characteristically  impudent,  her  ges¬ 
tures  still  more  so.  Mary,  the  younger,  had  been 
married,  but  had  run  away  from  her  husband,  who 
maltreated  her.  She  was  more  delicately  formed, 
but  looked  pale  and  thin,  and  was  less  striking 
than  her  fiery  companion.  Both  these  women 
made  an  effort  to  inflame  my  passion  ;  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Margaret  met  my  timidity  by  impudent 
jests,  but  the  woman  was  repulsive  to  me.  and 
my  heart  had  been  permanently  captivated  by  the 
timid  Mary. 

“  ‘  Thou  seest,  brother  Sun-Keeper,’  said  the 
man  who  had  brought  me  hither,  ‘  thou  seest  how 
we  live  here ;  every  day  is  like  this  one.  Is  it 
not,  companions  ?’ 

“‘  Every  day  like  this  one,’  ejaculated  the  band. 

“‘If  thou  canst  make  up  thy  mind  to  like  our 
mode  of  life,  well  then  remain  with  us,  and  be  our 
chief.  I  have  had  this  post  until  now ;  but  I  am 
willing  to  yield  to  thee.  Are  you  willing,  com¬ 
rades  ?’ 

“  A  joyous  ‘  yea  !’  was  shouted  from  every  throat. 

“My  head  glowed,  my  brain  was  stunned,  my 
blood  was  boiling  with  wine  and  desire.  The 
world  had  cast  me  out  like  a  leper,  here  I  met 
with  a  fraternal  reception,  benevolence,  and 
honor.  Whatever  choice  I  made,  death  awaited 
me;  here  I  had  a  chance  to  sell  my  life  for  a 
higher  price.  Sensual  lust  was  my  most  rabid 
desire ;  until  now,  the  other  sex  had  shown  me 
nothing  but  contempt;  here,  favors  and  unbridled 
pleasures  awaited  me.  My  resolution  was  soon 
taken.  ‘  I  remain  with  you,  comrades,’  I  ex¬ 
claimed,  stepping  forth  to  the  centre  of  the  band  ; 
‘  I  remain  with  you,’  I  exclaimed  again,  ‘  provided 
you  will  allow  me  the  undivided  possession  of  my 
fair  neighbor !’  All  agreed  to  grant  my  request  ; 
I  became  the  acknowledged  possessor  of  a  rob¬ 
ber-prostitute,  and  the  chief  of  a  band  of  thieves.” 

I  omit  the  subsequent  part  of  the  story ;  the 
reader  is  not  instructed  by  the  narration  of  mere 
abominations.  An  unfortunate  outcast  who  had 
sunk  so  low,  must  necessarily  permit  himself  every 
thing  that  revolts  humanity,  but  he  never  again 
committed  a  second  murder,  as  he  protested  even 
upon  the  rack. 

The  fame  of  this  man  spread  very  soon  through¬ 
out  the  whole  province.  The  roads  became  unsafe, 
citizens  were  alarmed  by  burglaries,  the  name  of 
the  Sun-keeper  became  the  terror  of  the  country- 
people,  justice  sought  to  arrest  him,  and  a  price  w  as 
set  upon  his  head.  He  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
elude  every  plan  to  take  him,  and  he  had  cunning 
enough  to  improve  the  superstition  of  the  peasant 
to  his  advantage.  His  band  had  to  start  the  re¬ 
port  that  he  had  concluded  an  alliance  with  the 
devil,  and  that  he  was  a  sorcerer.  The  country 
where  he  acted  his  part,  was  at  that  time  very 
much  less  enlightened  than  it  now  is  ;  this  report 
was  credited,  and  his  safety  was  secured.  Nobody 
cared  to  have  any  quarrel  with  the  dangerous  fel¬ 
low  to  whom  the  devil  himself  was  tributary. 

He  had  been  engaged  in  his  horrid  trade  for  one 
year,  when  he  began  to  become  disgusted  with  it. 
The  band  whose  captain  he  was,  did  not  fulfill  his 
brilliant  expectations.  At  first  its  seductive  out¬ 
side  had  dazzled  him  while  intoxicated  by  wine ; 
i  now  he  found  to  his  horror,  how  terribly  he  had 


278 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


been  deceived.  Hunger  and  want  took  the  place  of 
the  abundance  with  which  he  had  been  allured ;  very 
often  he  had  to  risk  his  life  to  obtain  a  meal  that  was 
scarcely  sufficient  to  protect  him  from  starvation. 
The  phantom  of  fraternal  concord  disappeared ! 
Envy,  suspicion,  and  jealousy  raged  in  the  bosoms 
of  these  depraved  villains.  Justice  had  promised 
a  reward  to  the  one  who  should  deliver  him  up 
alive,  and,  if  this  one  should  be  an  accomplice,  he 
was  to  have  a  free  pardon  besides  his  reward — a 
powerful  temptation  for  the  scum  of  humanity ! 
The  unfortunate  man  knew  his  danger.  The  hon¬ 
esty  of  those  who  betrayed  God  and  man  was  a 
poor  pledge  for  his  security.  His  sleep  was  gone  ; 
the  anguish  of  death  gnawed  at  his  soul ;  the  hor¬ 
rid  ghost  of  suspicion  rattled  behind  him  wherever 
he  fled,  tortured  him  while  awake,  laid  by  his  side 
when  he  retired  to  rest,  and  started  him  by  fright¬ 
ful  dreams.  The  dumb  conscience  regained  its 
voice,  and  the  stupefied  viper  of  repentance  awoke 
from  its  sleep  in  this  universal  tumult  of  his  breast. 
His  whole  hatred  now  turned  away  from  mankind, 
to  direct  its  keen  edge  against  himself.  He  for¬ 
gave  Nature,  and  fouud  nothing  execrable  but 
himself. 

The  unfortunate  man  had  exhausted  the  school 
of  vice  ;  his  natural  good  sense  at  last  conquered 
the  sad  illusion.  Now  he  felt  how  deeply  he  had 
fallen.  A  quiet  melancholy  took  the  place  of 
gritting  despair.  With  tears  he  wished  to  see  the 
past  restored  ;  he  fi*lt  certain  that  he  would  find 
it  altered.  He  began  to  hope  that  he  might  still 
be  permitted  to  become  an  honest  man,  because 
he  felt  himself  possessed  of  the  strength  to  become 
one.  At  the  very  acme  of  depravity  he  was  nearer 
to  virtue  than  he  had  been  before  committing  his 
first  crime. 

About  this  time  the  seven  year’s  war  had 
broken  out,  and  soldiers  were  enlisted  everywhere. 
This  circumstance  inspired  the  unfortunate  man 
with  hope  ;  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  sovereign,  from 
which  I  make  the  following  extract : 

“If  your  Grace  does  not  loathe  to  condescend 
to  me,  if  criminals  of  my  stamp  are  not  beyond  the 
pale  of  -your  mercy,  grant  me  a  hearing,  gracious 
sovereign  !  I  am,a  murderer  and  a  thief,  the  law 
condemns  me  to  death,  the  courts  are  in  search 
of  me,  and  I  offer  myself  up  voluntarily.  At  the 
same  time  I  lay  a  strange  request  at  the  foot  of 
your  throne.  I  detest  my  life,  nor  am  I  afraid  to 
die,  but  I  find  it  dreadful  to  die  without  having 
lived  first.  I  should  like  to  live  in  order  to  re¬ 
pair  a  part  of  the  past ;  I  should  like  to  live  in 
order  to  reconcile  the  state  which  I  have  offended. 
My  execution  would  be  an  example  to  the  world, 
but  no  compensation  for  my  deeds.  I  hate  vice, 
and  long  most  earnestly  for  honesty  and  virtue. 
I  have  shown  that  I  can  become  a  terror  to  my 
country ;  I  trust  that  I  am  not  without  some 
power  to  be  useful  to  it. 

“  1  am  aware  that  my  request  is  unheard  of. 
My  life  is  forfeited  ;  it  does  not  behoove  me  to 
negotiate  with  justice.  But  I  do  not  appear  be¬ 
fore  you  in  chains  ;  I  am  still  free,  and  my  fear  has 
the  smallest  part  in  my  request. 

“  I  supplicate  you  for  mercy.  I  dare  not  claim 
justice,  even  if  1  had  a  claim  to  it.  I  may  how¬ 
ever  remind  my  judge  of  one  circumstance.  The 


period  of  my  crimes  dates  from  the  sentence  which 
deprived  me  forever  of  my  honor.  If  I  had  been 
judged  more  equitably  at  that  period,  I  might  not 
now  perhaps  be  in  need  of  mercy. 

“  Let  mercy  stand  for  justice,  my  prince  !  If  it 
is  in  your  power  to  bend  the  law  in  my  favor,  let 
me  live  !  Let  me  devote  my  life  to  your  service  ! 
If  possible,  let  me  read  your  gracious  wall  in  the 
public  prints,  and  upon  your  invitation  I  shall 
appear  in  the  capital.  If  you  have  ordained 
otherwise,  well  then,  let  justice  take  its  course. 
I  shall  do  the  best  I  can.” 

This  petition  remained  unanswered  ;  likewise  a 
second  and  a  third,  when  the  criminal  requested 
permission  to  enter  the  cavalry  service.  His  hope 
of  pardon  being  entirely  gone,  he  resolved  to  quit 
the  country,  and  to  die  a  soldier’s  death  in  the 
service  of  the  King  of  Prussia. 

He  escaped  from  his  band  and  commenced  his 
journey.  His  road  went  by  a  small  country-town, 
where  he  intended  to  spend  the  night.  A  short 
time  previous,  strict  orders  had  been  issued  by  the 
authorities  to  examine  the  papers  of  travelers,  be¬ 
cause  the  sovereign,  a  prince  of  the  empire,  had 
taken  part  in  the  war.  A  similar  order  had  been  sent 
to  the  gate-keeper  of  the  little  town,  who  happened 
to  be  sitting  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the  barrier  wheii 
the  inn-keeper  arrived  on  horseback.  The  appear¬ 
ance  of  this  man  had  something  ludicrous,  and  at 
the  same  time  something  strange  and  frightful 
about  it.  The  emaciated  pony  which  he  bestrode, 
and  the  fantastical  selection  of  his  dress,  where 
taste  had  most  probably  been  consulted  less  than 
the  chronology  of  his  robberies,  contrasted  queerly 
with  a  face  that  showed  the  traces  of  so  many 
raging  passions  like  mutilated  corpses  upon  a 
battle-field.  The  gate-keeper  started  at  the 
strange  appearance.  He  had  grown  gray  in  the 
service,  and  an  experience  of  forty  years  had  en¬ 
abled  his  searching  eye  to  discern  the  physiognomy 
of  roving  vagabonds.  The  falcon-look  of  this  ex¬ 
plorer  did  not  fail  to  suspect  this  man  on  the 
present  occasion.  He  at  once  barred  the  gate  ; 
and  demanded  the  horseman’s  passport,  at  the 
same  time  seizing  the  bridle.  Wolf  was  prepared 
for  such  an  emergency,  and  showed  a  passport 
which  he  had  taken  from  an  English  merchant. 
But  this  single  document  was  pot  sufficient  to 
elude  the  experience  of  a  lifetime,  and  to  cause 
the  oracle  at  the  barrier  to  doubt  the  evidence  of 
his  senses.  The  gate-keeper  believed  his  own  eye 
more  than  the  paper,  and  Wolf  was  obliged  to 
follow  him  to  the  bailiff’s  office. 

The  bailiff  examined  the  passport  and  found  it 
all  right.  He  was  fond  of  news,  and  took  especial 
delight  in  discussing  the  reports  of  newspapers 
over  a  bottle  of  wine.  The  passport  informed  him 
that  its  possessor  arrived  from  the  enem}r’s  lands, 
where  the  war  was  now  raging.  He  hoped  to 
draw  private  news  from  the  stranger  and  sent  his 
secretary  back  with  the  passport  and  an  invita¬ 
tion  to  a  glass  of  wine. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Sun-keeper  had  stopped  in 
front  of  the  bailiff’s  office  ;  his  ludicrous  appear¬ 
ance  had  attracted  the  rabble  of  the  place  around 
him.  They  whispered  into  each  other’s  ears, 
pointed  alternately  at  the  nag  and  the  rider ; 
finally  the  jeers  of  the  people  increased  to  a  loud 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


279 


tumult.  Unfortunately,  the  horse  which  had  now 
become  the  subject  of  universal  remark,  had  been 
robbed  ;  he  imagined  that  it  had  been  described 
by  the  police  in  their  public  announcements,  and 
had  been  recognized  by  the  crowd.  The  unex¬ 
pected  hospitality  of  the  bailiff  completed  his 
suspicion.  He  felt  certain  that  the  false  charac¬ 
ter  of  his  passport  had  been  found  out,  and  that 
this  invitation  was  simply  a  trap  in  which  he  was 
to  be  caught  alive  and  without  resistance.  His 
evil  conscience  made  him  a  blockhead  ;  he  put 
spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloped  off  without  re¬ 
turning  an  answer. 

This  sudden  flight  roused  the  populace  to  a  row. 

“Thief!”  exclaimed  the  crowd;  all  rushed 
after  him.  For  the  horseman  it  was  a  question 
of  life  and  death  ;  he  had  gained  upon  his  pur¬ 
suers,  who  were  panting  after  him  with  breathless 
exhaustion  ;  he  was  on  the  point  of  being  saved, 
but  a  heavy  and  invisible  hand  seemed  raised 
against  hint,  the  sand  of  his  fate  had  run,  the  in¬ 
exorable  Nemesis  held  her  debtor.  He  had  re¬ 
treated  into  a  cul-de-sac,  and  had  to  return  again 
toward  his  pursuers. 

The  tumult  had  spread  through  the  whole 
place.  The  crowd  increased,  every  street  was  cut 
off;  a  host  of  enemies  was  marching  against  him. 

He  showed  his  pistol,  the  people  yielded  ;  he 
was  determined  to  open  a  passage  for  himself 
through  the  crowd.  “This  bullet,”  he  exclaimed, 
“  is  destined  for  the  hardy  fool  who  attempts  to 
hold  me!”  Fear  caused  the  mob  to  halt — a  bold 
blacksmith  grasped  his  arm  from  behind,  and  dis¬ 
located  the  finger  with  which  the  enraged  man 
touched  the  trigger.  The  pistol  fell  to  the  ground, 
the  defenseless  man  was  dragged  from  his  horse, 
and  carried  back  to  the  court-house  in  triumph. 

“Who  are  you?”  inquired  the  judge  with  a 
rather  rude  voice. 

“A  man  who  is  determined  not  to  answer  any 
questions  until  they  are  put  to  him  with  more 
politeness.” 

“  Who  are  you  ?” 

“What  I  told  you.  I  have  traveled  through 
the  whole  of  Germany,  but  I  have  never  met  with 
such  impudence  as  in  this  place.” 

“  Your  rapid  flight  excites  my  suspicion  ;  why 
did  you  flee  ?” 

“  Because  I  was  tired  of  being  the  butt  of  your 
rabble.” 

“  You  threatened  to  shoot.” 

“  My  pistol  was  not  loaded.”  It  was  examined, 
and  no  bullet  was  found  in  it. 

“  Why  do  you  carry  concealed  weapons  ?” 

“  Because  I  have  valuables  about  me,  and  I 
have  been  warned  of  the  Sun-keeper  who  is  said 
to  be  roving  in  these  parts.” 

“Your  answers  prove  a  good  deal  for  your 
boldness,  but  very  little  for  your  good  cause.  I 
shall  allow  you  time  until  to-morrow  to  tell  me  the 
whole  truth.” 

“  I  shall  repeat  my  statements.” 

“  Take  him  to  the  tower.” 

“To  the  tower?  Mr.  Bailiff,  I  trust  there  is 
justice  iu  this  country;  I  shall  demand  satisfac¬ 
tion.” 

“I  shall  give  you  satisfaction  as  soon  as  you 
are  justified.” 


Next  morning  the  bailiff  considered  that  the 
stranger  might  possibly  be  innocent;  that  his  im¬ 
perious  language  would  not  curb  the  man’s  head¬ 
strongness,  and  that  it  would  be  better  to  treat 
him  with  decency  and  moderation.  He  called  the 
jury  together,  and  summoned  the  prisoner  before 
this  court. 

“  Pardon  the  excited  manner  with  which  I  ac¬ 
costed  you  yesterday,  sir.” 

“  With  pleasure,  if  you  treat  me  politely.” 

“  Our  laws  are  rigid,  and  your  adventure  caused 
a  row.  I  cannot  allow  you  to  depart  without 
violating  my  duty.  Appearances  are  against  you. 
I  wish  you  could  tell  me  something  that  would  dis¬ 
pel  all  cause  of  suspicion  against  you.” 

“  Supposing  I  could  not?” 

“  In  that  case  I  shall  have  to  report  the  case  to 
government,  and  you  will  have  to  remain  under 
arrest  in  the  mean  while.” 

“  And  then  ?” 

“You  risk  to  be  whipped  across  the  frontier 
like  a  vagabond,  or,  at  least,  to  be  pressed  into 
the  army.” 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  during  which 
he  struggled  violently  with  himself;  after  awhile 
he  suddenly  turned  to  the  judge. 

“Will  you  allow  me  a  few  minutes  private  con¬ 
versation  ?” 

The  jury  looked  at  each  other  dubiously,  but, 
being  signified  to  withdraw,  left  their  chief  alone 
with  the  stranger. 

“  Well,  what  do  you  desire?” 

“Your  conduct  yesterday,  Mr.  Bailiff,  would 
never  have  induced  me  to  make  the  least  confes¬ 
sion,  for  I  defy  mere  power.  The  propriety  with 
which  you  treat  me  this  day,  has  inspired  me  with 
confidence  and  respect  toward  you.  I  believe  you 
to  be  a  noble-hearted  man.” 

“  What  have  you  to  say  ?” 

“  I  see  that  you  are  a  noble-hearted  man.  For 
a  long  time  past  I  have  desired  to  meet  a  man 
like  you.  Permit  me  to  touch  your  right  hand.” 

“  What  is  your  object  ?” 

“Your  hair  is  gray  and  venerable.  You  have 
lived  long  in  this  world — have  suffered  probably 
a  good  deal — have  you  not?  And  you  have  be¬ 
come  humane  ?” 

“  Sir,  what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“You  are  one  step  removed  from  eternity,  soon, 
soon,  you  will  need  God’s  mercy.  You  will  not 
deny  mercy  to  men.  Do  you  not  suspect  any  thing  ? 
With  whom  do  you  suppose  you  are  talking?” 

“  What  is  all  this  ?  You  frighten  me.” 

“Do  you  not  suspect?  Write  to  your  Prince 
how  you  found  me,  that  I  betrayed  myself  of 
my  own  free  choice.  Pray  that  God  may  have 
mercy  upon  him,  as  he  now  has  upon  me.  Pray 
for  me,  old  man,  and  let  a  tear  drop  upon  your 
report.  I  am  the  Sun-keeper.” 


THE  SPORT  OF  DESTINY. 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  TRUE  HISTORY. 

At.oysius  von  G - was  the  son  of  a  citizen 

of  distinction,  in  the  service  of - ,  and  the 


280 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


germs  of  liis  fertile  genius  had  been  early  de¬ 
veloped  by  a  liberal  education.  While  yet  very 
young,  but  already  well  grounded  in  the  principles 
of  knowledge,  he  entered  the  military  service  of 
his  sovereign,  to  whom  he  soon  made  himself 
known  as  a  young  man  of  great  merit,  and  still 

greater  promise.  G - was  now  in  the  full  glow 

of  youth,  so  also  was  the  prince.  G - was  ar¬ 

dent  and  enterprising;  the  prince,  of  a  similar 
disposition,  loved  such  characters.  Endued  with 
brilliant  wit,  and  a  rich  fund  of  information, 

G -  possessed  the  art  of  ingratiating  himself 

with  all  around  him  ;  he  enlivened  every  circle  in 
which  he  moved,  by  his  felicitous  humor,  and  in¬ 
fused  life  and  spirit  into  every  subject  that  came 
before  him.  The  prince  had  discernment  enough 
to  appreciate  in  another  those  virtues  which  he 
himself  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree.  Every 

thing  which  G - -  undertook,  even  to  his  very 

sports,  had  an  air  of  grandeur  ;  no  difficulties  could 
daunt  him,  no  failures  vanquish  his  perseverance. 
The  value  of  these  qualities  was  increased  by  an 
attractive  person,  the  perfect  image  of  blooming 
health  and  herculean  strength,  and  heightened  by 
the  eloquent  expression  natural  to  an  active  mind  ; 
to  these  was  added  a  certain  native  and  unaffected 
dignity,  chastened  and  subdued  by  a  noble  mo¬ 
desty.  If  the  prince  was  charmed  with  the  intel¬ 
lectual  attractions  of  his  young  companion,  his 
fascinating  exterior  irresistibly  captivated  his 
senses.  Similarity  of  age,  of  tastes,  and  of  cha¬ 
racter,  soon  produced  an  intimacy  between  them, 
which  possessed  all  the  strength  of  friendship, 
and  all  the  warmth  and  fervor  of  the  most  pas¬ 
sionate  love.  G - rose  with  rapidity  from  one 

promotion  to  another;  but,  whatever  the  extent 
of  favors  conferred,  they  still  seemed  in  the  esti¬ 
mation  of  the  prince  to  fall  short  of  his  deserts. 
His  fortune  advanced  with  gigantic  strides,  for 
the  author  of  his  greatness  was  his  devoted  admirer 
and  his  warmest  friend.  Not  yet  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  he  already  saw  himself  placed  on  an  emi¬ 
nence  hitherto  attained  only  by  the  most  fortunate 
at  the  close  of  their  career.  But  his  active  spirit 
was  incapable  of  reposing  long  in  the  lap  of  indo¬ 
lent  vanity,  or  of  contenting  itself  with  the  glit¬ 
tering  pomp  of  an  elevated  office,  to  perform  the 
behests  of  which  he  was  conscious  of  possessing 
both  the  requisite  courage  and  the  abilities. 
Whilst  the  prince  was  engaged  in  rounds  of  plea¬ 
sure,  his  young  favorite  buried  himself  among 
archives  and  books,  and  devoted  himself  with  labo¬ 
rious  assiduity  to  affairs  of  state,  in  which  he  at 
length  became  so  expert  that  every  matter  of  im¬ 
portance  passed  through  his  hands.  From  the 
companion  of  his  pleasures,  he  soon  became  first 
councilor  and  minister,  and  finally  the  ruler  of 
his  sovereign.  In  a  short  time  there  was  no  road 
to  the  prince’s  favor  but  through  him.  He  dis¬ 
posed  of  all  offices  and  dignities  ;  all  rewards  were 
received  from  his  hands. 

G - had  attained  this  vast  influence  at  too 

early  an  age,  and  had  risen  by  too  rapid  strides, 
to  enjoy  his  power  with  moderation.  The  emi¬ 
nence  on  which  he  beheld  himself  made  his  ambi¬ 
tion  dizzy,  and  no  sooner  was  the  final  object  of 
his  wishes  attained  than  his  modesty  forsook  him. ' 
The  respectful  deference  shown  him  by  the  first 


nobles  of  the  land,  by  all  who,  in  birth,  fortune, 
and  reputation,  so  far  surpassed  him,  and  which 
was  even  paid  to  him,  youth  as  he  was,  by  the 
oldest  senators,  intoxicated  his  pride,  while  his 
unlimited  power  served  to  develop  a  certain  harsh¬ 
ness  which  had  been  latent  in  his  character,  and 
which,  throughout  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  for¬ 
tune,  remained.  There  was  no  service,  however 
considerable  or  toilsome,  which  his  friends  might 
not  safely  ask  at  his  hands  ; — but  his  enemies 
might  well  tremble  !  for,  in  proportion  as  he  was 
extravagant  in  rewards,  so  was  he  implacable  in 
revenge.  He  made  less  use  of  his  influence  to 
enrich  himself  than  to  render  happy  a  number  of 
beings  who  should  pay  homage  to  him  as  the  au¬ 
thor  of  their  prosperity ;  but  caprice  alone,  and 
not  justice,  dictated  the  choice  of  his  subjects. 
By  a  haughty  imperious  demeanor  he  alienated 
the  hearts  even  of  those  whom  he  had  most  bene¬ 
fited  ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  converted  his 
rivals  and  secret  enviers  into  deadly  enemies. 

Amongst  those  who  watched  all  his  movements 
with  jealousy  and  envy,  and  who  were  silently  pre¬ 
paring  instruments  for  his  destruction,  was  Joseph 
Martinengo,  a  Piedmontese  count,  belonging  to 
the  prince’s  suite,  whom  G - himself  had  for¬ 

merly  promoted,  as  an  inoffensive  creature,  de¬ 
voted  to  his  interests,  for  the  purpose  of  supply¬ 
ing  his  own  place  in  attending  upon  the  pleasures 
of  the  prince — an  office  which  he  began  to  find 
irksome,  and  which  he  willingly  exchanged  for 
more  useful  employment.  Viewing  this  man 
merely  as  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  whom  he 
might  at  any  period  consign  to  his  former  insigni¬ 
ficance,  he  felt  assured  of  the  fidelity  of  his  crea¬ 
ture,  from  motives  of  fear  no  less  than  of  gratitude. 
He  thus  fell  into  the  very  error  committed  by 
Richelieu,  when  he  made  over  to  Louis  XIII.  as 
a  sort  of  plaything,  the  young  Le  Grand.  With¬ 
out  Richelieu’s  sagacity,  however,  to  repair  hig 
error,  he  had  to  deal  with  a  far  more  wily  enemy 
than  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  French  minister.  Instead 
of  boasting  of  his  good  fortune,  or  allowing  his  be¬ 
nefactor  to  feel  that  he  could  now  dispense  with 
his  patronage,  Martinengo  was,  on  the  contrary, 
the  more  cautious  to  maintain  a  show  of  depen¬ 
dence,  and  with  studied  humility  affected  to  attach 
himself  more  and  more  closely  to  the  author  of  his 
prosperity.  Meanwhile,  he  did  not  omit  to  avail 
himself,  to  its  fullest  extent,  of  the  opportunities 
afforded  him  by  his  office,  of  being  continually 
about  the  prince’s  person,  to  make  himself  daily 
more  useful,  and  eventually  indispensable  to  him. 
In  a  short  time  he  had  fathomed  the  prince’s  sen¬ 
timents  thoroughly,  had  discovered  all  the  ave¬ 
nues  to  his  confidence,  and  imperceptibly  stolen 
himself  into  his  favor.  All  those  arts  which  a 
noble  pride,  and  a  natural  elevation  of  character, 
had  taught  the  minister  to  disdain,  were  brought 
into  play  by  the  Italian,  who  scrupled  not  to  avail 
himself  of  the  most  despicable  means  for  attaining 
his  object.  Well  aware  that  man  never  stands  so 
much  in  need  of  a  guide  and  assistant  as  in  the 
paths  of  vice,  and  that  nothing  gives  a  stronger 
title  to  bold  familiarity  than  a  participation  in 
secret  indiscretions,  he  took  measures  for  exciting 
passions  in  the  prince  which  had  hitherto  lain 
dormant,  and  then  obtruded  himself  upon  him  as 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


281 


a  confidant  and  an  accomplice.  He  plunged  him 
especially  into  those  excesses  which  least  of  all 
endure  witnesses,  and  imperceptibly  accustomed 
the  prince  to  make  him  the  depository  of  secrets 
to  which  no  third  person  was  admitted.  Upon 
the  degradation  of  the  prince’s  character  he  now 
began  to  found  his  infamous  schemes  of  aggran¬ 
dizement,  and,  as  he  had  made  secrecy  a  means 
of  success,  he  had  obtained  entire  possession  of 
his  master’s  heart  before  G - even  allowed  him¬ 

self  to  suspect  that  he  shared  it  with  another. 

It  may  appear  singular  that  so  important  a 
change  should  escape  the  minister’s  notice ;  but 

G - was  too  well  assured  of  his  own  worth,  ever 

to  think  of  a  man  like  Marti nengo  in  the  light  of 
a  competitor ;  while  the  latter  was  far  too  wily, 
and  too  much  on  his  guard,  to  commit  the  least 
error  which  might  tend  to  rouse  his  enemy  from 
his  fatal  security.  That  which  has  caused  thou¬ 
sands  of  his  predecessors  to  stumble ‘on  the  slip¬ 
pery  path  of  royal  favor  was  also  the  cause  of 

G - ’s  fall  —  immoderate  self-confidence.  The 

secret  intimacy  between  his  creature  Martinengo 
and  his  royal  master  gave  him  no  uneasiness ;  he 
readily  resigned  a  privilege  which  he  despised,  and 
which  had  never  been  the  object  of  his  ambi¬ 
tion.  It  was  only  because  it  smoothed  his  way  to 
power  that  he  had  ever  valued  the  prince’s  friend¬ 
ship  and  he  inconsiderately  threw  down  the  ladder 
by  which  he  had  risen,  as  soon  as  he  had  attained 
the  wished-for  eminence. 

Martinengo  was  not  the  man  to  rest  satisfied 
with  so  subordinate  a  part.  At  each  step  which 
he  advanced  in  the  prince’s  favor  his  hopes  rose 
higher,  and  his  ambition  began  to  grasp  at  a  more 
substantial  gratification.  The  deceitful  humility 
which  be  had  hitherto  found  it  necessary  to  main¬ 
tain  toward  his  benefactor  became  daily  more 
irksome  to  him,  in  proportion  as  the  growth  of 
his  reputation  awakened  his  pride.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  minister’s  deportment  toward  him  by  no 
means  improved  with  his  marked  progress  in  the 
prince’s  favor,  but  was  often  too  visibly  directed 
to  rebuke  his  growing  pride  by  reminding  him  of 
his  humble  origin.  This  forced  and  unnatural 
position  having  become  quite  insupportable,  he  at 
length  formed  the  determination  of  putting  an  end 
to  it  by  the  destruction  of  his  rival.  Under  an 
impenetrable  vail  of  dissimulation  he  brought  his 
plan  to  maturity.  He  dared  not  venture  as  yet  to 
come  into  an  open  conflict  with  his  rival ;  for, 
although  the  first  glow  of  the  minister’s  favor  was 
at  an  end,  it  had  commenced  too  early,  and  struck 
root  too  deeply  in  the  bosom  of  the  prince,  to  be 
torn  from  it  abruptly.  The  slightest  circum¬ 
stance  might  restore  it  to  all  its  former  vigor ; 
and  therefore  Martinengo  well  understood  that 
the  blow  which  he  was  about  to  strike  must  be  a 

mortal  one.  Whatever  ground  G - might  have 

lost  in  the  prince’s  affections,  he  had  gained  in 
his  respect.  The  more  the  prince  withdrew  him¬ 
self  from  the  affairs  of  state,  the  less  could  he 
dispense  with  the  services  of  a  man,  who  with  the 
most  conscientious  devotion  and  fidelity  had  con¬ 
sulted  his  master’s  interests,  even  at  the  expense 
of  the  country, — and  G -  was  now  as  indis¬ 

pensable  to  him  as  a  minister  as  he  had  formerly 
leen  dear  to  him  as  a  friend. 


By  what  means  the  Italian  accomplished  his 
purpose  has  remained  a  secret  between  those  on 
whom  the  blow  fell  and  those  who  directed  it.  It 
was  reported  that  he  laid  before  the  prince  the 
original  draughts  of  a  secret  and  very  suspicious 
correspondence,  which  G - is  said  to  have  car¬ 

ried  on  with  a  neighboring  court;  but  opinions 
differ  as  to  whether  the  letters  were  authentic  or 
spurious.  Whatever  degree  of  truth  there  may 
have  been  in  the  accusation,  it  is  but  too  certain 
that  it  fearfully  accomplished  the  end  in  view.  In 

the  eyes  of  the  prince,  G - appeared  the  most 

ungrateful  and  vilest  of  traitors,  whose  treason¬ 
able  practices  were  so  thoroughly  proved,  as  to 
warrant  the  severest  measures  without  further  in¬ 
vestigation.  The  whole  affair  was  arranged  with 
the  most  profound  secrecy  between  Martinengo 

and  his  master,  so  that*G - had  not  the  most 

distant  presentiment  of  the  impending  storm. 
He  continued  wrapped  in  this  fatal  security,  until 
the  dreadful  moment  in  which  he  was  destined, 
from  being  the  object  of  universal  homage  and 
envy,  to  become  that  of  the  deepest  commisera¬ 
tion. 

When  the  decisive  day  arrived,  G - appeared, 

according  to  custom,  upon  the  parade.  He  had 
risen,  in  a  few  years,  from  the  rank  of  ensign  to 
that  of  colonel ;  and  even  this  was  only  a  modest 
name  for  that  of  prime  minister,  which  he  vir¬ 
tually  filled,  and  which  placed  him  above  the  fore¬ 
most  of  the  land.  The  parade  was  the  place 
where  his  pride  was  greeted  with  universal  homage, 
and  where  he  enjoyed,  for  one  short  hour,  the 
dignity  for  which  he  endured  a  whole  day  of  toil 
and  privation.  Those  of  the  highest  rank  ap¬ 
proached  him  with  reverential  deference,  and  those 
who  were  not  assured  of  his  favor,  with  fear  and 
trembling.  Even  the  prince,  whenever  he  visited 
the  parade,  saw  himself  neglected  by  the  side  of 
his  vizier,  inasmuch  as  it  was  far  more  dangerous 
to  incur  the  displeasure  of  the  latter  than  profit¬ 
able  to  gain  the  friendship  of  the  former.  This 
very  place,  where  he  was  wont  to  be  adored  as  a 
god,  had  been  selected  for  the  dreadful  theatre  of 
his  humiliation. 

With  a  careless  step  he  entered  the  well-known 
circle  of  courtiers,  who,  as  unsuspicious  as  himself 
of  what  was  to  follow,  paid  their  usual  homage, 
awaiting  his  commands.  After  a  short  interval 
appeared  Martinengo,  accompanied  by  two  ad¬ 
jutants,  no  longer  the  supple,  cringing,  smiling 
courtier,  but  overbearing  and  insolent,  like  a 
lackey  suddenly  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  gentle¬ 
man.  With  insolence  and  effrontery  he  strutted 
up  to  the  prime  minister,  and,  confronting  him 
with  his  head  covered,  demanded  his  sword  in  the 
prince’s  name.  This  was  handed  to  him  with  a 
look  of  silent  consternation  ;  Martinengo,  resting 
the  naked  point  on  the  ground,  snapped  it  in  two 

with  his  foot,  and  threw  the  fragments  at  G - ’s 

feet.  At  this  signal  the  two  adjutants  seized  him  ; 
one  tore  the  order  of  the  cross  from  his  breast ; 
the  other  pulled  off  his  epaulettes,  the  facings  of 
his  uniform,  and  even  the  badge  and  plume  of 
feathers  from  his  hat.  During  the  whole  of  this 
appalling  operation,  which  was  conducted  with 
incredible  speed,  not  a  sound  nor  a  respiration 
was  heard  from  more  than  five  hundred  persons 


282 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


who  were  present ;  but  all,  with  blanched  faces 
and  palpitating  hearts,  stood  in  death-like  silence 
around  the  victim,  who  in  his  strange  disarray — 
a  rare  spectacle  of  the  melancholy  and  the  ridicu¬ 
lous— underwent  a  moment  of  agony  which  could 
only  be  equaled  by  feelings  engendered  on  the 
scaffold.  Thousands  there  are  who  in  his  situa¬ 
tion  would  have  been  stretched  senseless  on  the 
ground  by  the  first  shock ;  but  his  firm  nerves, 
and  unflinching  spirit,  sustained  him  through  this 
bitter  trial,  and  enabled  him  to  drain  the  cup  of 
bitterness  to  its  dregs. 

When  this  procedure  was  ended,  he  was  con¬ 
ducted,  through  rows  of  thronging  spectators,  to 
the  extremity  of  the  parade,  where  a  covered  car¬ 
riage  was  in  waiting.  He  was  motioned  to  as¬ 
cend,  an  escort  of  hussars  being  ready  mounted 
to  attend  him.  Meanwhile,  the  report  of  this 
event  had  spread  through  the  whole  city  ;  every 
window  was  flung  open,  every  street  lined  with 
throngs  of  curious  spectators,  who  pursued  the 
carriage,  shouting  his  name,  amid  cries  of  scorn 
and  malicious  exultation,  or  of  commiseration 
more  bitter  to  bear  than  either.  At  length  he 
cleared  the  town,  but  here  a  no  less  fearful  trial 
awaited  him.  The  carriage  turned  out  of  the  | 
high  road  into  a  narrow,  unfrequented  path— a 
path  which  led  to  the  gibbet,  and  alongside 
which,  by  command  of  the  prince,  he  was  borne 
at  a  slow  pace.  After  he  had  suffered  all  the  tor¬ 
ture  of  anticipated  execution,  the  carriage  turned 
off  into  the  public  road.  Exposed  to  the  sultry 
summer-heat,  without  refreshment  or  human  con¬ 
solation,  he  passed  seven  dreadful  hours  in  jour¬ 
neying  to  the  place  of  destination — a  prison  for¬ 
tress.  It  was  nightfall  before  he  arrived  ;  when, 
bereft  of  all  consciousness,  more  dead  than  alive, 
his  giant  strength  having  at  length  yielded  to 
twelve  hours’  fast  and  consuming  thirst,  he  was 
dragged  from  the  carriage  ;  and — on  regaining 
his  senses — found  himself  in  a  horrible  subterra¬ 
neous  vault.  The  first  object  that  presented  itself 
to  his  gaze  was  a  horrible  dungeon  wall,  feebly 
illuminated  by  a  few  rays  of  the  moon,  which 
forced  their  way  through  narrow  crevices,  to  a 
depth  of  nineteen  fathoms.  At  his  side  he  found 
a  coarse  loaf,  a  jug  of  water,  and  a  bundle  of  straw 
for  his  couch.  He  endured  this  situation  until 
noon  the  ensuing  day,  when  an  iron  wicket  in  the 
centre  of  the  tower  was  opened,  and  two  hands 
were  seen  lowering  a  basket,  containing  food  like 
that  he  had  found  the  preceding  night.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  terrible  change  in  his  fortunes 
did  pain  and  suspense  extort  from  him  a  question 
or  two — Why  was  he  brought  hither  !  What  of¬ 
fense  had  he  committed?  But  he  received  no 
answer  ;  the  hands  disappeared  ;  and  the  sash  was 
closed.  Here,  without  beholding  the  face,  or  i 
hearing  the  voice  of  a  fellow-creature  ;  without  ' 
the  least  clue  to  his  terrible  destiny ;  fearful  doubts  i 
and  misgivings  overhanging  alike  the  past  and  the  : 
future ;  cheered  by  no  rays  of  the  sun,  and  i 
soothed  by  no  refreshing  breeze ;  remote  alike 
from  human  aid  and  human  compassion  ; — here,  : 
in  this  frightful  abode  of  misery,  he  numbered 
four  hundred  and  ninety  long  and  mournful  days, 
wnich  he  counted  by  the  wretched  loaves  that,  1 
day  after  day,  with  dreary  monotony,  were  let  ] 


down  into  his  dungeon.  But  a  discot  ery  which 
he  one  day  made  early  in  his  confinement,  filled 
up  the  measure  of  his  affliction.  He  recognized 
"the  place.  It  was  the  same  which  he  himself,  in  a 
fit  of  unworthy  vengeance  against  a  deserving  of¬ 
ficer,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  displease  him, 
had  ordered  to  be  constructed  only  a  few  months 
before.  With  inventive  cruelty,  he  had  even  sug¬ 
gested  the  means  by  which  the  horrors  of  capti¬ 
vity  might  be  aggravated  ;  and  it  was  but  recently 
that  he  had  made  a  journey  hither  in  order  per¬ 
sonally  to  inspect  the  place,  and  hasten  its  com¬ 
pletion.  What  added  the  last  bitter  sting  to  his 
punishment  was,  that  the  same  officer  for  whom 
he  had  prepared  the  dungeon,  an  aged  and  meri¬ 
torious  colonel,  had  just  succeeded  the  late  com¬ 
mandant  of  the  fortress,  recently  deceased,  and, 
from  having  been  the  victim  of  his  vengeance, 
had  become  the  master  of  his  fate.  He  was  thus 
deprived  of-the  last  melancholy  solace,  the  right 
of  compassionating  himself,  and  of  accusing  des¬ 
tiny,  hardly  as  it  might  use  him,  of  injustice.  To 
the  acuteness  of  his  other  suffering  was  now  added 
a  bitter  self  contempt,  and  the  pain  which  to  a 
sensitive  mind  is  the  severest — dependence  upon 
I  the  generosity  of  a  foe  to  whom  he  had  shown 
none. 

But  that  upright  man  was  too  noble-minded  to 
take  a  mean  revenge.  It  pained  him  deeply  to 
enforce  the  severities  which  his  instructions  en¬ 
joined  ;  but  as  an  old  soldier,  accustomed  to  fulfill 
his  orders  to  the  letter  with  blind  fidelity,  he 
could  do  no  more  than  pity,  compassionate.  The 
unhappy  mau  found  a  more  active  assistant  in  the 
chaplain  of  the  garrison,  who,  touched  by  the  suf¬ 
ferings  of  the  prisoner,  which  had  but  just  reached 
his  ears,  and  then  only  through  vague  and  con¬ 
fused  reports,  instantly  took  a  firm  resolution  to 
do  something  to  alleviate  them.  This  excellent 
man,  wdiose  name  I  unwillingly  suppress,  believed 
he  could  in  no  way  better  fulfill  his  holy  vocation, 
than  by  bestowing  his  spiritual  support  and  conso¬ 
lation  upon  a  wu-etched  being  deprived  of  all  other 
hopes  of  mercy. 

As  he  could  not  obtain  permission  from  the 
commandant  himself  to  visit  him,  he  repaired  in 
person  to  the  capital,  in  order  to  urge  his  suit 
personally  with  the  prince.  He  fell  at  his  feet, 
and  implored  mercy  for  the  unhappy  man,  who, 
shut  out  from  the  consolations  of  Christianity,  a 
privilege  from  which  even  the  greatest  crime 
ought  not  to  debar  him,  was  pining  in  solitude, 
and  perhaps  on  the  brink  of  despair.  With  all 
the  intrepidity  and  dignity  which  the  conscious 
discharge  of  duty  inspires,  he  entreated,  nay  de¬ 
manded,  free  access  to  the  prisoner,  whom  he 
claimed  as  a  penitent  for  whose  soul  he  was  re¬ 
sponsible  to  heaven.  The  good  cause  in  which 
he  spoke  made  him  eloquent,  and  time  had  already 
somewhat  softened  the  anger  of  the  prince.  He 
granted  him  permission  to  visit  the  prisoner,  and 
administer  to  his  spiritual  wants. 

After  a  lapse  of  sixteen  months,  the  first  hu¬ 
man  face  which  the  unhappy  G - -  beheld  was 

that  of  his  new  benefactor.  The  only  friend  he 
had  in  the  world  he  owed  to  his  misfortunes — all 
his  prosperity  had  gained  him  none.  The  good 
pastors  visit  was  like  the  appearance  of  an  angel 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


283 


— it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  his  feelings 
• — but  from  that  day  forth  his  tears  flowed  more 
kindly,  for  he  had  found  one  human  being  who 
sympathized  with  and  compassionated  him. 

The  pastor  was  filled  with  horror  on  entering 
the  frightful  vault.  His  eyes  sought  a  human 
form,  but  beheld,  creeping  toward  him  from  a  cor¬ 
ner  opposite,  which  resembled  rather  the  lair  of  a 
wild  beast  than  the  abode  of  any  thing  human,  a 
monster,  the  sight  of  which  made  his  blood  run 
cold.  A  ghastly  deathlike  skeleton — all  the  hue 
of  life  perished  from  a  face  on  which  grief  and 
despair  had  traced  deep  furrows — his  beard  and 
nails,  from  long  neglect,  grown  to  a  frightful 
length — his  clothes  rotten  and  hanging  about  him 
in  tatters;  and  the  air  he  breathed,  for  want  of 
ventilation  and  cleansing,  foul,  fetid,  and  infec¬ 
tious.  In  this  state  he  found  the  favorite  of  for¬ 
tune ; — his  iron  frame  had  stood  proof  against  it 
all !  Seized  with  horror  at  the  sight,  the  pastor 
hurried  back  to  the  governor,  in  order  to  solicit  a 
second  indulgence  for  the  poor  wretch,  without 
which  the  first  would  prove  of  no  avail. 

As  the  governor  again  excused  himself  by 
pleading  the  imperative  nature  of  his  instructions, 
the  pastor  nobly  resolved  on  a  second  journey  to 
the  capital,  again  to  supplicate  the  prince’s  mer¬ 
cy.  There  he  protested  solemnly  that,  without 
violating  the  sacred  character  of  the  sacrament, 
he  could  not  administer  it  to  the  prisoner  until 
some  resemblance  of  the  human  form  was  restored 
to  him.  This  prayer  was  also  granted  ;  and,  from 
that  day  forward,  the  unfortunate  man  might  be 
said  to  begin  a  new  existence. 

Several  long  years  were  spent  by  him  in  the 
fortress,  but  in  a  much  more  supportable  condi¬ 
tion,  atter  the  short  summer  of  the  new  favorite’s 
reign  had  passed,  and  others  succeeded  in  his 
place,  who  either  possessed  more  humanity,  or  no 
motive  for  revenge.  At  length,  after  ten  years 
of  captivity,  the  hour  of  his  delivery  arrived,  but 
without  any  judicial  investigation,  or  formal  ac¬ 
quittal.  He  was  presented  with  his  freedom  as  a 
boon  of  mercy,  and  was,  at  the  same  time,  ordered 
to  quit  his  native  country  forever. 

Here  the  oral  traditions  which  I  have  been  able 
to  collect  respecting  his  history  begin  to  fail ; 
and  I  find  myself  compelled  to  pass  in  silence 
over  a  period  of  about  twenty  years.  During  the 

interval,  G - entered  anew  upon  his  military 

career,  in  a  foreign  service ;  which  eventually 
brought  him  to  a  pitch  of  greatness  quite  equal 
to  that  from  which  he  had,  in  his  native  country, 
been  so  awfully  precipitated.  At  length,  time, 
that  friend  of  the  unfortunate,  who  works  a  slow 
but  inevitable  retribution,  took  into  his  hands  the 
winding  up  of  this  affair.  The  prince’s  days  of 
passion  were  over;  humanity  gradually  resumed 
its  sway  over  him  as  his  hair  whitened  with  age. 
At  the  brink  of  the  grave  he  felt  a  yearning  to¬ 
ward  the  friend  of  his  early  youth.  In  order  to 
repay,  as  far  as  possible,  the  gray-headed  old  man, 
for  the  injuries  which  had  been  heaped  upon  the 
youth,  the  prince,  with  friendly  expressions,  in¬ 
vited  the  exile  to  revisit  his  native  land,  toward 
which,  for  some  time  past,  G - ’s  heart  had  se¬ 

cretly  yearned.  The  meeting  was  extremely  try¬ 
ing,  though  apparently  warm  and  cordial,  as  if 


they  had  only  separated  a  few  days  before  The 
prince  looked  earnestly  at  his  favorite,  as  if  trying 
to  recall  features  so  well  known  to  him,  and  yet 
so  strange  ;  he  appeared  as  if  numbering  the  deep 
furrows  which  he  had  himself  so  cruelly  traced 
there.  He  looked  searchingly  in  the  old  man’s 
face,  for  the  beloved  features  of  the  youth,  but 
found  not  what  he  sought.  The  welcome,  and 
the  look  of  mutual  confidence,  were  evidently 
forced  on  both  sides ;  shame  on  one  side,  and 
dread  on  the  other,  had  forever  separated  their 
hearts.  A  sight  which  brought  back  to  the 
prince’s  soul  the  full  sense  of  his  guilty  precipi¬ 
tancy  could  not  be  gratifying  to  him  ;  while  G - 

felt  that  he  could  no  longer  love  the  author  of 
his  misfortunes.  Comforted,  nevertheless,  and  in 
tranquillity,  he  looked  back  upon  the  past  as  the 
remembrance  of  a  fearful  dream. 

In  short  time  G -  was  reinstated  in  all  his 

former  dignities,  and  the  prince  smothered  his 
feelings  of  secret  repugnance  by  showering  upon 
him  the  most  splendid  favors,  as  some  indemnifi¬ 
cation  for  the  past.  But  could  he  also  restore  to 
him  the  heart  which  he  had  forever  untuned  for 
the  enjoyment  of  life?  Could  he  restore  his  years 
of  hope  ?  or  make  even  a  shadow  of  reparation 
to  the  stricken  old  man  for  what  he  hud  stolen 
from  him  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 

For  nineteen  years  G —  continued  to  enjoy  this 
clear,  unruffled  evening  of  his  days.  Neither  mis¬ 
fortune  nor  age  had  been  able  to  quench  in  him 
the  fire  of  passion,  nor  wholly  to  obscure  the 
genial  humor  of  character.  In  his  seventieth 
year,  he  was  still  in  pursuit  of  the  shadow  of  a 
happiness  which  he  had  actually  possessed  in  his 
twentieth.  He  at  length  died  governor  of  the 
fortress  *  *  *,  where  state-prisoners  are  confined. 
One  would  naturally  have  expected  that  toward 
these  he  would  have  exercised  a  humanity,  the 
value  of  which  he  had  been  so  thoroughly  taught 
to  appreciate  in  his  own  person  ;  but  he  treated 
them  with  harshness  and  caprice  ;  and  a  paroxysm 
of  rage,  in  which  he  broke  out  against  one  of  his 
prisoners,  laid  him  in  his  coffin,  iu  his  eightieth 
year. 


THE  GHOST-SEER:  OR,  APPARITI0N1ST. 

FROM  THE  PAPERS  OF  COUNT  0  *  *  *  *  *. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 

I  am  about  to  relate  an  adventure,  which  to 
many  will  appear  incredible,  but  of  which  I  wTas 
in  great  part  an  eye-witness.  The  few  who  are 
acquainted  with  a  certain  political  event,  will,  if 
indeed  these  pages  should  happen  to  find  them 
alive,  receive  a  welcome  solution  thereof.  And, 
even  to  the  rest  of  my  readers,  it  will  be,  perhaps, 
important  as  a  contribution  to  the  history  ol  the 
deception  and  aberrations  of  the  human  intellect. 
The  boldness  of  the  schemes  which  malice  is  able 
to  contemplate  and  to  carry  out  must  excite  as¬ 
tonishment,  as  must  also  the  means  ol  which  it 
can  avail  itself  to  accomplish  its  aims.  Clear 
unvarnished  truth  shall  guide  my  pen  ;  for,  when 
these  pages  come  before  the  public,  I  shall  be  no 
more,  and  shall  therefore  never  learn  their  fate. 


284 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


On  my  return  to  Courland  in  the  year  1 7 — ,  about 
the  time  of  the  Carnival,  I  visited  the  prince  of 

-  at  Venice.  We  have  been  acquainted  in 

the  - service,  aud  we  here  renewed  an  inti¬ 

macy  which,  by  the  restoration  of  peace,  had  been 
interrupted.  As  I  wished  to  see  the  curiosities 
of  this  city,  and  as  the  prince  was  waiting  only 
for  the  arrival  of  remittances  to  return  to  his 
native  country,  he  easily  prevailed  on  me  to  tarry 
till  his  departure.  We  agreed  not  to  separate 
during  the  time  of  our  residence  at  Venice,  and 
the  prince  was  kind  enough  to  accommodate  me 
at  his  lodgings  at  the  Moor  Hotel. 

As  the  Prince  wished  to  enjoy  himself,  and  his 
small  revenues  did  not  permit  him  to  maintain  the 
dignity  of  his  rank,  he  lived  at  Venice  in  the 
strictest  incognito.  Two  noblemen,  in  whom  he 
had  entire  confidence,  and  a  few  faithful  servants, 
composed  all  his  retinue.  He  shunned  expendi¬ 
ture,  more  however  from  inclination  than  economy. 
He  avoided  all  kinds  of  dissipation,  and  up  to  the 
age  of  thirty-five  years  had  resisted  the  numerous 
allurements  of  this  voluptuous  city.  To  the 
charms  of  the  fair  sex  he  was  wholly  indifferent. 
A  settled  gravity  and  an  enthusiastic  melancholy 
were  the  prominent  features  of  his  character.  His 
affections  were  tranquil,  but  obstinate  to  excess. 
He  formed  his  attachments  with  caution  and 
timidity,  but  when  once  formed  they  were  cordial 
and  permanent.  In  the  midst  of  a  tumultuous 
crowd  he  walked  in  solitude.  Wrapped  in  his 
own  visionary  ideas,  he  was  often  a  stranger  to  the 
world  about  him  ;  and,  sensible  of  his  own  de¬ 
ficiency  in  the  knowledge  of  mankind,  he  scarcely 
ever  ventured  an  opinion  of  his  own,  and  was  apt 
to  pay  an  unwarrantable  deference  to  the  judg¬ 
ment  of  others.  Though  far  from  being  weak,  no 
man  was  more  liable  to  be  governed  ;  but,  when 
conviction  had  once  entered  his  mind,  he  became 
firm  and  decisive  ;  equally  courageous  to  combat 
an  acknowledged  prejudice,  or  to  die  for  a  new 
one. 

As  he  was  the  third  prince  of  his  house,  he  had 
no  likely  prospect  of  succeeding  to  the  sove¬ 
reignity.  His  ambition  had  never  been  awakened  ; 
his  passions  had  taken  another  direction.  Con¬ 
tented  to  find  himself  independent  of  the  will  of 
others,  he  never  enforced  his  own  as  a  law ;  his 
utmost  wishes  did  not  soar  beyond  the  peaceful 
quietude  of  a  private  life,  free  from  care.  He 
lead  much,  but  without  discrimination.  As  his 
education  had  been  neglected,  and  as  he  had  early 
entered  the  career  of  arms,  his  understanding  had 
never  been  fully  matured.  Hence  the  knowledge 
he  afterward  acquired  served  but  to  increase  the 
chaos  of  his  ideas,  because  it  was  built  on  an  un¬ 
stable  foundation. 

He  was  a  Protestant,  as  all  his  family  had  been, 
by  birth,  but  not  by  investigation,  which  he  had 
never  attempted,  although  at  one  period  of  his 
life  he  had  been  an  enthusiast  in  its  cause.  He 
had  never,  so  far  as  came  to  my  knowledge,  been 
a  Freemason. 

***** 

One  evening  we  were,  as  usual,  walking  by  our¬ 
selves,  well-masked,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark.  It 
was  growing  late,  and  the  crowd  was  dispersing, 
when  the  Prince  observed  a  mask  which  followed 


us  everywhere.  This  mask  was  an  Armenian  and 
walked  alone.  We  quickened  our  steps,  and  en¬ 
deavored  to  baffle  him  by  repeatedly  altering  our 
course.  It  was  in  vain,  the  mask  was  always  close 
behind  us.  “You  have  had  no  intrigue  here,  I 
hope,”  said  the  Prince  at  last,  “  the  husbands  of 
Venice  are  dangerous.”  “  I  do  not  know  a  single 
lady  in  the  place,”  was  my  answer.  “  Let  us  sit 
down  here,  and  speak  German,”  said  he,  “  I  fancy 
we  are  mistaken  for  some  other  persons.”  We 
sat  down  upon  a  stone  bench,  and  expected  the 
mask  would  have  passed  by.  He  came  directly 
up  to  us,  and  took  his  seat  by  the  side  of  the 
Prince.  The  latter  took  out  his  watch,  and,  rising 
at  the  same  time,  addressed  me  thus  in  a  loud 
voice  in  French.  “  It  is  past  nine.  Come,  we 
forget  that  we  are  waited  for  at  the  Louvre.” 
This  speech  he  only  invented  in  order  to  deceive 
the  mask  as  to  our  route.  “  Nine  !”  repeated  the 
latter  in  the  same  language,  in  a  slow  and  expres¬ 
sive  voice,  “Congratulate  yourself,  my  Prince.” 
(calling  him  by  his  real  name)  ;  “he  died  at  nine.” 
in  saying  this,  he  arose  and  went  away. 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement.  “Who 
is  dead?”  said  the  Prince  at  length,  after  a  long 
silence.  “  Let  us  follow  him  replied  I,  and 
demand  an  explanation.”  We  searched  every 
corner  of  the  place ;  the  mask  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  We  returned  to  our  hotel  disappointed. 
The  Prince  spoke  not  a  word  to  me  the  whole 
way ;  he  walked  apart  by  himself,  and  appeared  to 
be  greatly  agitated,  which  he  afterward  confessed 
to  me  was  the  case.  Having  reached  home,  he 
began  at  length  to  speak  :  “  Is  it  not  laughable,” 
said  he,  “that  a  madman  should  have  the  power 
thus  to  disturb  a  man’s  tranquillity  by  two  or  three 
words?”  We  wished  each  other  a  good  night; 
and,  as  soon  as  I  was  in  my  own  apartment,  I 
noted  down  in  my  pocket-book  the  day  and  the 
hour  when  this  adventure  happened.  It  was  on  a 
Thursday. 

The  next  evening  the  Prince  said  to  me, 
“  Suppose  we  go  to  the  square  of  St.  Mark,  and 
seek  for  our  mysterious  Armenian  ?  I  lofig  to  see 
this  comedy  unraveled.”  I  consented.  We  walked 
in  the  square  till  eleven.  The  Armenian  was  no¬ 
where  to  be  seen.  We  repeated  our  walk  the  four 
following  evenings,  and  each  time  with  the  same 
bad  success. 

On  the  sixth  evening,  as  we  went  out  of  the 
hotel,  it  occurred  to  me,  whether  designedly  or 
otherwise  I  cannot  recollect,  to  tell  the  servants 
where  we  might  be  found  in  case  we  should  be 
inquired  for.  The  Prince  remarked  my  precau¬ 
tion,  and  approved  of  it  with  a  smile.  We  found 
the  square  of  St.  Mark  very  much  crowded.— 
Scarcely  had  we  advanced  thirty  steps,  when  I 
perceived  the  Armenian,  who  was  pressing  rapidly 
through  the  crowd,  and  seemed  to  be  in  search 
of  some  one.  We  were  just  approaching  him, 

when  Baron  F - ,  one  of  the  Prince’s  retinue, 

came  up  to  us  quite  breathless,  and  delivered  to 
the  Prince  a  letter:  “It  is  sealed  with  black,” 
said  he,  “  and  we  supposed  from  this  that  it 
might  contain  matters  of  importance.”  I  was 
struck  as  with  a  thunderbolt.  The  Prince  went 
near  a  torch,  and  began  to  read.  “  My  cousin  is 
dead  !”  exclaimed  he.  “  When  ?”  inquired  1  anx- 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


285 


iously,  interrupting  him.  He  looked  again  into 
the  letter.  “  Last  Thursday  night  at  nine.” 

We  had  not  recovered  from  our  surprise  when 
the  Armenian  stood  before  us.  “You  are  known 
here,  my  Prince  !”  said  he.  “  Hasten  to  your 
hotel.  You  will  find  there  the  deputies  from  the 
Senate.  Do  not  hesitate  to  accept  the  honor 

they  intend  to  offer  you.  Baron  F - forgot  to 

tell  you  that  your  remittances  are  arrived.”  He 
disappeared  among  the  crowd. 

We  hastened  to  our  hotel,  and  found  every 
thing  as  the  Armenian  had  told  us.  Three  noble¬ 
men  of  the  republic  were  waiting  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  Prince,  and  to  escort  him  in  state 
to  the  Assembly,  where  the  first  nobility  of  the 
city  were  ready  to  receive  him.  He  had  hardly 
time  enough  to  give  me  a  hint  to  sit  up  for  him 
till  his  return. 

About  eleven  o’clock  at  night  he  returned.  On 
entering  the  room,  he  appeared  grave  and  thought¬ 
ful.  Having  dismissed  the  servants,  he  took  me 
by  the  hand,  and  said,  in  the  words  of  Hamlet, 
“  Count — 

“‘There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 

Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.' " 

“  Gracious  Prince  !”  replied  I,  “  you  seem  to  for¬ 
get  that  you  are  retiring  to  your  pillow  greatly  en¬ 
riched  in  prospect.”  The  deceased  was  the  heredi¬ 
tary  prince. 

“  Do  not  remind  me  of  it,”  said  the  prince ;  “  for, 
should  I  even  have  acquired  a  crown,  I  am  now 
too  much  engaged  to  occupy  myself  with  such  a 
trifle.  If  that  Armenian  has  not  merely  guessed 
by  chance - ” 

“How  can  that  be,  my  Prince?”  interrupted  I. 

“  Then  will  I  resign  to  you  all  my  hopes  of 
royalty  in  exchange  for  a  monk’s  cowl.” 

I  have  mentioned  this  purposely  to  show  how 
far  every  ambitious  idea  was  then  distant  from  his 
thoughts. 

The  following  evening  we  went  earlier  than 
usual  to  the  Square  of  St.  Mark.  A  sudden 
shower  of  rain  obliged  us  to  take  shelter  in  a 
coffee-house,  where  we  found  a  party  engaged  at 
cards.  The  Prince  took  his  place  behind  the 
chair  of  a  Spaniard  to  observe  the  game.  I  went 
into  an  adjacent  chamber  to  read  the  newspapers. 
A  short  time  afterward  I  heard  a  noise  in  the 
card-room.  Previously  to  the  entrance  of  the 
Prince,  the  Spaniard  had  been  constantly  loosing, 
but  since  then  he  had  won  upon  every  card.  The 
fortune  of  the  game  was  reversed  in  a  striking 
manner,  and  the  bank  -was  in  danger  of  being 
challenged  by  the  pointeur,  whom  this  lucky 
change  of  fortune  had  rendered  more  adventurous. 
A  Venetian,  who  kept  the  bank,  told  the  Prince 
in  a  very  rude  manner  that  his  presence  inter¬ 
rupted  the  fortune  of  the  game,  and  desired  him 
to  quit  the  table.  The  latter  looked  coldly  at 
him,  remained  in  his  place,  and  preserved  the 
same  countenance,  when  the  Venetian  repeated 
his  insulting  demand  in  French.  He  thought  the 
Prince  understood  neither  French  nor  Italian; 
and,  addressing  himself  with  a  contemptuous  laugh 
to  the  company,  said,  “  Pray,  gentlemen,  tell  me 
how  I  must  make  myself  understood  to  this  fool.” 
At  the  same  time  he  rose  and  prepared  to  seize 
the  Prince  by  the  arm.  His  patience  forsook  the  ! 


latter;  he  grasped  the  Venetian  with  a  strong 
hand,  and  threw  him  violently  on  the  ground. 
The  company  rose  up  in  confusion.  Hearing  the 
noise.  I  hastily  entered  the  room,  and  unguard¬ 
edly  called  the  Prince  by  his  name  :  “  Take  care,” 
said  I,  imprudently;  “we  are  in  Venice.”  The 
name  of  the  Prince  caused  a  general  silence,  which 
ended  in  a  whispering  which  appeared  to  me  to 
have  a  dangerous  tendency.  All  the  Italians  pre¬ 
sent  divided  into  parties,  and  kept  aloof.  One 
after  the  other  left  the  room,  so  that  we  soon 
found  ourselves  alone  with  the  Spaniard  and  a 
few  Frenchmen.  “You  are  lost,  Prince,”  said 
they,  “if you  do  not  leave  the  city  immediately. 
The  Venetian  whom  you  have  handled  so  roughly 
is  rich  enough  to  hire  a  bravo.  It  costs  him  b>H 
fifty  zechins  to  be  revenged  by  your  death.”  The 
Spaniard  offered,  for  the  security  of  the  Prince,  to 
go  for  the  guards,  and  even  to  accompany  us  home 
himself.  The  Frenchmen  proposed  to  do  the  same. 
We  were  still  deliberating  what  to  do,  when  the 
door  suddenly  opened,  and  some  officers  of  the 
Inquisition  entered  the  room.  They  produced  an 
order  of  government,  which  charged  us  both  to 
follow  them  immediately.  They  conducted  us 
under  a  strong  escort  to  the  canal,  where  a  gon¬ 
dola  was  waiting  for  us,  in  which  we  were  ordered 
to  embark.  We  were  blindfolded  before  we  landed. 
They  led  us  up  a  large  stone  staircase,  and  through 
a  long  winding  passage  over  vaults,  as  I  judged 
from  the  echoes  that  resounded  under  our  feet. 
At  length  we  came  to  another  staircase,  and, 
having  descended  a  flight  of  steps,  we  entered  a 
hall,  where  the  bandage  was  removed  from  our 
eyes.  We  found  ourselves  in  a  circle  of  venerable 
old  men,  all  dressed  in  black  ;  the  hall  was  hung 
round  with  black,  and  dimly  lighted.  A  dead 
silence  reigned  in  the  assembly,  which  inspired  us 
with  a  feeling  of  awe.  One  of  the  old  men,  who 
appeared  to  be  the  principal  Inquisitor,  ap¬ 
proached  the  Prince  with  a  solemn  countenance, 
and  said,  pointing  to  the  Venetian,  who  was  led 
forward. 

“  Do  you  recognize  this  man  as  the  same  who 
offended  you  at  the  coffee-house?” 

“  I  do,”  answered  the  Prince. 

Then  addressing  the  prisoner :  “  Is  this  the 
same  person  whom  you  meant  to  have  assassi¬ 
nated  to-night  ?” 

The  prisoner  replied  :  “Yes.” 

In  the  same  instant  the  circle  opened,  and  we 
saw  with  horror  the  head  of  the  Venetian  severed 
from  his  body. 

“  Are  you  content  with  this  satisfaction  ?”  said 
the  Inquisitor.  The  Prince  had  fainted  in  the 
arms  of  his  attendants.  “  Go,”  added  the  Inqui¬ 
sitor,  turning  to  me  with  a  terrible  voice,  “  Go ; 
and  in  future  judge  less  hastily  of  the  administra¬ 
tion  of  justice  in  Venice.” 

Who  the  unknown  friend  was  who  had  thua 
saved  us  from  inevitable  death,  by  interposing  in 
our  behalf  the  active  arm  of  justice,  we  could  not 
conjecture.  Filled  with  terror,  we  reached  our 
hotel.  It  was  past  midnight.  The  Chamberlain 
Z - was  waiting  anxiously  tor  us  at  the  door. 

“  How  fortunate  it  was  that  you  sent  us  a  mes¬ 
sage,”  said  he  to  the  Prince  as  he  lighted  us  up 
the  staircase.  “  The  news  which  Baron  F - - 


286 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


soon  after  brought  ns  respecting  you,  from  the 
Square  of  St.  Mark,  would  otherwise  have  given 
us  the  greatest  uneasiness.” 

“  I  sent  you  a  message  !”  said  the  Prince. 
“When?  I  know  nothing  of  it.” 

“  This  evening  after  eight,  you  sent  us  word 
that  we  must  not  be  alarmed  if  you  should  come 
home  later  to-night  than  usual.” 

The  Prince  looked  at  me.  “Perhaps  you  have 
taken  this  precaution  without  mentioning  it  to  me  ?” 

I  knew  nothing  of  it. 

“  It  must  be  so,  however,”  replied  the  chamber- 
lain.  “  since  here  is  your  repeating  watch,  which 
you  sent  me  as  a  mark  of  authenticity.” 

The  Prince  put  his  hand  to  his  watch-pocket. 
It  was  empty,  and  he  recognized  the  watch  which 
the  chamberlain  held  as  his  own. 

“  Who  brought  it  ?”  said  he  in  amazement. 

“  An  unknown  mask  in  an  Armenian  dress, 
who  disappeared  immediately.” 

We  stood  looking  at  each  other.  “  What  do 
you  think  of  this?”  said  the  Prince,  at  last,  after 
a  long  silence.  “  I  have  a  secret  guardian  here 
in  Venice.” 

The  frightful  transaction  of  this  night  threw 
the  Prince  into  a  fever,  which  confined  him  to  his 
room  for  a  week.  During  this  time  our  hotel  was 
crowded  with  Venetians  and  strangers,  who  visited 
the  Prince  from  a  deference  to  his  newly  dis¬ 
covered  rank.  They  vied  with  each  other  in 
offers  of  service,  and  it  was  not  a  little  entertain¬ 
ing  to  observe  that  the  last  visitor  seldom  failed 
to  hint  some  suspicion  derogatory  to  the  character 
of  the  preceding  one.  Billets-doux  and  nostrums 
poured  in  upon  us  from  all  quarters.  Every  one 
endeavored  to  recommend  himself  in  his  own  way. 
Our  adventure  with  the  Inquisition  was  no  more 

mentioned.  The  Court  of  -  wishing  the 

Prince  to  delay  his  departure  from  Venice  for 
some  time,  orders  were  sent  to  several  bankers  to 
pay  him  considerable  sums  of  money.  He  was 
thus,  against  his  will,  compelled  to  protract  his 
residence  in  Italy ;  and,  at  his  request,  I  also  re¬ 
solved  to  postpone  my  departure  for  some  time 
longer. 

As  soon  as  the  Prince  had  recovered  strength 
enough  to  quit  his  chamber,  he  was  advised  by  his 
physician  to  take  an  airing  in  a  gondola  upon  the 
Brenta,  for  the  benefit  of  the  air,  to  which,  as  the 
weather  was  serene,  he  readily  consented.  Just 
as  the  Prince  was  about  to  step  into  the  boat  he 
missed  the  key  of  a  little  chest  in  which  some 
very  valuable  papers  were  inclosed.  We  imme¬ 
diately  turned  back  to  search  for  it.  He  very 
distinctly  remembered  that  he  had  locked  the 
chest  the  day  before,  and  he  had  never  left  the 
room  in  the  interval.  As  our  endeavors  to  find  it 
proved  ineffectual,  we  were  obliged  to  relinquish 
the  search  in  order  to  avoid  being  too  late.  The 
Prince,  whose  soul  was  above  suspicion,  gave  up 
the  key  as  lost,  and  desired  that  it  might  not  be 
mentioned  any  more. 

Our  little  voyage  was  exceedingly  delightful. 
A  picturesque  country,  which  at  every  winding 
of  the  river  seemed  to  increase  in  richness  and 
beauty  ;  the  serenity  of  the  sky,  which  formed  a 
May  day  in  the  middle  of  February;  the  charming 
gardens  and  elegant  country-seats  which  adorned 


the  banks  of  the  Brenta ;  the  majestic  city  of 
Venice  behind  us,  with  its  lofty  spires,  and  a  forest 
of  masts,  rising  as  it  were  out  of  the  waves;  all 
this  afforded  us  one  of  the  most  splendid  prospects 
in  the  world.  We  wholly  abandoned  ourselves  to 
the  enchantment  of  Nature’s  luxuriant  scenery, 
our  minds  shared  the  hilarity  of  the  day,  even  the 
Prince  himself  lost  his  wonted  gravity,  and  vied 
with  us  in  merry  jests  and  diversions.  On  land¬ 
ing  about  two  Italian  miles  from  the  city,  we 
heard  the  sound  of  sprightly  music  ;  it  came  from 
a  small  village,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
Brenta,  where  there  was  at  that  time  a  fair.  Tho 
place  was  crowded  with  company  of  every  descrip¬ 
tion.  A  troop  of  young  girls  and  boys,  dressed 
in  theatrical  habits,  welcomed  us  in  a  panto- 
mimical  dance.  The  invention  was  novel;  anima¬ 
tion  and  grace  attended  their  every  movement. 
Before  the  dance  was  quite  concluded,  the  prin¬ 
cipal  actress,  who  represented  a  Queen,  stopped 
suddenly  as  if  arrested  by  an  invisible  arm.  Her¬ 
self  and  those  around  her  were  motionless.  The 
music  ceased.  The  assembly  was  silent.  Not  a 
breath  was  to  be  heard,  and  the  queen  stood  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  in  deep  abstraction. 
On  a  sudden  she  started  from  her  reverie,  with  the 
fury  of  one  inspired,  and  looked  wildly  around 
her:  “A  king  is  among  us!”  she  exclaimed, 
taking  her  crown  from  her  head,  and  laying  it  at 
the  feet  of  the  Prince.  Every  one  present  cast 
their  eyes  upon  him,  and  doubted  for  some  time 
whether  there  was  any  meaning  in  this  farce;  so 
much  were  they  deceived  by  the  impressive  serious¬ 
ness  of  the  actress.  This  silence  was  at  length 
broken  by  a  general  clapping  of  hands,  as  a  mark 
of  approbation.  I  looked  at  the  Prince.  I  no¬ 
ticed  that  he  appeared  not  a  little  disconcerted, 
and  endeavored  to  escape  the  inquisitive  glances 
of  the  spectators.  He  threw  money  to  the  play¬ 
ers,  and  hastened  to  extricate  himself  from  the 
crowd. 

We  had  advanced  but  a  few  steps,  when  a  ven¬ 
erable  bare-footed  friar,  pressing  through  the 
crowd,  placed  himself  in  the  Prince’s  path.  “My 
Lord  !”  said  he,  “give  the  Holy  Virgin  part  of 
your  gold.  You  will  want  her  prayers.”  He  ut¬ 
tered  these  words  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  star¬ 
tled  us  extremely,  and  then  disappeared  in  the 
throng. 

In  the  mean  time  our  company  had  increased. 
An  English  Lord,  whom  the  Prince  had  seen  be¬ 
fore  at  Nice,  some  merchants  of  Leghorn,  a  Ger¬ 
man  Prebendary,  a  French  Abbe  with  some  la¬ 
dies,  and  a  Russian  officer,  attached  themselves  to 
our  party.  The  physiognomy  of  the  latter  had 
something  so  uncommon  as  to  attract  our  parti¬ 
cular  attention.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  see  such 
various  features,  and  so  little  expression  ;  so  much 
attractive  benevolence,  and  such  forbidding  cold¬ 
ness  in  the  same  face.  Each  passion  seemed,  by 
turns,  to  have  exercised  its  ravages  on  it,  and  to 
have  successively  abandoned  it.  Nothing  re¬ 
mained  but  the  calm  piercing  look  of  a  person 
deeply  skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  mankind  ;  but 
it  was  a  look  that  abashed  every  one  on  whom  it 
was  directed.  This  extraordinary  man  followed 
us  at  a  distance,  and  seemed  apparently  to  take 
but  little  interest  in  what  was  passing. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


287 


We  came  to  a  booth  where  there  was  a  lottery. 
The  ladies  bought  shares.  We  followed  their  ex¬ 
ample,  and  the  Prince  himself  purchased  a  ticket. 
He  won  a  snuff-box.  As  he  opened  it,  I  saw  him 
turn  pale  and  turn  back.  It  contained  his  lost 
key. 

“  How  is  this  ?”  said  he  to  me,  as  we  were  left 
for  a  moment  alone.  “  A  superior  power  attends 
me,  Omniscience  surrounds  me.  An  invisible 
Being,  whom  I  cannot  escape,  watches  over  my 
steps.  I  must  seek  for  the  Armenian,  and  obtain 
an  explanation  from  him.” 

The  sun  was  setting  when  we  arrived  at  the 
pleasure  house,  where  a  supper  had  been  prepared 
for  us.  The  Prince’s  name  had  augmented  our 
company  to  sixteen.  Besides  the  above-mentioned 
persons,  there  was  a  Virtuoso  from  Rome  ;  seve¬ 
ral  Swiss  gentlemen,  and  an  adventurer  from  Pa¬ 
lermo  in  regimentals,  who  gave  himself  out  for  a 
Captain.  We  resolved  to  spend  the  evening 
where  we  were,  and  to  return  home  by  torch-light. 
The  conversation  at  table  was  lively.  The  Prince 
could  not  forbear  relating  his  adventure  of  the 
key,  which  excited  general  astonishment.  A  warm 
dispute  on  the  subject  presently  took  place.  Most 
of  the  company  positively  maintained  that  the 
pretended  occult  sciences  were  nothing  better 
than  juggling  tricks.  The  French  Able'  who  had 
drunk  rather  too  much  wine,  challenged  the  whole 
tribe  of  Ghosts  ;  the  English  Lord  uttered  blas¬ 
phemies,  and  the  musician  made  a  cross  to  exor¬ 
cise  the  devil.  Some  few  of  the  company, 
amongst  whom  was  the  Prince,  contended,  that 
opinions  respecting  such  matters  ought  to  be  kept 
to  oneself.  In  the  mean  time  the  Russian  officer 
discoursed  with  the  ladies,  and  did  not  seem  to 
pay  attention  to  any  part  of  the  conversation. 
In  the  heat  of  the  dispute,  no  one  observed  that 
the  Sicilian  had  left  the  room.  In  less  than  half 
an  hour  he  returned,  wrapt  in  a  cloak,  and  placed 
himself  behind  the  chair  of  the  Frenchman.  “  A 
few  moments  ago,”  said  he,  “  you  had  the  teme¬ 
rity  to  challenge  the  whole  tribe  of  Ghosts. 
Would  you  wish  to  make  a  trial  with  one  of  them  ?” 

“I  will,”  answered  the  Abbe,  “  if  you  will  take 
upon  yourself  to  introduce  one.” 

“That  I  am  ready  to  do,”  replied  the  Sicilian, 
turning  to  us,  “  as  soon  as  these  ladies  and  gen¬ 
tlemen  have  left  us.” 

“  Why  only  then  ?”  exclaimed  the  Englishman. 
“  A  courageous  Ghost  will  surely  not  be  afraid  of 
a  cheerful  company.” 

“  I  would  not  answer  for  the  consequence,” 
said  the  Sicilian. 

“For  heaven’s  sake,  no!”  cried  the  ladies, 
starting  affrighted  from  their  chairs. 

“Call  your  Ghost,”  said  the  Abbe,  in  a  tone  of 
defiance,  “  but  warn  him  beforehand,  that  there 
are  sharp-pointed  weapons  here.”  At  the  same 
time  he  asked  one  of  the  company  for  a  sword. 

“If  you  preserve  the  same  intention  in  his  pre¬ 
sence,”  answered  the  Sicilian,  coolly,  “  you  may 
then  act  as  you  please.”  He  then  turned  toward 
the  Prince  :  “  Your  Highness,”  said  he,  “  asserts 
that  your  key  has  been  in  the  hands  of  a  stranger  ; 
can  you  conjecture  in  whose  ?” 

“  No.” 

“  Have  you  no  suspicion  ?” 


“  It  certainly  occurred  to  me  that” — 

“  Should  you  know  the  person  if  you  saw  him  ?” 

“  Undoubtedly.” 

The  Sicilian,  throwing  back  his  cloak,  took  out 
a  looking-glass  and  held  it  before  the  Prince. 
“  Is  this  the  man  ?” 

The  Prince  drew  back  with  affright. 

“  Whom  have  you  seen  ?”  I  inquired. 

“  The  Armenian.” 

The  Sicilian  concealed  his  looking-glass  under 
his  cloak. 

“  Is  it  the  person  whom  you  thought  of?”  de¬ 
manded  the  whole  company. 

“  The  same.” 

A  sudden  change  manifested  itself  on  every 
face;  no  more  laughter  was  to  be  heard.  All 
eyes  were  fixed  with  curiosity  on  the  Sicilian. 

“  Monsieur  VAbbe!  The  matter  grows  serious,” 
said  the  Englishman.  “  I  advise  you  to  think  of 
beating  a  retreat.  ” 

“  The  fellow  is  in  league  with  the  devil,”  ex¬ 
claimed  the  Frenchman,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
house.  The  ladies  ran  shrieking  from  the  roor* 
The  Virtuoso  followed  them.  The  German  Preben¬ 
dary  was  snoring  in  the  chair.  The  Russian  offi¬ 
cer  continued  sitting  in  his  place  as  before,  per¬ 
fectly  indifferent  to  what  was  passing. 

“Perhaps  your  attention  was  only  to  raise  a 
laugh  at  the  expense  of  that  boaster,”  said  the 
Prince,  after  they  were  gone,  “or  would  you  in¬ 
deed  fulfill  your  promise  to  us  ?” 

“  It  is  true,”  replied  the  Sicilian  ;  “  I  was  but 
jesting  with  the  Abbe'.  I  took  him  at  his  word, 
because  I  knew  very  well  that  the  coward  would 
not  suffer  me  to  proceed  to  extremities.  The 
matter  itself  is  however  too  serious  to  serve 
merely  as  a  jest.” 

“  You  grant,  then,  that  it  is  in  your  power  ?” 

The  Sorcerer  maintained  a  long  silence,  and 
kept  his  look  fixed  steadily  on  the  Prince,  as  if  to 
examine  him. 

“  It  is  !”  answered  he  at  last. 

The  Prince’s  curiosity  was  now  raised  to  the 
highest  pitch.  A  fondness  for  the  marvelous  had 
ever  been  his  prevailing  weakness.  His  improved 
understanding,  and  a  proper  course  of  reading, 
had  for  some  time  dissipated  every  idea  of  this 
kind;  but  the  appearance  of  the  Armenian  had 
revived  them.  He  stepped  aside  with  the  Sici¬ 
lian,  and  I  heard  them  in  very  earnest  conversa¬ 
tion. 

“You  see  in  me,”  said  the  Prince,  “a  man  who 
burns  with  impatience  to  be  convinced  on  this 
momentous  subject.  I  would  embrace  as  a  bene¬ 
factor,  I  would  cherish  as  my  best  friend,  him  who 
could  dissipate  my  doubts,  and  remove  the  vail 
from  my  eyes.  Would  you  render  me  this  import¬ 
ant  service  V”  * 

“  What  is  your  request?”  inquired  the  Sicilian, 
hesitating. 

“  For  the  present  I  only  beg  some  proof  of 
your  art.  Let  me  see  an  apparition.” 

“To  what  will  this  lead  !” 

“  After  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  me, 
you  may  be  able  to  judge  whether  I  deserve  fur¬ 
ther  instruction.” 

“  I  have  the  greatest  esteem  for  your  Highness, 
gracious  Prince.  A  secret  power  in  your  coun- 


288 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


tenance,  of  which  you  yourself  are  as  yet  igno¬ 
rant,  drew  me  at  first  sight  irresistibly  toward 
you.  You  are  more  powerful  than  you  are  your¬ 
self  aware.  You  may  command  me  to  the  utmost 
extent  of  my  power,  but - ” 

*•  Then  let  me  see  an  apparition.” 

“  But  I  must  first  be  certain  that  you  do  not 
require  it  from  mere  curiosity.  Though  the  invi¬ 
sible  powers  are  in  some  degree  at  my  command, 
it  is  on  the  sacred  condition  that  I  do  not  abuse 
my  authority.” 

“  My  intentions  are  most  pure.  I  want  truth.” 

They  left  their  places,  and  removed  to  a  distant 
window,  where  I  could  no  longer  hear  them.  The 
English  lord,  who  had  likewise  overheard  this  con¬ 
versation,  took  me  aside.  “Your  Prince  has  a 
noble  mind.  I  am  sorry  for  him.  I  will  pledge 
my  salvation  that  he  has  to  do  with  a  rascal.” 

“  Every  thing  depends  on  the  manner  in  which 
the  Sorcerer  will  extricate  himself  from  this  bu¬ 
siness.” 

“  Listen  to  me.  The  poor  devil  is  now  pre¬ 
tending  to  be  scrupulous.  He  will  not  show  his 
tricks,  unless  he  hears  the  sound  of  gold.  There 
are  nine  of  us.  Let  us  make  a  CQllection.  That 
will  spoil  his  scheme,  and  perhaps  open  the  eyes 
of  the  Prince.” 

“I  am  content.”  The  Englishman  threw  six 
guineas  upon  a  plate,  and  went  round  gathering 
subscriptions.  Each  of  us  contributed  some  louis 
d’ors.  The  Russian  officer  was  particularly  pleased 
with  our  proposal ;  he  laid  a  bank  note  of  one 
hundred  zechins  on  the  plate  ;  a  piece  of  extra¬ 
vagance  which  startled  the  Englishman.  We 
brought  the  collection  to  the  Prince.  “Be  so 
kind,”  said  the  English  lord,  “  as  to  entreat  this 
gentleman  in  our  names  to  let  us  see  a  specimen 
of  his  art,  and  to  accept  of  this  small  token  of  our 
gratitude.”  The  Prince  added  a  ring  of  value, 
and  offered  the  whole  to  the  Sicilian.  He  hesi¬ 
tated  a  few  moments.  “  Gentlemen,”  answered 
he,  “  I  am  humbled  by  this  generosity,  but  I  yield 
to  your  request.  Your  wishes  shall  be  gratified.” 
At  the  same  time  he  rung  the  bell.  “  As  for  this 
money,”  continued  he,  “to  which  I  have  no  right 
myself,  permit  me  to  send  it  to  the  next  monas¬ 
tery,  to  be  applied  to  pious  uses.  I  shall  only 
keep  this  ring  as  a  precious  memorial  of  the 
worthiest  of  princes.” 

Here  the  landlord  entered  ;  and  the  Sicilian 
handed  him  over  the  money.  “  He  is  a  rascal 
notwithstanding,”  whispered  the  Englishman  to 
me.  “He  refuses  the  mouey  because  at  present 
his  designs  are  chiefly  on  the  Prince.” 

“  Whom  do  you  wish  to  see  ?”  asked  the  Sor¬ 
cerer. 

The  Prince  considered  for  a  moment.  “We 
may  as  well  have  a  great  man  at  once,”  said  the 
Englishman.  “  Ask  for  Pope  Ganganelli.  It 
can  make  no  difference  to  this  gentleman.” 

The  Sicilian  bit  his  lips.  “  I  dare  not  call  one 
of  the  Lord’s  anointed.” 

“  This  is  a  pity  !”  replied  the  English  lord  ; 
“  perhaps  we  might  have  heard  from  him  wbat 
disorder  he  died  of.” 

“The  Marquis  de  Lanoy”  began  the  Prince, 
“  was  a  French  brigadier  in  the  late  war,  and  my 
most  intimate  friend.  Having  received  a  mortal 


wound  in  the  battle  of  HastinbecTi ,  he  was  carried 
to  my  tent,  where  he  soon  after  died  in  my  arms. 
In  his  last  agony  he  made  a  sign  for  me  to  ap¬ 
proach.  ‘  Prince,’ said  he  to  me, ‘  I  shall  never 
again  behold  my  native  land,  I  must,  therefore, 
acquaint  you  with  a  secret  known  to  none  but 
myself.  In  a  convent  on  the  frontiers  of  Flan¬ 
ders  lives  a - .’  He  expired.  Death  cut 

short  the  thread  of  his  discourse.  I  wish  to  see 
my  friend  to  hear  the  remainder.” 

“You  ask  much,”  exclaimed  the  Englishman 
with  an  oath.  “  I  proclaim  you  the  greatest  sor¬ 
cerer  on  earth,  if  you  can  solve  this  problem,” 
continued  he,  turning  to  the  Sicilian.  We  ad¬ 
mired  the  wise  choice  of  the  Prince,  and  unani¬ 
mously  gave  our  approval  to  the  proposition.  In 
the  mean  time  the  Sorcerer  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  with  hasty  steps,  apparently  struggling 
with  himself. 

“  This  was  all  that  the  dying  Marquis  com¬ 
municated  to  you  ?” 

“  It  is  all.” 

“Did  you  make  no  further  inquiries  about  the 
matter  in  his  native  country?” 

“  I  did,  but  they  all  proved  fruitless.” 

“Had  the  Marquis  de  Lanoy  led  an  irreproach¬ 
able  life?  I  dare  not  call  up  every  shade  indis¬ 
criminately.” 

“  He  died,  repenting  the  excesses  of  his  youth.” 

“  Do  you  carry  with  you  any  token  of  his  ?” 

“I  do.” - (The  prince  had  really  a  snuff-box, 

with  the  marquis’s  portrait  enameled  in  miniature 
on  the  lid,  which  he  had  placed  upon  the  table 
near  his  plate  during  the  time  of  supper.) 

“  I  do  not  want  to  know  what  it  is.  If  you  will 
leave  me,  you  shall  see  the  deceased.” 

He  requested  us  to  wait  in  the  other  pavilion 
until  he  should  call  us.  At  the  same  time  he 
caused  all  the  furniture  to  be  removed  from  the 
room,  the  windows  to  be  taken  out,  and  the  shut¬ 
ters  to  be  bolted.  He  ordered  the  inn-keeper  with 
whom  he  appeared  to  be  intimately  connected,  to 
bring  a  vessel  with  burning  coals,  and  carefully  to 
extinguish  every  fire  in  the  house.  Previous  to 
our  leaving  the  room,  he  obliged  us  separately  to 
pledge  our  honor  that  we  would  maintain  an  ever¬ 
lasting  silence  respecting  every  thing  we  should 
see  and  hear.  All  the  doors  of  the  pavilion  we 
were  in  were  bolted  behind  us  when  we  left  it. 

It  was  past  eleven,  and  a  dead  silence  reigned 
throughout  the  whole  house.  As  we  were  retiring 
from  the  saloon,  the  Russian  officer  asked  me 
whether  wre  had  loaded  pistols.  “  For  what  pur¬ 
pose?”  asked  I. — “  They  may  possibly  be  of  some 
use,”  replied  he.  “  Wait  a  moment.  I  will  pro¬ 
vide  some.”  He  went  away;  the  Baron  F - 

and  I  opened  a  window  opposite  the  pavilion  we 
had  left ;  we  fancied  we  heard  two  persons  whis¬ 
pering  to  each  other,  and  a  noise  like  that  of  a 
ladder  applied  to  one  of  the  windows.  This  was, 
however,  a  mere  conjecture,  and  I  did  not  dare 
affirm  it  as  a  fact.  The  Russian  officer  came  back 
with  a  brace  of  pistols,  after  having  been  absent 
about  half  an  hour.  We  saw  him  load  them  with 
powder  and  ball.  It  was  almost  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  when  the  Sorcerer  came,  and  an¬ 
nounced  that  all  was  prepared.  Before  we  entered 
the  room,  he  desired  us  to  take  off  our  shoes,  and 


2— G.  p.  348 


2— E.  p.  288, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


289 


4 


to  appear  in  our  shirts,  stockings,  and  under  gar¬ 
ments.  He  bolted  the  doors  after  us  as  before. 

We  found  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  large 
black  circle,  drawn  with  charcoal,  the  space  within 
which  was  capable  of  containing  us  all  very  easily. 
The  planks  of  the  chamber  floor  next  to  the  wall 
were  taken  up,  all  round  the  room,  so  that  we 
stood,  as  it  were,  upon  an  island.  An  altar,  cov¬ 
ered  with  black  cloth,  was  placed  in  the  centre 
upon  a  carpet  of  red  satin.  A  Chaldee  Bible  was 
laid  open,  together  with  a  skull ;  and  a  silver 
crucifix  was  fastened  upon  the  altar.  Instead  of 
candles  some  spirits  of  wine  were  burning  in  a 
silver  vessel.  A  thick  smoke  of  frankincense 
darkened  the  room,  and  almost  extinguished  the 
lights.  The  Sorcerer  was  undressed  like  our¬ 
selves,  but  bare-footed ;  about  his  bare  neck  he 
wore  an  amulet,*  suspended  by  a  chain  of  human 
hair;  round  his  middle  was  a  white  apron,  marked 
with  cabalistic  characters  and  symbolic  figures. 
He  desired  us  to  join  hands,  and  to  observe  pro¬ 
found  silence;  above  all,  he  ordered  us  not  to  ask 
the  apparition  any  question.  He  desired  the 
Englishman  and  myself,  whom  he  seemed  to  mis¬ 
trust  the  most,  constantly  to  hold  two  naked 
swords  crossways,  an  inch  above  his  head,  as 
long  as  the  conjuration  should  last.  We  formed 
a  half  moon  round  him  ;  the  Russian  officer  placed 
himself  close  to  the  English  lord,  and  was  the 
nearest  to  the  altar.  The  Sorcerer  stood  upon 
the  satin  carpet  with  his  face  turned  to  the  east. 
He  sprinkled  holy  water  in  the  direction  of  the 
four  cardinal  points  of  the  compass,  and  bowed 
three  times  before  the  Bible.  The  formula  of  the 
conjuration,  of  which  we  did  not  understand  a 
word,  lasted  for  the  space  of  seven  or  eight  min¬ 
utes  ;  at  the  end  of  which  he  made  a  sign  to  those 
who  stood  close  behind  to  seize  him  firmly  by  the 
hair.  Amid  the  most  violent  convulsions  he 
called  the  deceased  three  times  by  his  name,  and 
the  third  time  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  toward 
.the  crucifix. 

On  a  sudden  we  all  felt,  at  the  same  instant,  a 
stroke  as  of  a  flash  of  lightning,  so  powerful  that 
it  obliged  us  to  quit  each  other’s  hands  ;  a  terri¬ 
ble  thunder  shook  the  house ;  the  locks  jarred  ; 
the  doors  creaked  ;  the  cover  of  the  silver  box 
fell  down,  and  extinguished  the  light ;  and  on  the 
opposite  wall,  over  the  chimney-piece,  appeared  a 
human  figure,  in  a  bloody  shirt,  with  the  paleness 
of  death  on  its  countenance. 

*  Amulet  is  a  charm  or  preservative  against  mischief, 
witchcraft,  or  diseases.  Amulets  were  made  of  stone, 
metal,  simples,  animals,  and  every  thing  which  fancy  or 
caprice  suggested  ;  and  sometimes  they  consisted  of  words, 
characters,  and  sentences,  ranged  in  a  particular  order, 
and  engraved  upon  wood,  and  worn  about  the  neck,  or 
gome  other  part  of  the  body.  At  other  times  they  were 
neither  written  nor  engraved,  but  prepared  with  many 
superstitious  ceremonies,  great  regard  being  usually  paid 
to  the  influence  of  the  stars.  The  Arabians  have  given 
to  this  species  of  Amulets  the  name  of  Talismans.  All 
nations  have  been  fond  of  Amulets.  The  Jews  were  ex¬ 
tremely  superstitious  in  the  use  of  them  to  drive  away 
diseases  ;  and,  even  amongst  the  Christians  of  the  early 
times,  Amulets  were  made  of  the  wood  of  the  Cross,  or 
ribands,  with  a  text  of  Scripture  written  in  them,  as  pre¬ 
servatives  against  diseases. 

Vol.  II.— 19 


“  Who  calls  me  ?”  said  a  hollow,  hardly  intelli¬ 
gible  voice. 

“Thy  friend,”  answered  the  Sorcerer,  “who  re¬ 
spects  thy  memory,  and  prays  for  thy  soul.” — He 
named  the  prince. , 

The  answers  ,of  the  apparition  wTere  always 
given  at  very  long  intervals. 

“What  does  he  want  with  me?”  continued  the 
voice. 

“  He  wants  to  hear  the  remainder  of  the  con¬ 
fession,  which  thou  hadst  begun  to  impart  to  him 
in  thy  dying  hour,  but  did  not  finish.” 

“In  a  convent  on  the  frontier  of  Flanders  lives 


The  house  again  trembled;  a  dreadful  thunder 
rolled  ;  a  flash  of  lightning  illuminated  the  room  ; 
the  doors  flew  open,  and  another  human  figure, 
bloody  and  pale  as  the  first,  but  more  terrible, 
appeared  on  the  threshold.  The  spirit  in  the  box 
begau  to  burn  again  by  itself,  and  the  hall  was 
light  as  before. 

“  Who  is  amongst  us  ?”  exclaimed  the  Sorcerer, 
terrified,  casting  a  look  of  horror  on  the  assem¬ 
blage  ;  “  I  did  not  want  thee.”  The  figure  ad¬ 
vanced  with  noiseless  and  majestic  steps  directly 
up  to  the  altar,  stood  on  the  satin  carpet  over 
against  us,  and  touched  the  crucifix.  The  first 
apparition  was  seen  no  more. 

“Who  calls  me?”  demanded  the  second  appa¬ 
rition. 

The  Sorcerer  began  to  tremble.  Terror  and 
amazement  kept  us  motionless  for  some  time.  I 
seized  a  pistol.  The  Sorcerer  snatched  it  out  of 
my  hand,  and  fired  it  at  the  apparition.  The  ball 
rolled  slowly  upon  the  altar,  and  the  figure 
emerged  unaltered  from  the  smoke.  The  Sorcerer 
fell  senseless  on  the  ground. 

“What  is  this?”  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  in 
astonishment,  aiming  a  blow  at  the  ghost  with  a 
sword.  The  figure  touched  his  arm,  and  the  wea¬ 
pon  fell  to  the  ground.  The  perspiration  stood 

on  my  brow  with  horror. — Baron  F - afterward 

confessed  to  me  that  he  had  prayed  silently. 

During  all  this  time  the  Prince  stood  fearless 
and  tranquil,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  second  appa¬ 
rition.  “Yes,  I  know  thee,”  said  he  at  length, 
with  emotion;  “Thou  art  Lanoy ;  thou  art  my 
friend.  Whence  comest  thou?” 

“  Eternity  is  mute.  Ask  me  concerning  mv  past 
life.” 

“  Who  is  it  that  lives  in  the  convent  which 
thou  mentionedst  to  me  in  thy  last  moments?” 

“  My  daughter.” 

“  How  ?  Hast  thou  been  a  father?” 

“  Woe  is  me  that  I  was  not !” 

■  “Art  thou  not  happy,  Lanoy?" 

“  God  has  judged.” 

“  Can  I  render  thee  any  further  service  in  this 
world  ?” 

“  None,  but  to  think  of  thyself.’ 

“  How  must  I  do  that?” 

“  Thou  wilt  learn  at  Rome.” 

The  thunder  again  rolled — a  black  cloud  of 
smoke  filled  the  room  ;  when  it  had  dispersed,  the 
figure  was  no  longer  visible.  I  forced  open  one 
of  the  window  shutters.  It  was  daylight. 

The  Sorcerer  now  recovered  from  his  swoon. 


290 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


“  Where  are  we  ?”  asked  he,  seeing  the  daylight. 
The  Russian  officer  stood  close  behind  him,  and 
looked  over  his  shoulder;  “  Juggler!”  said  he  to 
him,  with  a  terrible  countenance.  “  Thou  shalt 
summon  no  more  ghosts.” 

The  Sicilian  turned  round,  looked  steadfastly 
in  his  face,  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  threw  him¬ 
self  at  his  feet. 

We  looked  all  at  once  at  the  pretended  Rus¬ 
sian.  The  Prince  instantly  recognized  the  fea-  j 
tures  of  the  Armenian,  and  the  words  he  was 
about  to  utter  expired  on  his  tongue.  We  were 
all  as  it  were  petrified  with  fear  and  amazement. 
Silent  and  motionless,  our  eyes  we/e  fixed  on  this 
mysterious  being,  who  beheld  us  with  a  calm  but 
penetrating  look  of  grandeur  and  superiority.  A 
minute  elapsed  in  this  awful  silence  ;  another  suc¬ 
ceeded  ;  not  a  breath  was  to  be  heard. 

A  violent  battering  against  the  door  roused  us  at 
last  from  this  stupor.  The  door  fell  in  pieces  into 
the  room,  and  several  officers  of  justice,  with  a 
guard,  rushed  in.  “  Here  they  are,  all  together!” 
said  the  leader  to  his  followers. — Then  addressing 
himself  to  us — “  In  the  name  of  the  government,” 
continued  he,  “  I  arrest  you!”  We  had  no  time 
to  recollect  ourselves  ;  in  a  few  moments  we  were 
surrounded.  The  Russian  officer,  whom  I  shall 
again  call  the  Armenian,  took  the  chief  officer 
aside,  and,  as  far  as  I  in  my  confusion  could  no¬ 
tice,  1  observed  him  whisper  a  few  words  to  the 
latter,  and  show  him  a  written  paper.  The  officer, 
bowing  respectfully,  immediately  quitted  him, 
turned  to  us,  and  taking  off  his  hat,  said  :  “  Gen¬ 
tlemen,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon  for  having  con¬ 
founded  you  with  this  impostor.  I  shall  not  in¬ 
quire  who  you  are,  as  this  gentleman  assures  me 
you  are  men  of  honor.”  At  the  same  time  he 
gave  his  companions  a  sign  to  leave  us  at  liberty. 
He  ordered  the  Sicilian  to  be  bound  and  strictly 
guarded.  “  The  fellow  is  ripe  for  punishment,” 
added  he,  “  we  have  been  searching  for  him  these 
seven  months.” 

The  wretched  Sorcerer  was  really  an  object  of 
pity.  The  terror  caused  by  the  second  appari¬ 
tion,  and  by  this  unexpected  arrest,  had  together 
overpowered  his  senses.  Helpless  as  a  child,  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  bound  without  resistance. 
His  eyes  were  wide  open  and  immovable ;  his  face 
was  pale  as  death  ;  his  lips  quivered  convulsively, 
but  he  was  unable  to  utter  a  sound.  Every  mo¬ 
ment  we  expected  he  would  fall  into  a  fit.  The 
Prince  was  moved  by  the  situation  in  which  he 
saw  him.  He  undertook  to  procure  his  discharge 
f:om  the  leader  of  the  police,  to  whom  he  disco¬ 
vered  his  rank.  “  Do  you  know,  gracious  Prince,” 
said  the  officer,  “  for  whom  your  highness  is  so 
generously  interceding!  The  juggling  tricks  by 
which  he  endeavored  to  deceive  you  are  the  least 
of  his  crimes.  We  have  secured  his  accomplices; 
they  depose  terrible  facts  against  him.  He  may 
think  himself  fortunate  if  he  is  only  punished  with 
the  galleys.” 

In  the  mean  time  we  saw  the  inn-keeper  and  his 
family  led  bound  through  the  yard.  “  This  man 
too  ?”  said  the  Prince  ;  “  and  what  is  his  crime  ?” 
—  “He  was  his  comrade  and  accomplice,”  an¬ 
swered  the  officer.  “  He  assisted  him  in  his  de¬ 
ceptions  and  robberies,  and  shared  the  booty  with 


him.  Your  highness  shall  be  convinced  of  it 
presently.”  “Search  the  house,”  continued  he, 
turning  to  his  followers,  “  and  bring  me  immedi¬ 
ate  notice  of  what  you  find.” 

The  Prince  looked  around  for  the  Armenian, 
but  he  had  disappeared.  In  the  confusion  occa¬ 
sioned  by  the  arrival  of  the  watch,  he  had  found 
means  to  steal  away  unperceived.  The  Prince 
was  inconsolable;  he  declared  he  would  send  all 
his  servants,  and  would  himself  go  in  search  of 
this  mysterious  man  ;  and  he  wished  me  to  go 
with  him.  I  hastened  to  the  window  ;  the  house 
was  surrounded  by  a  great  number  of  idlers,  whom 
the  account  of  this  event  had  attracted  to  the 
spot.  It  was  impossible  to  get  through  the 
crowd.  I  represented  this  to  the  Prince.  “  If,” 
said  I,  “it  is  the  Armenian’s  intention  to  conceal 
himself  from  us,  he  is  doubtless  better  acquainted 
with  the  intricacies  of  the  place  than  we,  and  all 
our  inquiries  would  prove  fruitless.  Let  us  rather 
remain  here  a  little  longer,  gracious  prince,”  ad¬ 
ded  I.  “This  officer,  to  whom,  if  I  observed 
right,  he  discovered  himself,  may  perhaps  give  us 
some  information  respecting  him.” 

We  now,  for  the  first  time,  recollected  that  we 
were  still  undressed.  We  hastened  to  the  other 
pavilion,  and  put  on  our  clothes  as  quickly  as 
possible.  When  we  returned,  they  had  finished 
searching  the  house. 

On  removing  the  altar,  and  some  of  the  boards 
of  the  floor,  a  spacious  vault  was  discovered.  It 
was  high  enough,  for  a  man  might  sit  upright  in 
it  with  ease,  and  was  separated  from  the  cellar  by 
a  door  and  a  narrow  staircase.  In  this  vault  they 
found  an  electrical  machine,  a  clock,  and  a  little 
silver  bell,  which,  as  well  as  the  electrical  ma¬ 
chine,  was  in  communication  with  the  altar  and 
the  crucifix  that  wras  fastened  upon  it.  A  hole 
had  been  made  in  the  window  shutter,  opposite 
the  chimney,  which  opened  and  shut  with  a  slide. 
In  this  hole,  as  we  learned  afterward,  was  fixed  a 
magic  lantern,  from  which  the  figure  of  the  ghost 
had  been  reflected  on  the  opposite  wall,  over  the 
chimney.  From  the  garret  and  the  cellar  they 
brought  several  drums,  to  which  large  leaden 
bullets  were  fastened  by  strings ;  these  had  pro¬ 
bably  been  used  to  imitate  the  roaring  of  thunder 
which  we  had  heard. 

On  searching  the  Sicilian’s  clothes,  they  found 
in  a  case  different  powders,  genuine  mercury  in 
vials  and  boxes,  phosphorus  in  a  glass  bottle,  and 
a  ring,  which  we  immediately  knew  to  be  mag¬ 
netic,  because  it  adhered  to  a  steel  button  that  by 
accident  had  been  placed  near  it.  In  his  coat 
pockets  were  found  a  rosary,  a  Jew’s  beard,  a  dag¬ 
ger,  and  a  brace  of  pocket-pistols.  “Let  us  see 
whether  they  are  loaded,”  said  one  of  the  watch, 
and  fired  up  the  chimney. 

“Jesus  Maria!”  cried  a  hollow  voice,  which  we 
knew  to  be  that  of  the  first  apparition,  and  at  the 
same  instant  a  bleeding  person  came  tumbling 
down  the  chimney,  “  What !  not  yet  laid,  pool 
ghost  ?”  cried  the  Englishman,  while  we  started 
back  in  affright.  “  Home  to  thy  grave.  Thou 
hast  appeared  what  thou  wert  not,  now  thou  will 
become  what  thou  didst  but  seem.” 

“Jesus  Maria!  I  am  wounded,”  repeated  the 
man  in  the  chimney.  The  ball  had  fractured  his 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


291 


right  leg.  Care  was  immediately  taken  to  have 
the  wound  dressed. 

“  But  who  art  thou,”  said  the  English  lord  ; 
“and  what  evil  spirit  brought  thee  here?” 

“  I  am  a  poor  mendicant  friar,”  answered  the 
wounded  man;  “a  strange  gentleman  gave  me  a 
zechin  to - ” 

“Repeat  a  speech.  And  why  didst  thou  not 
withdraw  as  soon  as  thy  task  was  finished?” 

“  I  was  waiting  for  a  signal  which  we  had 
agreed  on  to  continue  my  speech  ;  but,  as  this 
signal  was  not  given,  I  was  endeavoring  to  get 
away,  when  I  found  the  ladder  had  been  re¬ 
moved.” 

“  And  what  was  the  formula  he  taught  thee?” 

The  wounded  man  fainted  away  ;  nothing  more 
could  be  got  from  him.  In  the  mean  time  the 
Prince  turned  toward  the  principal  officer  of  the 
watch,  giving  him  at  the  same  time  some  pieces 
of  gold  :  “  Y  ou  have  rescued  us,”  said  he,  “  from 
the  hands  of  an  impostor,  and  done  us  justice 
without  even  knowing  who  we  were  ;  would  you 
increase  our  gratitude  by  telling  us  the  name  of 
the  stranger  who,  by  speaking  only  a  few  words, 
was  able  to  procure  us  our  liberty.” 

“  Whom  do  you  mean  ?”  inquired  the  party  ad¬ 
dressed,  with  an  air  which  plainly  showed  that  the 
question  was  useless. 

“The  gentleman  in  a  Russian  uniform,  who 
took  you  aside,  showed  you  a  written  paper,  and 
whispered  a  few  words,  in  consequence  of  which 
you  immediately  set  us  free.” 

“  Do  not  you  know  the  gentleman?  Was  he 
not  one  of  your  company?” 

“  No,”  answered  the  Prince  ;  “  and  I  have  very 
important  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  more  inti¬ 
mately  acquainted  with  him.” 

“  I  know  very  little  of  him  myself.  Even  his 
name  is  unknown  to  me,  and  I  saw  him.  to-day  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.” 

“  How  ?  And  was  he  in  so  short  a  time,  and 
by  using  only  a  few  words,  able  to  convince  you 
both  of  our  innocence  and  his  own  ?” 

“  Uundoubtedly,  with  a  single  word.” 

“And  this  was  ? — I  confess  I  wish  to  know  it.” 

“This  stranger,  my  Prince!”  said  the  officer, 
weighing  the  zechins  in  his  hand:  “You  have 
been  too  generous  for  me  to  make  a  secret  of  it 
any  longer ;  this  stranger  is  an  officer  of  the  In¬ 
quisition.” 

“Of  the  inquisition  ?  This  man  ?” 

“He  is  indeed,  gracious  Prince.  I  am  con¬ 
vinced  of  it  by  the  paper  which  he  showed  to  me.” 

“  This  man,  did  you  say  ?  That  cannot  be.” 

“  I  will  tell  your  highness  more.  It  was  upon 
his  information  that  I  have  been  sent  here  to  ar¬ 
rest  the  Sorcerer.” 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  the  utmost  aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Now  we  know,”  said  the  English  lord,  at 
length,  “  why  the  poor  devil  of  a  Sorcerer  started 
in  such  terror  when  he  looked  more  closely  into 
his  face.  He  knew  him  to  be  a  spy,  and  that  is  why 
he  uttered  that  shriek,  and  fell  down  before  him.” 

“No  !r  interrupted  the  Prince.  “  This  man  is 
whatever  he  wishes  to  be,  and  whatever  the  mo¬ 
ment  requires  him  to  be.  No  mortal  ever  knew 
what  he  really  was.  Did  you  not  see  the  -knees 


of  the  Sicilian  sink  under  him,  when  he  said,  with 
that  terrible  voice  :  Thou  shalt  summon  no  more 
ghosts?  There  is  something  inexplicable  in  this 
matter.  No  person  can  persuade  me  that  one 
man  should  be  thus  alarmed  at  the  sight  of 
another.” 

“  The  Sorcerer  himself  will  probably  explain  it 
the  best,”  said  the  English  lord,  “if  that  gentle¬ 
man,”  pointing  to  the  officer,  “  will  afford  us  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  with  his  prisoner.” 

The  officer  consented  to  it,  and,  having  agreed 
with  the  Englishman  to  visit  the  Sicilian  in  the 
morning,  we  returned  to  Venice.* 

Lord  Seymour  (this  was  the  name  of  the  En¬ 
glishman)  called  upon  us  very  early  in  the  fore¬ 
noon,  and  was  soon  after  followed  by  a  confiden¬ 
tial  person  whom  the  officer  had  intrusted  with 
the  care  of  conducting  us  to  the  prison.  I  forgot 
to  mention  that  one  of  the  Prince’s  domestics,  a 
native  of  Bremen,  who  had  served  him  many  years 
with  the  strictest  fidelity,  and  had  entirely  gained 
his  confidence,  had  been  missing  for  several  days. 
Whether  he  had  met  with  any  accident,  whether  he 
had  been  kidnapped,  or  had  voluntarily  absented 
himself,  was  a  secret  to  every  one.  The  last  sup¬ 
position  was  extremely  improbable,  as  his  conduct 
has  always  been  quiet  and  regular,  and  nobody 
hau  ever  found  fault  with  him.  All  that  his  com¬ 
panions  could  recollect  was,  that  he  had  been  for 
some  time  very  melancholy,  and  that,  whenever 
he  had  a  moment’s  leisure,  he  used  to  visit  a  cer¬ 
tain  monastery  in  the  Giudecca,  where  he  had 
formed  an  acquaintance  with  some  monks.  This 
induced  us  to  suppose  that  he  might  have  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  priests,  and  had  been  per¬ 
suaded  to  turn  Catholic  ;  and,  as  the  Prince  was 
very  tolerant,  or  rather  indifferent  about  matters 
of  this  kind,  and  the  few  inquiries  he  caused  to  bs 
made  proved  unsuccessful,  he  gave  up  the  search. 
He,  however,  regretted  the  loss  of  this  man,  who 
had  constantly  attended  him  in  his  campaigns, 
had  always  been  faithfully  attached  to  him,  and 
whom  it  was  therefore  difficult  to  replace  in  a 
foreign  country.  The  very  same  day  the  Prince’s 
banker,  whom  he  had  commissioned  to  provide 
him  with  another  servant,  was  announced  at  the 
moment  we  were  going  out.  He  presented  to  the 
prince  a  middle-aged  man,  well  dressed,  and  of 
good  appearance,  who  had  been  for  a  long  time 
secretary  to  a  Procurator,  spoke  French,  and  a 
little  German,  and  was  besides  furnished  with  the 
best  recommendations.  The  Prince  was  pleased 
with  the  man’s  physiognomy  ;  and,  as  he  declared 
that  he  would  be  satisfied  with  such  wages  as  his 
service  should  be  found  to  merit,  the  Prince  en¬ 
gaged  him  immediately. 

We  found  the  Sicilian  in  a  private  prison, 

*-  Count  0 - ,  whose  narrative  I  have  thus  far  Lite¬ 

rally  copied,  describes  minutely  the  various  effects  of  this 
adventure  upon  the  mind  of  the  Prince,  and  of  his  com¬ 
panions,  and  recounts  a  variety  of  tales  of  apparitions, 
which  this  event  gave  occasion  to  introduce:  1  shall 
omit  giving  them  to  the  reader,  on  the  supposition  that 
he  is  as  curious  as  myself  to  know  the  conclusion  of  the 
adventure,  and  its  effects  on  the  conduct  of  the  Prince. 
I  shall  only  add,  that  the  Prince  got  no  sleep  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  the  night,  and  that  he  waited  with  impa¬ 
tience  for  the  moment  which  was  to  disclose  this  incom¬ 
prehensible  mystery. — Note  of  the  German  Editor. 


292 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


where,  as  the  officer  assured  us,  he  had  been 
lodged  for  the  present,  to  accommodate  the  Prince, 
before  being  removed  to  the  lead  roofs,  to  which 
there  is  no  access.  These  lead  roofs  are  the  most 
terrible  prisons  in  Venice.  They  are  situated  on 
the  top  of  the  palace  of  St.  Mark,  and  the  miser¬ 
able  criminals  suffer  so  dreadfully  from  the  heat  of 
the  leads,  occasioned  by  the  burning  rays  of  the 
sun  descending  directly  upon  them,  that  they  fre¬ 
quently  become  delirious.  The  Sicilian  had  re¬ 
covered  from  his  yesterday’s  terror,  and  rose  re¬ 
spectfully  on  seeing  the  Prince  enter.  He  had 
fetters  on  one  hand  and  one  leg,  but  was  able  to 
walk  about  the  room  at  liberty.  The  sentinel  at 
the  door  withdrew  as  soon  as  we  had  entered. 

“  I  come,”  said  the  Prince,  “to  request  an  ex¬ 
planation  of  you  on  two  subjects.  You  owe  me 
the  one,  and  it  shall  not  be  to  your  disadvantage 
if  you  grant  me  the  other.” 

“  My  part  is  now  acted,”  replied  the  Sicilian, 
“  my  destiny  is  in  your  hands.” 

“Your  sincerity  alone  can  mitigate  your  punish¬ 
ment.” 

“Speak,  honored  Prince,  I  am  ready  to  an¬ 
swer  you.  I  have  nothing  now  to  lose.” 

“  You  showed  me  the  face  of  the  Armenian  in  a 
looking-glass.  How  was  this  effected  ?” 

“  What  you  saw  was  no  looking-glass.  A  por¬ 
trait  in  crayons  behind  a  glass,  representing  a 
man  in  an  Armenian  dress,  deceived  you.  My 
quickness,  the  twilight,  and  your  astonishment 
favored  the  deception.  The  picture  itself  must 
have  been  found  among  the  other  things  seized  at 
the  inn.” 

“  But  how  could  you  read  my  thoughts  so  ac¬ 
curately  as  to  hit  upon  the  Armenian  ?” 

“This  was  not  difficult,  your  highness.  You 
must  frequently  have  mentioned  3rour  adventure 
with  the  Armenian  at  table  in  the  presence  of 
your  domestics.  One  of  my  accomplices  acci¬ 
dentally  got  acquainted  with  one  of  your  domes¬ 
tics  in  the  Giudecca,  and  learned  from  him  grad¬ 
ually  as  much  as  I  wished  to  know.” 

“  And  where  is  this  man  ?”  asked  the  Prince  ; 
“  I  have  missed  him,  and  doubtless  you  know  of 
his  desertion.” 

“  I  swear  to  your  honor,  sir,  that  I  know  not  a 
syllable  about  it.  I  have  never  seen  him  myself, 
nor  had  any  other  concern  with  him  than  the  one 
before  mentioned.” 

w  “  Proceed  with  your  story,”  said  the  Prince. 

By  this  means  also,  I  received  the  first  infor¬ 
mation  of  your  residence,  and  of  your  adventures 
git.1  Venice;  and  I  resolved  immediately  to  profit 
by,  th,em.  You  see,  Prince,  I  am  sincere.  I  was 
apprised  of  your  intended  excursion  on  the Brenta. 
I  w^as,  prepared  ft  r  it,  and  a  key  that  dropped  by 
chance  from  your  pocket  afforded  me  the  first 
op'pprtithity  of  trying  my  art  upon  you.” 

“How!  Have  I  been  mistaken?  The  adven¬ 
ture  of.  th.e  key  was  then  a  trick  of  yours,  and  not 
on  the  Armenian  !  You  say  this  key  fell  from  my 
pohket.”--  i 

‘^bu  accidently  dropped  it  in  taking  out  your 
purs%  and  T  seized  an  opportunity,  when  no  one 
noticed  me',  to  cover  it  with  my  foot.  The 
person, of  whom  you  bought  the  lottery-ticket 
acted  in  concert  with  me.  He  caused  you  to 


draw  it  from  a  box  where  there  was  no  blank 
and  the  key  had  been  in  the  snuff-box  long  befora 
it  came  into  your  possession.” 

“  I  understand  you.  And  the  monk  who  stopped 
me  in  my  way,  and  addressed  me  in  a  manner  so 
solemn.” 

“Was  the  same  who,  as  I  hear,  has  been 
wounded  in  the  chimney.  He  is  one  of  my  accom¬ 
plices,  and  under  that  disguise  has  rendered  me 
many  important  services.” 

“  But  what  purpose  was  this  intended  to  an¬ 
swer  ?” 

“  To  render  you  thoughtful  ;  to  inspire  you 
with  such  a  train  of  ideas  as  should  be  favorable 
to  the  wonders  I  intended  afterward  to  show 
you.” 

“  The  pantomimical  dance,  which  ended  in  a 
manner  so  extraordinary,  was  at  least  none  of  your 
contrivance  ?” 

“  I  had  taught  the  girl  who  represented  the 
Queen.  Her  performance  was  the  result  of  my 
instructions.  I  supposed  your  highness  would  not 
be  a  little  astonished  to  find  yourself  known  in 
this  place,  and  (I  entreat  your  pardon,  Prince) 
your  adventure  with  the  Armenian  gave  me  reason 
to  hope  that  you  were  already  disposed  to  reject 
natural  interpretations,  and  to  attribute  so  mar¬ 
velous  an  occurrence  to  supernatural  agency.” 

“  Indeed,”  exclaimed  the  Prince,  at  once  angry 
and  amazed,  and  casting  upon  me  a  significant 
look  ;  “  indeed  I  did  not  expect  this.”* 

“But,”  continued  he  after  a  long  silence,  “how 
did  you  produce  the  figure  which  appeared  on  the 
wall  over  the  chimney?” 

“  By  means  of  a  magic-lantern  that  was  fixed 
in  the  opposite  window-shutter,  in  which  you  have 
undoubtedly  observed  an  opening.” 

“  But  how  did  it  happen  that  not  one  of  us  per¬ 
ceived  the  lantern  ?”  asked  Lord  Seymour. 

“You  remember,  my  lord,  that  on  your  re¬ 
entering  the  room,  it  was  darkened  by  a  thick 
smoke  of  frankincense.  I  likewise  took  the  pre¬ 
caution  to  place  the  boards  which  bad  been  taken 

-  Neither  did  probably  the  greater  number  of  my 
readers.  The  circumstance  of  the  crown  deposited  at 
the  feet  of  the  prince,  in  a  manner  so  solemn  and  unex¬ 
pected,  and  the  former  prediction  of  the  Armenian,  seem 
so  naturally  and  obviously  to  aim  at  the  same  object, 
that  at  the  first  reading  of  these  memoirs  I  immediately 
remembered  the  deceitful  speech  of  the  Witches  in  Mac¬ 
beth  : — 

“Hail  to  thee,  Thane  of  Glamis! 

All  hail,  Macbeth  !  that  shall  be  king  hereafter!” 
and  probably  the  same  thing  has  occurred  to  many  of  my 
readers. 

When  a  certain  conviction  has  taken  hold  upon  a 
man’s  mind  in  a  solemn  and  extraordinary  manner,  it  is 
sure  to  follow,  that  all  subsequent  ideas,  which  are  in 
any  way  capable  of  being  associated  with  this  convic¬ 
tion,  should  attach  themselves  to,  and  in  some  degree, 
seem  to  be  consequent  upon  it.  The  Sicilian  who  seems 
to  have  had  no  other  motive  for  his  whole  scheme  than 
to  astonish  the  prince  by  showing  him  that  his  rank  was 
discovered,  played,  without  being  himself  aware  of  it, 
the  very  game  which  most  furthered  the  view  of  the 
Armenian  ;  but,  however  much  of  its  interest  this  adven¬ 
ture  will  lose,  if  I  take  away  the  higher  motive  which  at 
first  seemed  to  influence  these  actions,  I  must  by.no 
means  infringe  upon  historical  truth,  but  must  relate 
the  facts  exactly  as  they  occurred. — Note  of  the  German 
Editor. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


293 


tip  from  the  floor  upright  against  the  wall  near 
the  window.  By  these  means  I  prevented  the 
shutter  from  immediately  attracting  observation. 
Moreover,  the  lantern  remained  covered  by  a 
slide  until  you  had  taken  your  places,  and  there 
was  no  further  reason  to  apprehend  that  you 
would  institute  any  examination  of  the  saloon.” — 

“  As  I  looked  out  of  the  window  in  the  other 
pavilion,”  said  I,  “  I  fancied  I  heard  a  noise  like 
that  of  a  person  placing  a  ladder  against  the  side 
of  the  house.  Was  I  right  ?” 

“  Exactly :  it  was  the  ladder  upon  which  my 
assistant  stood  to  direct  the  magic-lantern.” 

“The  apparition,”  continued  "the  Prince,  “had 
really  a  superficial  likeness  to  my  deceased  friend, 
and  what  was  particularly  striking,  his  hair,  which 
was  of  a  very  light  color,  was  exactly  imitated. 
W  as  this  mere  chance,  or  how  did  you  come  by 
such  resemblance?” 

“  Your  highness  must  recollect  that  you  had  at 
table  a  snuff-box  by  your  plate,  with  an  enameled 
portrait  of  an  officer  in  a  *  *  *  uniform.  I  asked 
whether  you  had  any  thing  about  you  as  a  memento 
of  your  friend,  and  as  your  highness  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  I  conjectured  that  it  might  be  the 
box.  I  had  attentively  examined  the  picture 
during  supper,  and  being  very  expert  in  drawing, 
and  not  less  happy  in  taking  likenesses,  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  giving  to  my  shade  the  superficial  re¬ 
semblance  you  have  perceived,  the  more  so  as  the 
marquis’s  features  are  very  marked.” 

“But  the  figure  seemed  to  move?” 

“  It  appeared  so,  yet  it  was  not  the  figure  that 
moved,  but  the  smoke  on  which  the  light  was  re¬ 
flected.” 

“  And  the  man  who  fell  down  in  the  chimney 
spoke  for  the  apparition  ?” 

“He  did.” 

“  But  he  could  not  hear  your  questions  dis¬ 
tinctly  ?” 

“There  was  no  occasion  for  it.  Your  highness 
will  recollect  that  I  cautioned  you  all  very  strictly 
not  to  propose  any  question  to  the  apparition 
yourselves.  My  inquiries  and  his  answers  were 
preconcerted  between  us  ;  and,  that  no  mistake 
might  happen,  I  caused  him  to  speak  at  long  inter¬ 
vals,  which  he  counted  by  the  beating  of  a  watch.” 

“  You  ordered  the  inn-keeper  carefully  to  ex¬ 
tinguish  every  fire  in  the  house  with  water ;  this 
was  undoubtedly - ” 

“  To  save  the  man  in  the  chimney  from  the 
danger  of  being  suffocated  ;  because  the  chimneys 
in  the  house  communicated  with  each  other,  and  I 
did  not  think  myself  very  secure  from  your  retinue.” 

“How  did  it  happen,”  asked  Lord  Seymour, 
“  that  your  ghost  appeared  neither  sooner  nor 
later  than  you  wished  him  ?” 

“  The  ghost  was  in  the  room  for  some  time  before 
I  called  him,  but,  while  the  room  was  lighted,  the 
shade  was  too  faint  to  be  perceived.  When  the 
formula  of  the  conjuration  was  finished,  I  caused 
the  cover  of  the  box,  in  which  the  spirit  was 
burning,  to  drop  down,  the  saloon  was  darkened, 
and  it  was  not  till  then  that  the  figure  on  the  wall 
could  be  distinctly  seen,  although  it  had  been  re¬ 
flected  there  a  considerable  time  before.” 

“  When  the  ghost  appeared,  we  all  felt  an  elec¬ 
tric  shock.  How  was  that  managed  ?” 


“You  have  discovered  the  machine  under  the 
altar.  You  have  also  seen,  that  I  was  standing 
upon  a  silk  carpet.  I  directed  you  to  form  a  half 
moon  around  me,  and  to  take  each  other’s  hands 
When  the  crisis  approached,  I  gave  a  sign  to  ont 
of  you  to  seize  me  by  the  hair.  The  silver  crucifix 
was  the  conductor,  and  you  felt  the  electric  shock 
when  I  touched  it  with  my  hand.” 

“You  ordered  Count  0 - and  myself,”  con¬ 

tinued  Lord  Seymour,  “  to  hold  two  naked  swords 
crossways  over  your  head,  during  the  whole  time 
of  the  conjuration  ;  for  what  purpose  ?” 

“  For  no  other  than  to  engage  your  attention 
during  the  operation;  because" I  distrusted  you 
two  the  most.  You  remember,  that  I  expressly 
commanded  you  to  hold  the  sword  one  inch  above 
my  head  ;  by  confining  you  exactly  to  this  dis¬ 
tance,  I  prevented  you  from  looking  where  I  did 
not  wish  you.  I  had  not  then  perceived  rhy  prin¬ 
cipal  enemy.” 

“  I  own,”  cried  Lord  Seymour,  “  you  acted  with 
due  precaution  ;  but  why  were  we  obliged  to  ap¬ 
pear  undressed  ?” 

“  Merely  to  give  a  greater  solemnity  to  the 
scene,  and  to  excite  your  imaginations  by  the 
strangeness  of  the  proceeding.” 

“  The  second  apparition  prevented  your  ghost 
from  speaking,”  said  the  Prince.  “  What  should 
we  have  learned  from  him?” 

“Nearly  the  same  as  what  you  heard  afterward. 
It  was  not  without  design  that  I  asked  your  high¬ 
ness  whether  you  had  told  me  every  thing  that 
the  deceased  communicated  to  you,  and  whether 
you  had  made  any  further  inquiries  on  this  sub¬ 
ject  in  this  country.  I  thought  this  was  neces¬ 
sary,  in  order  to  prevent  the  deposition  of  the 
ghost  from  being  contradicted  by  facts  with  which 
you  were  previously  acquainted.  Knowing  like¬ 
wise  that  every  man  in  his  youth  is  liable  to  error, 
I  inquired  whether  the  life  of  your  friend  had  been 
irreproachable,  and  on  your  answer  I  founded  that 
of  the  ghost.” 

“Your  explanation  of  this  matter  is  satisfac¬ 
tory,”  resumed  the  Prince,  after  a  short  silence 
“  but  there  remains  a  principal  circumstance  which 
I  must  ask  you  to  clear  up.” 

“  If  it  be  in  my  power,  and - ” 

“No  conditions!  Justice,  in  whose  hands  you 
now  are,  might  perhaps  not  interrogate  you  with 
so  much  delicacy.  Who  was  this  unknown  at 
whose  feet  we  saw  you  fall  ?  What  do  you  know 
of  him  ?  How  did  you  get  acquainted  with  him  ? 
And  in  what  way  was  he  connected  with  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  the  second  apparition  ?” 

“  Your  highness - ” 

•  “  On  looking  at  him  more  attentively,  you  gave 
a  loud  scream,  and  fell  at  his  feet.  What  are  wre 
to  understood  by  that  ?” 

“  This  man,  your  highness - ”  He  stopped, 

grew  visibly  perplexed,  and  with  an  embarrassed 
countenance  look  around  him.  “Yes,  Prince,  by 
all  that  is  sacred,  this  unknown  is  a  terrible  being.” 

“  What  do  you  know  of  him  ?  What  connec¬ 
tion  have  you  with  him  ?  Do  not  hope  to  conceal 
the  truth  from  us.” 

“  I  shall  take  care  not  to  do  so  ;  for  who  will 
warrant  that  he  is  not  among  us  at  this  very  mo¬ 
ment?” 


294 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


“Where?  Who  ?”  exclaimed  we,  all  together  ' 
half  startled,  looking  about  the  room.  “That  is 
impossible.” 

“Ob!  to  this  man,  or  whatever  he  may  be, 
things  still  more  incomprehensible  are  possible.” 

“  But  who  is  he  !  Whence  comes  he  ?  Is  he  an 
Armenian  or  a  Russian  ?  Of  the  characters  he 
assumes,  which  is  his  real  one?” 

“  He  is  nothing  of  what  he  appears  to  be. 
There  are  few  conditions  or  countries  of  which  he 
has  not  worn  the  mask.  No  person  knows  who 
he  is,  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes.  That 
he  has  been  for  a  long  time  in  Egypt,  as  many 
pretend,  aud  that  he  has  broughtyfrom  thence, 
out  of  a  catacomb,  his  occult  sciences,  I  will 
neither  affirm  nor  deny.  Here  we  only  know  him 
by  the  name  of  the  Incomprehensible.  How  old, 
for  instance,  do  you  suppose  he  is?” 

“To  judge  from  his  appearance,  he  can  scarcely 
have  passed  forty.” 

“  And  of  what  age  do  you  suppose  I  am  ?” 

“  Not  far  from  fifty.” 

“  Quite  right ;  and  I  must  tell  you,  that  I  was 
but  a  boy  of  seventeen,  when  my  grandfather 
spoke  to  me  of  this  marvelous  man,  whom  he  had 
seen  at  Famagusta ;  at  which  time  he  appeared 
nearly  of  the  same  age  as  he  does  at  present.” 

“  This  is  exaggerated,  ridiculous  and  incred¬ 
ible.” 

“  By  no  means.  Were  I  not  prevented  by  these 
fetters,  I  could  produce  vouchers,  whose  dignity 
and  respectability  should  leave  you  no  room  for 
doubt.  There  are  several  credible  persons,  who 
remember  having  seen  him,  each  at  the  same  time, 
in  different  parts  of  the  globe.  No  sword  can 
wound,  no  poison  can  hurt,  no  fire  can  burn  him  ; 
no  vessel  in  which  he  embarks  can  be  wrecked. 
Time  itself  seems  to  lose  its  power  over  him. 
Years  do  not  affect  his  constitution,  nor  age 
whiten  his  hair.  Never  was  he  seen  to  take  any 
food.  Never  did  he  approach  a  woman.  No 
sleep  closes  his  eyes.  Of  the  twenty-four  hours 
in  the  day,  there  is  only  one  which  he  cannot 
command  ;  during  which  no  person  ever  saw  him, 
and  during  which  he  never  was  employed  in  any 
terrestrial  occupation.” 

“  And  this  hour  is?” - 

“The  twelfth  in  the  night.  When  the  clock 
strikes  twelve  at  midnight  he  ceases  to  belong  to 
the  living.  In  whatever  place  he  is,  he  must  im¬ 
mediately  be  gone;  whatever  business  he  is  en¬ 
gaged  in,  he  must  instantly  leave  it.  The  terrible 
sound  of  the  hour  of  midnight  tears  him  from  the 
arms  of  friendship,  wrests  him  from  the  altar,  and 
would  drag  him  away  even  in  the  agonies  of  death. 
Whither  he  then  goes,  or  what  he  is  then  engaged 
in,  is  a  secret  to  every  one.  No  person  ventures 
to  interrogate,  still  less  to  follow  him.  His  feat¬ 
ures,  at  this  dreadful  hour,  assume  a  sternness  of 
expression  so  gloomy  and  terrifying,  that  no 
person  has  courage  sufficient  to  look  him  in  the 
face,  or  to  speak  a  word  to  him.  However  lively 
the  conversation  may  have  been,  a  dead  silence 
immediately  succeeds  it,  and  all  around  wait  for 
his  return  in  respectful  silence,  without  venturing 
to  quit  their  seats,  or  to  open  the  door  through 
which  he  has  passed.” 


“  Does  nothing  extraordinary  appear  in  his 
person  when  he  returns  ?”  inquired  one  of  our 
party. 

“  Nothing,  except  that  he  seems  pale  and  ex¬ 
hausted,  like  a  man  who  has  just  suffered  a  pain¬ 
ful  operation,  or  received  some  disastrous  intelli¬ 
gence.  Some  pretend  to  have  seen  drops  of  blood 
on  his  linen,  but  with  what  degree  of  veracity  I 
cannot  affirm.” 

“  Did  no  person  ever  attempt  to  conceal  the 
approach  of  this  hour  from  him,  or  endeavor  to 
preoccupy  his  mind  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make 
him  forget  it  ?” 

“  Once  only,  it  is  said,  he  missed  the  appointed 
time.  The  company  was  numerous  and  remained 
together  late  in  the  night.  All  the  clocks  and 
watches  were  purposely  set  wrong,  and  the  warmth 
of  conversation  carried  him  away.  When  the 
stated  hour  arrived,  he  suddenly  became  silent 
and  motionless  ;  his  limbs  continued  in  the  posi¬ 
tion  in  which  this  instant  had  arrested  them  ;  his 
eyes  were  fixed  ;  his  pulse  ceased  to  beat.  All 
the  means  employed  to  awake  him  proved  fruit¬ 
less,  and  this  situation  endured  till  the  hour  had 
elapsed.  He  then  revived  on  a  sudden  without 
any  assistance,  opened  his  eyes,  and  reassumed  his 
speech  at  the  very  syllable  which  he  was  pronouncing 
at  the  moment  of  interruption.  The  general  con¬ 
sternation  discovered  to  him  what  had  happened, 
and  he  declared,  with  an  awful  solemnity,  that 
they  ought  to  think  themselves  happy  in  having 
escaped  with  the  fright  alone.  The  same  night  he 
quitted  forever  the  city  where  this  circumstance 
had  occurred.  The  common  opinion  is  that  during 
this  mysterious  hour  he  converses  with  his  genius. 
Some  even  suppose  him  to  be  one  of  the  departed, 
who  is  allowed  to  pass  twenty-three  hours  of  the 
day  among  the  living,  and  that  in  the  twenty- 
fourth  his  soul  is  obliged  to  return  to  the  infernal 
regions,  to  suffer  its  punishment.  Some  believe 
him  to  be  the  famous  Appolonius  of  Tyana ;  and 
others,  the  disciple  of  John,  of  whom  it  is  said — 
he  shall  remain  until  the  last  judgment.” 

“  A  character  so  wonderful,”  replied  the  Prince, 
“  cannot  fail  to  give  rise  to  whimsical  conjectures. 
But  all  this  you  profess  to  know  only  by  hearsay, 
and  yet  his  behavior  to  you,  and  yours  to  him, 
seemed  to  indicate  a  more  intimate  acquaintance. 
Is  it  not  founded  upon  some  particular  event  in 
which  you  have  yourself  been  concerned?  Con¬ 
ceal  nothing  from  us.” 

The  Sicilian  looked  at  us  doubtingly  and  re¬ 
mained  silent. 

“  If  it  concerns  something,”  continued  the 
Prince,  “that  you  do  not  wish  to  be  made  known, 
I  promise  you,  in  the  name  of  these  two  gentle¬ 
men,  the  most  inviolable  secrecy.  But  speak  can- 
didly  and  without  reserve.” 

“  Could  I  hope,”  answered  the  prisoner  after  a 
long  silence,  “  that  you  would  not  make  use  of 
what  I  am  going  to  relate  as  evidence  against  me, 
I  would  tell  you  a  remarkable  adventure  of  this 
Armenian,  of  which  I  myself  was  witness,  and 
which  will  leave  you  no  doubt  of  his  supernatural 
powers.  But  I  beg  leave  to  conceal  some  of  the 
names.” 

“  Cannot  you  do  it  without  this  condition?” 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


295 


“No,  your  highness.  There  is  a  family  con¬ 
cerned  in  it,  whom  I  have  reason  to  respect.” 

“  Let  us  hear  your  story.” 

“  It  is  about  five  years  ago,”  began  the  Sicilian, 
“that  at  Naples,  where  I  was  practicing  my  art 
with  tolerable  success,  I  became  acquainted  with 

a  person  of  the  name  of  Lorenzo  del  M - , 

Chevalier  of  the  order  of  St.  Stephen,  a  young 
and  rich  nobleman,  of  one  of  the  first  families  in 
the  kingdom,  who  loaded  me  with  kindnesses,  and 
seemed  to  have  a  great  esteem  for  my  occult 
knowledge.  He  told  me  that  the  Marquis  del 
M—  — nte,  his  father,  was  a  zealous  admirer  of  the 
Cabala,  and  would  think  himself  happy  in  having 
a  philosopher  like  myself  (for  such  he  was  pleased 
to  call  me)  under  his  roof.  The  marquis  lived  in 
one  of  his  country  seats  on  the  sea  shore,  about 
seven  miles  from  Naples.  There,  almost  entirely 
secluded  from  the  world,  he  bewailed  the  loss  of  a 
beloved  son,  of  whom  he  had  been  deprived  by  a 
terrible  calamity.  The  Chevalier  gave  me  to  un¬ 
derstand,  that  he  and  his  family  might  perhaps 
have  occasion  to  employ  me  on  a  matter  of  the 
most  grave  importance,  in  the  hope  of  gaining 
through  my  secret  science  some  information,  to 
procure  which  all  natural  means  bad  been  tried  in 
vain.  He  added,  with  a  very  significant  look, 
that  he  himself  might,  perhaps  at  some  future  pe¬ 
riod,  have  reason  to  look  upon  me  as  the  restorer 
of  his  tranquillity,  and  of  all  his  earthly  happiness. 
The  affair  was  as  follows  : 

“This  Lorenzo  was  the  younger  son  of  the  mar¬ 
quis,  and  for  that  reason  had  been  destined  for 
the  church  ;  the  family  estates  were  to  descend 
to  the  eldest.  Jeronymo,  which  was  the  name  of 
the  latter,  had  spent  many  years  on  his  travels, 
and  had  returned  to  his  country  about  seven  years 
prior  to  the  event,  which  I  am  about  to  relate,  in 
order  to  celebrate  his  marriage  with  the  only 

daughter  of  the  neighboring  Count  C - tti. 

This  marriage  had  been  determined  on  by  the 
parents  during  the  infancy  of  the  children,  in  order 
to  unite  the  large  fortunes  of  the  two  houses.  But 
though  this  agreement  was  made  by  the  two  fami¬ 
lies,  without  consulting  the  hearts  of  the  parties 
concerned,  the  latter  had  mutually  pledged  their 

faith  to  each  other  in  secret.  Jeronymo  del  M - 

and  Antonia  C -  had  been  brought  up  to¬ 

gether,  and  the  little  constraint  imposed  on  two 
children,  whom  their  parents  were  already  accus¬ 
tomed  to  regard  as  destined  for  each  other,  soon 
produced  between  them  a  connection  of  the  ten- 
derest  kind ;  the  congeniality  of  their  tempers 
cemented  this  intimacy;  and  in  later  years  it 
ripened  insensibly  into  love.  An  absence  of  four 
years,  far  from  cooling  this  passion,  had  only 
served  to  inflame  it;  and  Jeronymo  returned  to 
the  arms  of  his  intended  bride,  as  faithful  and  as 
ardent  as  if  they  had  never  been  separated. 

“  The  raptures  occasioned  by  his  return  had  not 
yet  subsided,  and  the  preparations  for  the  happy 
day  were  advancing  with  the  utmost  zeal  and  ac¬ 
tivity,  when  the  bridegroom  disappeared.  He 
used  frequently  to  pass  whole  ^afternoons  in  a 
summer-house  which  commanded  a  prospect  of 
the  sea.  and  was  accustomed  to  take  the  diversion 
of  sailing  on  the  water.  One  day,  on  an  evening 
Bpent  in  this  manner,  it  was  observed  that  he  re¬ 


mained  absent  a  much  longer  lime  than  usual,  and 
his  friends  began  to  be  very  uneasy  on  his  ac¬ 
count.  Messengers  were  dispatched  after  him, 
vessels  were  sent  to  sea  in  quest  of  him  ;  no  per¬ 
son  had  seen  him.  None  of  his  servants  were 
missed  ;  he  must,  therefore,  have  gone  alone. 
Night  came  on,  and  he  did  not  appear.  The  next 
morning  dawned  ;  the  day  passed,  the  evening 
succeeded  ;  Jeronymo  came  not.  Already  they 
had  begun  to  give  themselves  up  to  the  most 
melancholy  conjectures,  when  the  news  arrived, 
that  an  Algerine  pirate  had  landed  the  preceding 
day  on  that  coast,  and  carried  off  several  of  the 
inhabitants.  Two  galleys,  which  were  ready  for 
sea,  were  immediately  manned  ;  the  old  marquis 
himself  embarked  in  one  of  them,  to  attempt  the 
deliverance  of  his  son  at  the  peril  of  his  own  life. 
On  the  third  morning  they  perceived  the  corsair. 
'I' hey  had  the  advantage  of  the  wind  ;  they  were 
just  about  to  overtake  the  pirate,  and  had  even 
approached  so  near  that  Lorenzo,  who  was  in  one 
of  the  galleys’,  fancied  that  he  saw,  upon  the  deck 
of  the  adversary’s  ship,  a  signal  made  by  his 
brother,  when  a  sudden  storm  separated  the  ves¬ 
sel.  Hardly  could  the  damaged  galleys  sustain 
the  fury  of  the  tempest.  The  pirate,  in  the  mean 
time  had  disappeared,  and  the  distressed  state  of 
the  other  vessels  obliged  them  to  land  at  Malta. 
The  affliction  of  the  family  knew  no  bounds.  The 
distracted  old  marquis  tore  his  gray  hairs  in  the 
utmost  violence  of  grief;  and  fears  were  enter¬ 
tained  for  the  life  of  the  young  countess.  Five 
years  were  consumed  in  fruitless  inquiries.  Dili¬ 
gent  search  was  made  along  all  the  coast  of  Bar¬ 
bary ;  immense  sums  were  offered  for  the  ransom 
of  the  young  marquis,  but  no  person  came  for¬ 
ward  to  claim  them.  The  only  probable  conjec¬ 
ture  which  remained  for  the  family  to  form  was, 
that  the  same  storm  which  had  separated  the  gal¬ 
leys  from  the  pirate  had  destroyed  the  latter,  and 
that  the  whole  ship’s  company  had  perished  in 
the  waves. 

“But,  however  this  supposition  might  be,  it  did 
not  by  any  means  amount  to  a  certainty,  and 
could  not  authorize  the  family  altogether  to  re¬ 
nounce  the  hope  #that  the  lost  Jeronymo  might 
again  appear.  In  case,  however,  that  he  was 
really  dead,  either  the  family  must  become  ex¬ 
tinct,  or  the  younger  son  must  relinquish  the 
church,  and  assume  the  rights  of  the  elder.  As 
justice,  on  the  one  hand,  seemed  to  oppose  the 
latter  measure,  so  on  the  other  hand,  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  preserving  the  family  from  annihilation 
required  that  the  scruple  should  not  be  carried 
too  far.  In  the  mean  time,  through  grief,  and 
the  infirmities  of  age,  the  old  marquis  was  fast 
sinking  to  his  grave  ;  every  unsuccessful  attempt 
diminished  the  hope  of  finding  his  lost  son  ;  he 
saw  the  danger  of  his  family’s  becoming  extinct, 
which  might  be  obviated  by  a  trifling  injustice  on 
his  part,  in  consenting  to  favor  his  younger  son 
at  the  expense  of  the  elder.  The  consummation 

of  his  alliance  with  the  house  of  Count  C - tti 

required  only  that  a  name  should  be  changed,  for 
the  object  of  the  two  families  was  equally  accom¬ 
plished,  whether  Antonia  became  the  wife  of  Lo¬ 
renzo  or  of  Jeronymo.  The  faint  probability  of 
the  latter’s  appearing  again,  weighed  but  little 


296 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


against  the  certain  and  pressing  danger  of  the 
total  extinction  of  the  family,  and  the  old  mar¬ 
quis,  who  felt  the  approach  of  death  every  day 
more  and  more,  ardently  wished  at  least  to  die 
free  from  this  inquietude. 

“  Lorenzo,  however,  who  was  to  be  principally 
benefited  by  this  measure,  opposed  it  with  the 
greatest  obstinacy.  Alike  unmoved  by  the  al¬ 
lurements  of  an  immense  fortune,  and  the  attrac¬ 
tions  of  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  being 
whom  his  family  were  about  to  deliver  into  his 
arms,  he  refused,  on  principles  the  most  generous 
and  conscientious,  to  invade  the  rights  of  a 
brother,  who  perhaps  was  still  aliv^,  and  might 
some  day  return  to  claim  his  own.  ‘  Is  not  the 
lot  of  my  dear  Jeronymo,’ said  he,  ‘  made  suffi¬ 
ciently  miserable  by  the  horrors  of  a  long  cap¬ 
tivity,  that  I  should  yet  add  bitterness  to  his  cup 
of  grief  by  stealing  from  him  all  that  he  holds 
most  dear?  With  what  conscience  could  I  sup¬ 
plicate  heaven  for  his  return,  when  his  wife  is  in 
my  arms?  With  what  countenance  could  I  has¬ 
ten  to  meet  him,  should  he  at  last  be  restored  to 
us  by  some  miracle?  And  even  supposing  that 
he  is  torn  from  us  forever,  how  can  we  better 
honor  his  memory  than  by  keeping  constantly 
open  the  chasm  which  his  death  has  caused  in  our 
circle  ?  Can  we  better  show  our  respect  to  him 
than  by  sacrificing  our  dearest  hopes  upon  his 
tomb,  and  keeping  untouched,  as  a  sacred  depo¬ 
sit,  what  was  peculiarly  his  own  ?’ 

“  But  all  the  arguments  which  fraternal  deli¬ 
cacy  could  adduce  were  insufficient  to  reconcile  the 
old  marquis  to  the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  wit¬ 
ness  the  extinction  of  a  pedigree  which  nine  cen¬ 
turies  had  beheld  flourishing.  All  that  Lorenzo 
could  obtain  was  a  respite  of  two  years  before 
leading  the  affianced  bride  of  his  brother  to  the 
altar.  During  this  period  they  continued  their 
inquiries  with  the  utmost  diligence.  Lorenzo 
himself  made  several  voyages,  and  exposed  his 
person  to  many  dangers.  No  trouble,  no  expense 
was  spared  to  recover  the  lost  Jeronymo.  These 
two  years,  however,  like  those  which  preceded 
them,  were  consumed  in  vain.” 

‘‘And  the  Countess  Antonia?”  said  the  Prince. 
“  You  tell  us  nothing  of  her.  Could  she  so  calmly 
submit  to  her  fate?  I  cannot  suppose  it.” — 

“  Antonia,”  answered  the  Sicilian,  “experienced 
the  most  violent  struggle  between  duty  and  in¬ 
clination,  between  hate  and  admiration.  The  dis¬ 
interested  generosity  of  a  brother’s  love  affected 
her  ;  she  felt  herself  forced  to  esteem  a  person 
whom  she  could  never  love.  Her  heart  was  torn 
by  conflicting  sentiments.  But  her  repugnance 
to  the  chevalier  seemed  to  increase  in  the  same 
degree  as  his  claims  upon  her  esteem  augmented. 
Lorenzo  perceived  with  heartfelt  sorrow  the  grief 
that  consumed  her  youth.  A  tender  compassion 
insensibly  assumed  the  place  of  that  indifference 
with  which,  till  then,  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
regard  her  ;  but  this  treacherous  sentiment  quickly 
deceived  him,  and  an  ungovernable  passion  began 
oy  degrees  to  shake  the  steadiness  of  his  virtue — 
a  virtue  which,  till  then,  had  been  unequaled. 

“  He,  however,  still  obeyed  the  dictates  of 
generosity,  though  at  the  expense  of  his  love. 
By  his  efforts  alone  was  the  unfortunate  victim 


protected  against  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  the 
rest  of  the  family.  But  his  endeavors  were  in¬ 
effectual.  Every  victory  he  gained  over  his  pat 
sion  rendered  him  more  worthy  of  Antonia ;  and 
the  disinterestedness  with  which  he  refused  her, 
left  her  no  excuse  for  resistance. 

“  This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  the  chevalier 
engaged  me  to  visit  him  at  his  father’s  villa.  The 
earnest  recommendation  of  my  patron  procured 
me  a  reception  which  exceeded  my  most  sanguine 
hopes.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention,  that  by 
some  remarkable  operations,  T  had  previously 
rendered  my  name  famous  in  different  lodges  of 
Freemasons,  which  circumstance  may,  perhaps, 
have  contributed  to  strengthen  the  old  marquis’s 
confidence  in  me,  and  to  heighten  his  expecta¬ 
tions.  I  beg  you  will  excuse  me  from  describing 
particularly  the  lengths  I  went  with  him,  and  the 
means  which  I  employed  ;  you  may  judge  of  them 
from  what  I  have  already  confessed  to  you.  Pro¬ 
fiting  by  the  mystic  books  which  I  found  in  his 
very  extensive  library,  I  was  soon  able  to  converse 
with  him  in  his  own  language,  and  to  adorn  my 
system  of  the  invisible  world  with  the  most  ex¬ 
traordinary  inventions.  In  a  short  time  I  could 
make  him  believe  whatever  I  pleased,  and  he 
would  have  sworn  as  readily  as  upon  an  article  in 
the  canon.  Moreover,  as  he  was  very  devout,  and 
was  by  nature  somewhat  credulous,  my  fables  re¬ 
ceived  credence  the  more  readily,  and  in  a  short 
time  I  had  so  completely  surrounded  and  hemmed 
him  in  with  mystery,  that  he  cared  for  nothing 
that  was  not  supernatural.  In  short  I  became 
the  patron  saint  of  the  house.  The  usual  subject 
of  my  lectures  was  the  exaltation  of  human  na¬ 
ture,  and  the  intercourse  of  men  with  superior 
beings;  the  infallible  Count  Gabalis*  was  my 
oracle.  The  young  countess,  whose  mind  since 
the  loss  of  her  lover  had  been  more  occupied  in 
the  world  of  spirits  than  in  that  of  nature,  and 
who  had,  moreover,  a  strong  shade  of  melancholy 
in  her  composition,  caught  my  hints  with  a  fearful 
satisfaction.  Even  the  servants  contrived  to  have 
some  business  in  the  room  when  I  was  speaking, 
and  seizing  now  and  then  one  of  my  expres¬ 
sions,  joined  the  fragments  together  in  their  own 
way. 

“  Two  months  were  passed  in  this  manner  at  the 
Marquis’s  villa,  when  the  chevalier  one  morning 
entered  my  apartment.  A  deep  sorrow  was 
painted  on  his  countenance,  his  features  were 
convulsed,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  with 
gestures  of  despair. 

“‘Captain,’  said  he,  ‘it  is  all  over  with  me,  I 
must  begone  ;  I  can  remain  here  no  longer.’ 

“‘What  is  the  matter,  chevalier  ?  What  ails 
you  ?’ 

“  ‘  Oh  !  this  fatal  passion  !’  said  he,  starting 
frantically  from  his  chair.  ‘  I  have  combated  it 
like  a  man  ;  I  can  resist  no  longer.’ 

“  ‘  And  whose  fault  is  it  but  yours,  my  dear 
chevalier  ?  Are  they  not  all  in  your  favor?  Your 
father,  your  relations  ’ — 

• 

*  A  mystical  work  of  that  title,  written  in  French  in 
1670,  by  the  Abbe  de  Villars,  and  translated  into  Eng¬ 
lish  in  1680.  Pope  is  said  to  have  borrowed  from  it  the 
machinery  of  his  Rape  of  the  Lock. — H.  Gr.  B. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


297 


“ 1  My  father,  my  relations  !  What  are  they  to 
me  ?  I  want  not  a  forced  union,  but  one  of  in¬ 
clination.  Have  not  I  a  rival  ?  ATas  !  and  what 
a  rival  !  Perhaps  among  the  dead  !  Oh  !  let  me 
go !  Let  me  go  to  the  end  of  the  world, — I  must 
find  my  brother.’ 

“  ‘  What !  after  so  many  unsuccessful  attempts, 
can  you  still  cherish  hope  ?’ 

“  ‘  Hope  !’  replied  the  chevalier,  ‘Alas,  no  !  It 
has  long  since  vanished  from  my  heart,  but  it  has 
not  from  hers.  Of  what  consequence  are  my  sen¬ 
timents?  Can  I  be  happy  while  there  remains  a 
gleam  of  hope  in  Antonia’s  heart?  Two  words, 
my  friend,  would  end  my  torments.  But  it  is  in 
vain.  My  destiny  must  continue  to  be  miserable 
till  eternity  shall  break  its  long  silence,  and  the 
grave  shall  speak  in  my  behalf.’ 

“‘Is  it  then  a  state  of  certainty  that  would 
render  you  happy  ?’ 

“  ‘  Happy  !  Alas  !  I  doubt  whether  I  can  ever 
again  be  happy.  But  uncertainty  is  of  all  others 
the  most  dreadful  pain.’ 

“  After  a  short  interval  of  silence,  he  sup¬ 
pressed  his  emotion,  and  continued  mournfully  : — 
‘  If  he  could  but  see  my  torments  !  Surely  a  con¬ 
stancy  which  renders  his  brother  miserable  cannot 
add  to  his  happiness  !  Can  it  be  just  that  the 
living  should  suffer  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the 
dead,  who  can  no  longer  enjoy  earthly  felicity. 
If  he  knew  the  pangs  I  suffer,’  continued  he,  hid¬ 
ing  his  face  on  my  shoulder,  while  the  tears 
streamed  from  his  eyes,  ‘yes,  perhaps  he  himself 
would  conduct  her  to  my  arms.’ 

“  ‘  But  is  there  no  possibility  of  gratifying  your 
wishes  ?’ 

“  He  started.  ‘  What  do  you  say,  my  friend  ?’ 

“‘Less  important  occasions  than  the  present,’ 
said  I,  ‘  have  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  dead  for 
the  sake  the  living.  Is  not  the  whole  earthly 
happiness  of  a  man,  of  a  brother - ’ 

“  ‘  The  whole  earthly  happiness  !  Ah  !  my  friend, 
I  feel  what  you  say  is  but  too  true — my  entire  fe¬ 
licity.’ 

“  ‘  And  the  tranquillity  of  a  distressed  family, 
are  not  these  sufficient  to  justify  such  a  measure  ? 
Undoubtedly.  If  any  sublunary  concern  can  au¬ 
thorize  us  to  interrupt  the  peace  of  the  blessed,  to 
make  use  of  a  power - ’ 

“  ‘  For  God’s  sake,  my  friend  !’  said  he,  inter¬ 
rupting  me,  ‘  no  more  of  this.  Once,  I  avow  it, 
I  had  such  a  thought ;  I  think  I  mentioned  it  to 
you;  but  I  have  long  since  rejected  it  as  horrid 
and  abominable.’ 

“  You  will  have  conjectured  already,”  continued 
the  Sicilian,  “  to  what  this  conversation  led  us. 
I  endeavored  to  overcome  the  scruples  of  the  che¬ 
valier,  and  at  last  succeeded.  We  resolved  to 
summon  the  spirit  of  the  deceased  Jeronymo.  I 
only  stipulated  for  the  delay  of  a  fortnight,  in 
ordei  as  I  pretended,  to  prepare  myself  in  a  suit¬ 
able  manner  for  so  solemn  an  act.  The  time  be¬ 
ing  expired,  and  my  machinery  in  readiness,  I 
took  advantage  of  a  very  gloomy  day,  when  we 
were  all  assembled  as  usual,  to  obtain  the  consent 
of  the  family,  or  rather,  gradually  to  lead  them 
to  the  subject,  so  that  they  themselves  requested 
it  of  me.  The  most  difficult  part  of  the  task  was 


to  obtain  the  approbation  of  Antonia,  whose  pro* 
sence  was  most  essential.  My  endeavors  were, 
however,  greatly  assisted  by  the  melancholy  turr. 
of  her  mind,  and  perhaps  still  more  so  by  a  faint 
hope  that  Jeronymo  might  still  be  living,  and 
therefore  would  not  appear.  A  want  of  confi¬ 
dence  in  the  thing  itself,  or  a  doubt  of  my  ability, 
was  the  only  obstacle  which  I  had  not  to  contend 
with. 

“Having  obtained  the  consent  of  the  family, 
the  third  day  was  fixed  on  for  the  operation.  I 
prepared  them  for  the  solemn  transaction  by  mys¬ 
tical  instruction,  by  fasting,  solitude,  and  prayers, 
which  I  ordered  to  be  continued  till  late  in  the 
night.  Much  use  was  also  made  of  a  certain  mu¬ 
sical  instrument,  unknown  till  that  time,  and 
which,  in  such  cases,"  has  often  been  found  very 
powerful.  The  effect  of  these  artifices  was  so 
much  beyond  my  expectation,  that  the  enthusiasm 
to  whicji  on  this  occasion  I  was  obliged  to  force 
myself,  was  infinitely  heightened  by  that  of  my 
audience.  The  anxiously  expected  hour  at  last 
arrived.” 

“I  guess,”  said  the  Prince,  “whom  you  are 
now  going  to  introduce.  But  go  on,  go  on.” 

“No,  your  highness.  The  incantation  suc¬ 
ceeded  according  to  my  wishes.” 

“  How  ?  Where  is  the  Armenian  ?” 

“Do  not  fear,  your  highness.  He  will  appear 
but  too  soon.  I  omit  the  description  of  the  farce 
itself,  as  it  would  lead  me  to  too  great  a  length. 
Be  it  sufficient  to  say,  that  it  answered  my  utmost 
expectations.  The  old  marquis,  the  young  coun¬ 
tess,  her  mother,  Lorenzo,  and  a  few  others  of  the 
family,  were  present.  You  may  imagine  that 
during  my  long  residence  in  this  house,  I  had  not 
wanted  opportunities  of  gathering  information 
respecting  every  thing  that  concerned  the  de¬ 
ceased.  Several  portraits  of  him  enabled  me  to 
give  the  apparition  the  most  striking  likeness, 
and  as. I  suffered  the  ghost  to  speak  only  by  signs, 
the  sound  of  his  voice  could  excite  no  suspicion. 

“  The  departed  Jeronymo  appeared  in  the  dress 
of  a  Moorish  slave,  with  a  deep  wound  in  his  neck. 
You  observe  that  in  this  respect  I  was  counter¬ 
acting  the  general  supposition  that  he  had  per¬ 
ished  in  the  waves,  for  I  had  reason  to  hope  that 
the  unexpectedness  of  this  circumstance  would 
heighten  their  belief  in  the  apparition  itself,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  nothing  appeared  to  me  more 
dangerous  than  to  keep  too  strictly  to  what  was 
natural.” 

“  I  think  you  judged  rightly,”  said  the  Prince. 
“  In  whatever  respects  apparitions,  the  most  pro¬ 
bable  is  the.  least  acceptable.  If  their  communi¬ 
cations  are  easily  comprehended,  we  undervalue 
the  channel  by  which  they  are  obtained.  Nay, 
we  even  suspect  the  reality  of  the  miracle,  if  the 
discoveries  which  it  brings  to  light  are  such  as 
might  easily  have  been  imagined.  Why  should 
we  disturb  the  repose  of  a  spirit,  if  it  is  to  inform 
us  of  nothing  more  than  the  ordinary  powers  of 
the  intellect  are  capable  of  teaching  us  ?  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  if  the  intelligence  which  we  re¬ 
ceive  is  extraordinary  and  unexpected,  it  confirms 
in  some  degree  the  miracle  by  which  it  is  obtained  ; 
for  who  can  doubt  an  operation  to  be  supernatui  x\, 


293 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


when  its  effect  could  not  be  produced  by  natural 
means?  I  interrupt  you,”  added  the  Prince. 
“  Proceed  in  your  narrative.” 

“I  asked  the  ghost  whether  there  was  anything 
in  the  world  which  he  still  considered  as  his  own.” 
continued  the  Sicilian,  “  and  whether  he  had  left 
anything  behind  that  was  particularly  dear  to  him  ? 
The  ghost  shook  his  head  three  times,  and  lifted 
up  his  hand  toward  heaven.  Previous  to  his  re¬ 
tiring  he  dropped  a  ring  from  his  finger,  which 
was  found  on  the  floor  after  he  had  disappeared. 
Antonia  took  it,  and  looking  at  it  attentively,  she 
knew  it  to  be  the  ring  she  had  given  her  intended 
husband  on  their  betrothal.” 

“The  ring  !”  exclaimed  the  Prinbe,  surprised. 
“  How  did  you  get  it  ?” 

“Who!  I!  It  was  not  the  true  one,  your 
high  ness !  I  got  it !  It  was  only  a  counterfeit.” 

“  A  counterfeit !”  repeated  the  Prince.  “But 
in  order  to  counterfeit  you  required  the  true  one. 
How  did  you  come  by  it?  Surely  the  deceased 
never  went  without  it.” 

“  That  is  true,”  replied  the  Sicilian,  with  symp¬ 
toms  of  confusion.  “But  from  a  description 
which  was  given  me  of  the  genuine  ring — ” 

“  A  description  which  was  given  you !  By 
whom !” 

“  Long  before  that  time.  It  was  a  plain  gold 
ring,  and  had,  I  believe,  the  name  of  the  young 
countess  engraved  on  it.  But  you  made  me  lose 
the  connection.” 

“What  happened  further?”  said  the  Prince, 
with  a  very  dissatisfied  countenance. 

“The  family  felt  convinced  that  Jeronymo  was 
no  more.  From  that  day  forward  they  publicly 
announced  his  death,  and  went  into  mourning. 
The  circumstance  of  the  ring  left  no  doubt  even 
in  the  mind  of  Antonia,  and  added  a  considerable 
weight  to  the  addresses  of  the  chevalier. 

“  In  the  mean  time,  the  violent  shock  which  the 
young  countess  had  received  from  the  sight  of  the 
apparition,  brought  on  her  a  disorder  so  danger¬ 
ous,  that  the  hopes  of  Lorenzo  were  very  near  be¬ 
ing  destroyed  for  ever.  On  her  recovery  she  in¬ 
sisted  upon  taking  the  vail  ;  and  it  was  only  at  the 
most  serious  remonstrances  of  her  confessor,  in 
whom  she  placed  implicit  confidence,  that  she  was 
induced  to  abandon  her  project.  At  length  the 
united  solicitations  of  the  family  and  of  the  con¬ 
fessor,  forced  from  her  a  reluctant  consent.  The 
last  day  of  mourning  was  fixed  on  for  the  day  of 
marriage,  and  the  old  marquis  determined  to  add 
to  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  by  making  over 
all  his  estates  to  his  lawful  heir. 

“  The  day  arrived,  and  Lorenzo  received  his 
trembling  bride  at  the  altar.  In  the  evening  a 
splendid  banquet  was  prepared  for  the  cheerful 
guests,  in  a  hall  superbly  illuminated,  ar.d  the 
most  lively  and  delightful  music  contributed  10 
increase  the  general  gladness.  The  happy  old 
marquis  wished  all  the  world  to  participate  in  his 
joy.  All  the  entrances  of  the  palace  were  thrown 
open,  and  every  one  who  sympathized  in  his  hap¬ 
piness  was  joyfully  welcomed.  In  the  midst  of 
the  throng - .” 

The  Sicilian  paused.  A  trembling  expectation 
suspended  our  breath. 

“  In  .the  midst  of  the  throng,”  continued  the 


prisoner,  “  appeared  a  Franciscan  monk,  to  whom 
my  attention  was  directed  by  the  person  who 
sat  next  to  me  at  table.  He  was  standing  mo¬ 
tionless  like  a  marble  pillar.  His  shape  was  tall 
and  thin  ;  his  face  pale  and  ghastly  ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  with  a  grave  and  mournful  expression  on  the 
new-married  couple.  The  joy  which  beamed  on 
the  face  of  every  one  present  appeared  noton  his. 
His  countenance  never  once  varied.  He  seemed 
like  a  statue  among  the  living.  Such  an  object, 
appearing  amidst  the  general  joy,  struck  me  more 
forcibly  from  its  contrast  with  every  thing  around. 
It  left  on  my  mind  so  indelible  an  impression,  that 
from  it  alone  I  have  been  enabled  (which  would 
otherwise  have  been  impossible)  to  recollect  the 
features  of  this  Franciscan  monk  in  the  Russian 
officer  ;  for,  without  doubt,  you  must  have  already 
conceived  that  the  person  I  have  described  was 
no  other  than  your  Armenian. 

I  frequently  attempted  to  withdraw  my  eyes 
from  this  terrible  figure,  but  they  wandered  back 
involuntarily,  and  found  his  countenance  unaltered. 
I  pointed  him  out  to  the  person  who  sat  nearest 
to  me  on  the  other  side,  and  he  did  the  same  to 
the  person  next  to  him.  In  a  few  minutes  a 
general  curiosity  and  astonishment  pervaded  the 
whole  company.  The  conversation  languished  ;  a 
general  silence  succeeded;  the  monk  did  not  heed 
it.  He  continued  motionless  as  before  ;  his  grave 
and  mournful  looks  constantly  fixed  upon  the 
new-married  couple  ;  his  appearance  struck  every 
one  with  terror.  The  young  countess  alone,  who 
found  the  transcript  of  her  own  sorrow  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger,  beheld  with  a  melancholy  satis¬ 
faction  the  only  object  that  seemed  to  understand 
and  to  sympathize  in  her  sufferings.  The  crowd 
insensibly  diminished.  It  was  past  midnight;  the 
music  became  fainter  and  more  languid  ;  the 
tapers  grew  dim,  and  many  of  them  went  out. 
The  conversation  declining  by  degrees,  lost  itself 
at  last  in  secret  murmurs,  and  the  faintly  illumi¬ 
nated  hall  was  nearly  deserted.  The  monk,  in  the 
mean  time,  continued  motionless,  with  the  same 
grave  and  mournful  look  still  fixed  on  the  new- 
married  couple.  The  company  at  length  rose  from 
the  table;  the  guests  dispersed  ;  the  family  assem¬ 
bled  in  a  separate  group,  and  the  monk,  though 
uninvited,  continued  near  them.  How  it  hap¬ 
pened  that  no  person  spoke  to  him,  I  cannot  con¬ 
ceive. 

“  The  female  friends  now  surrounded  the  trem¬ 
bling  bride,  who  cast  a  supplicating  and  distressed 
look  on  the  venerable  stranger ;  he  did  not  answer 
it.  The  gentlemen  assembled  in  the  same  manne** 
around  the  bridegroom.  A  solemn  and  anxious 
silence  prevailed  among  them. — *  That  we- should 
be  so  happy  here  together,’  began  at  length  the 
old  marquis,  who  alone  seemed  not  to  behold  the 
stranger,  or  at  least  seemed  to  behold  him  without 
dismay : — ‘  That  we  should  be  so  happy  here 
together,  and  my  son  Jeronymo  cannot  be  with  us!’ 

“  ‘  Have  you  invited  him,  and  has  he  failed  to 
come  ?’  asked  the  monk.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  spoken.  We  looked  at  him  in  alarm. 

“‘Alas!  he  is  gone  to  a  place  from  whence 
there  is  no  return,’  answered  the  old  man.  ‘  Rev¬ 
erend  father !  you  misunderstood  me.  My  son 
Jeronymo  is  dead.’ 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


299 


“  ‘PerVaps  he  only  fears  to  appear  in  this  com¬ 
pany,’  replied  the  monk.  ‘  Who  knows  how  your 
son  Jeronymo  may  be  situated?  Let  him  now 
hear  the  voice  which  he  heard  the  last.  Desire 
your  son  Lorenzo  to  call  him.’ 

*“  What  means  he?’  whispered  the  company  to 
one  another.  Lorenzo  changed  color.  I  will  not 
deny  that  my  own  hair  began  to  stand  on  end. 

“In  the  mean  time  the  monk  approached  a 
sideboard  ;  he  took  a  glass  of  wine  and  carried  it 
to  his  lips — ‘To  the  memory  of  our  dear  Je¬ 
ronymo  !;  said  he.  ‘  Let  every  one  who  loved  the 
deceased  follow  my  example.’ 

“  ‘  Be  you  who  you  may,  reverend  father  !’  ex¬ 
claimed  the  old  marquis.  ‘You  have  pronounced 
a  name  dear  to  us  all,  and  you  are  heartily  wel¬ 
come  here  ;’ — then  turning  to  us,  he  offered  us  full 
glasses. — ‘  Come,  my  friends  !’  continued  he,  let  us 
not  be  surpassed  by  a  stranger.  The  memory  of 
my  son  Jeronymo.’ 

“  Never,  1  believe,  was  any  toast  less  heartily 
received. 

“  ‘  There  is  one  glass  still  unemptied,’  said  the 
marquis.  *  Why  does  my  son  Lorenzo  refuse  to 
drink  this  friendly  toast?” 

“  Lorenzo,  trembling,  received  the  glass  from 
the  hands  of  the  monk  ;  tremblingly  he  put  it  to 
his  lips.  *  To  my  dearly  beloved  brother  Je¬ 
ronymo  !’  he  stammered  out,  and  replaced  the 
glass  with  a  shudder. 

“  That  was  my  murderer’s  voice  !’  exclaimed  a 
terrible  figure,  which  appeared  suddenly  in  the 
midst  of  us,  covered  with  blood,  and  disfigured 
with  horrible  wounds. 

“Do  not  ask  me  the  rest,”  added  the  Sicilian, 
with  every  symptom  of  horror  in  his  countenance. 
“  I  lost  my  senses  the  moment  I  looked  at  this 
apparition.  The  same  happened  to  every  one 
present.  When  we  recovered,  the  monk  and  the 
ghost  had  disappeared  ;  Lorenzo  was  writhing  in 
the  agonies  of  death.  He  was  carried  to  bed  in 
the  most  dreadful  convulsions.  No  person  at¬ 
tended  him  but  his  confessor  and  the  sorrowful 
old  marquis,  in  whose  presence  he  expired.  The 
marquis  died  a  few  weeks  after  him.  Lorenzo’s 
secret  is  locked  in  the  bosom  of  the  priest  who  re¬ 
ceived  his  last  confession  ;  no  person  ever  learned 
what  it  was. 

“  Soon  after  this  event,  a  well  was  cleaned  in  the 
farmyard  of  the  marquis’s  villa.  It  had  been  dis¬ 
used  for  many  years,  and  was  almost  closed  up  by 
shrubs  and  old  trees.  On  digging  among  the  rub¬ 
bish,  a  human  skeleton  was  found.  ’The  house 
where  this  happened  is  now  no  more  ;  the  family 

del  M - nte  is  extinct,  and  Antonia’s  tomb  may 

be  seen  in  a  convent  not  far  from  Salerno.” 

“Yea  see,”  continued  the  Sicilian,  seeing  us  all 
stand  silent  and  thoughtful,  “  you  see  how  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  this  Russian  officer,  Armenian,  or 
Franciscan  friar,  originated.  Judge  now  whether  I 
have  not  good  cause  to  tremble  at  the  sight  of  a 
being,  who  has  twice  placed  himself  in  my  way  in 
a  manner  so  terrible.” 

“  I  beg  you  will  answer  me  one  question  more,” 
said  the  Prince,  rising  from  his  seat.  “  Have  you 
been  always  sincere  in  your  account  of  every  thing 
relating  to  the  chevalier  ?” 


“  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  I  have,”  replied 
the  Sicilian.” 

“You  really  believed  him  to  be  an  honest 
man  ?” 

“  I  did ;  by  Heaven  !  I  did,”  answered  he  again 

“  Even  at  the  time  that  he  gave  you  the  ring?’ 

“  How  !  He  gave  me  no  ring.  I  did  not  say 
that  he  gave  me  the  ring.” 

“  Very  well,”  said  the  prince,  pulling  the  bell, 
and  preparing  to  depart.  “  And  you  believe,” 
(going  back  to  the  prisoner)  “that  the  ghost  of 
the  Marquis  de  Lanoy,  which  the  Russian  officer 
introduced  after  your  apparition,  was  a  true  and 
real  ghost  ?” 

“I  cannot  think  otherwise.” 

“  Let  us  go!”  said  the  Prince,  addressing  him¬ 
self  to  us.  The  jailer  came  in.  “We  have 
done,”  said  the  Prince  to  him.  “You  sir,”  turn¬ 
ing  to  the  prisoner,  “  you  shall  hear  further  from 
me.” 

“  I  am  tempted  to  ask  your  highness  the  last 
question  you  proposed  to  the  Sorcerer,”  said  I  to 
the  Prince,  when  we  were  alone.  “  Do  you  believe 
the  second  ghost  to  have  been  a  real  and  true  one  ?” 

“  I  believe  it  ?  No,  not  now,  most  assuredly.” 

“  Not  now  ?  Then  you  did  once  believe  it.” 

“I  confess  I  was  tempted  for  a  moment  to 
believe  it  something  more  than  the  contrivance  of 
a  juggler.” 

“And  I  could  wish  to  see  the  man  who  under 
similar  circumstances  would  not  have  had  the 
same  impression.  But  what  reasons  have  you  for 
retracting  your  opinion  ?  What  the  prisoner  has 
related  of  the  Armenian  ought  to  increase  rather 
than  diminish  your  belief  in  his  supernatural 
powers.” 

“  What  this  wretch  has  related  of  him,”  said 
the  Prince,  interrupting  me  very  gravely.  “  I 
hope,”  continued  he,  “  you  have  now  no  doubt 
but  that  we  have  had  to  do  with  a  villain.” 

“No;  but  must  his  evidence  on  that  ac¬ 
count - ” 

“  The  evidence  of  a  villain,  even  supposing  I 
had  no  other  reason  for  doubt,  can  have  no  weight 
against  common  sense  and  established  truth. 
Does  a  man  who  has  already  deceived  me  several 
times,  and  whose  trade  it  is  to  deceive,  does  he 
deserve  to  be  heard  in  a  cause  in  which  the  un¬ 
supported  testimony  of  even  the  most  sincere  ad¬ 
herent  to  truth  could  not  be  received  ?  Ought  we 
to  believe  a  man  who  perhaps  never  once  spoke 
truth  for  its  own  sake?  Does  such  a  man  deserve 
credit,  when  he  appears  as  evidence  against  human 
reason  and  the  eternal  laws  of  nature  ?  Would 
it  not  be  as  absurd  as  to  admit  the  accusation  of 
a  person  notoriously  infamous,  against  unblemished 
and  irreproachable  innocence? 

“  But  what  motives  could  he  have  for  giving  so 
great  a  character  to  a  man  whom  he  has  so  many 
reasons  to  hate  ?” 

“I  am  not  to  conclude  that  he  can  have  no 
motives  for  doing  this  because  I  am  unable  to 
comprehend  them.  Do  I  know  who  has  bribed 
him  to  deceive  me  ?  I  confess  I  cannot  penetrate 
the  whole  contexture  of  his  plan ;  but  he  has  cer¬ 
tainly  done  a  material  injury  to  the  cause  he  ad¬ 
vocates,  by  proving  himself  to  be  at  least  an  im¬ 
postor,  and  perhaps  something  worse.” 


800 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


“  The  circumstance  of  the  ring,  I  allow,  appears 
somewhat  suspicious.” 

“It  is  more  than  suspicious,”  answered  the 
Prince ;  “  it  is  decisive.  He  received  this  ring 
from  the  murderer;  and  at  the  moment  he  received 
it  he  must  have  been  certain  that  it  was  from  the 
murderer.  Who  but  the  assassin  could  have  taken 
from  the  finger  of  the  deceased  a  ring  which  he 
undoubtedly  never  took  off  himself?  Throughout 
the  whole  of  his  narration  the  Sicilian  has  labored 
to  persuade  us,  that  while  he  was  endeavoring  to 
deceive  Lorenzo,  Lorenzo  was  in  reality  deceiving 
him.  Would  he  have  had  recourse  to  this  subter¬ 
fuge,  if  he  had  not  been  sensible  l^ow  much  he 
should  lose  in  our  estimation  by  confessing  him¬ 
self  an  accomplice  with  the  assassin  ?  The  whole 
story  is  visibly  nothing  but  a  series  of  impostures, 
invented  merely  to  connect  the  few  truths  he  has 
thought  proper  to  give  us.  Ought  I,  then,  to 
hesitate  in  disbelieving  the  eleventh  assertion  of  a 
person  who  has  already  deceived  me  ten  times, 
rather  than  admit  a  violation  of  the  fundamental 
laws  of  nature,  which  I  have  ever  found  in  the 
most  perfect  harmony  ?” 

“  I  have  nothing  to  reply  to  all  this, — but  the 
apparition  we  saw  yesterday  is  to  me  not  the  less 
incomprehensible.” 

“  It  is  also  incomprehensible  to  me,  although  I 
have  been  tempted  to  believe  that  1  have  found  a 
key  to  it.” 

“  How  so  ?”  asked  I. 

“  Do  you  not  recollect  that  the  second  appari¬ 
tion,  as  soon  as  he  entered,  walked  directly  up  to 
the  altar,  and  took  the  crucifix  in  his  hand,  and 
placed  himself  upon  the  carpet  ?” 

“  It  appeared  so  to  me.” 

“  And  this  crucifix,  according  to  the  Sicilian’s 
confession,  was  a  conductor.  You  see  that  the 
apparition  hastened  to  make  himself  electrical. 
Thus  the  blow  which  Lord  Seymour  struck  him 
with  a  sword  was  of  course  ineffectual ;  the  electric 
stroke  disabled  his  arm.” 

“This  is  true  with  respect  to  the  sword.  But 
the  pistol  fired  by  the  Sicilian,  the  ball  of  which 
we  heard  roll  slowly  upon  the  altar  ?” 

“  Are  you  convinced  that  this  was  the  same  ball 
which  was  fired  from  the  pistol  ?”  replied  the 
Prince.  “  Not  to  mention  that  the  puppet,  or 
the  man  who  represented  the  ghost,  may  have 
been  so  well  accoutred  as  to  be  invulnerable  by 
sword  or  bullet ;  but  consider  who  it  was  that 
loaded  the  pistols.” 

“  True,”  said  I,  and  a  sudden  light  broke  upon 
my  mind  ;  “  the  Russian  officer  had  loaded  them, 
but  it  was  in  our  presence.  How  could  he  have 
deceived  us  ?” 

•*  Why  should  he  not  have  deceived  us  ?  Did 
you  suspect  him  sufficiently  to  observe  him?  Did 
you  examine  the  ball  before  it  was  put  into  the 
pistol?  May  it  not  have  been  one  of  quicksilver 
or  clay  ?  Did  you  take  notice  whether  the  Rus¬ 
sian  officer  really  put  it  into  the  barrel,  or  dropped 
it  into  his  other  hand  ?  But  supposing  that  he 
actually  loaded  the  pistols,  what  is  to  convince 
you  that  he  really  took  the  loaded  ones  into  the 
room  where  the  ghost  appeared,  and  did  not  change 
them  for  another  pair,  which  he  might  have  done 
the  uiore  easily,  as  nobody  ever  thought  of  notic¬ 


ing  him,  and  we  were  besides  occupied  in  undress¬ 
ing?  And  could  not  the  figure,  at  the  moment 
when  we  were  prevented  from  seeing  it  by  the 
smoke  of  the  pistol,  having  dropped  another  ball, 
with  which  it  had  been  beforehand  provided,  on 
the  altar  ? — Which  of  these  conjectures  is  im¬ 
possible  ?” 

“  You  are  right.  But  that  striking  resemblance 
to  your  deceased  friend  ! — I  have  often  seen  him 
with  you,  and  I  immediately  recognized  him  in 
the  apparition.” 

“  I  did  the  same,  and  I  must  confess  the  illusion 
was  complete.  But  if  the  juggler,  from  a  few 
stolen  glances  at  my  snuff-box,  was  able  to  give 
to  his  apparition  a  resemblance,  what  was  to  pre¬ 
vent  the  Russian  officer,  who  had  used  the  box 
during  the  whole  time  of  supper,  who  had  had 
liberty  to  observe  the  picture  unnoticed,  and  to 
whom  I  had  discovered  in  confidence  whom  it  re¬ 
presented,  what  was  to  prevent  him  from  doing 
the  same  ?  Add  to  this  what  has  been  before  ob¬ 
served  by  the  Sicilian,  that  the  prominent  features 
of  the  marquis  were  so  striking  as  to  be  easily 
imitated ;  what  is  there  so  inexplicable  in  this 
second  ghost  ?” 

“  But  the  words  he  uttered?  The  information 
he  gave  you  about  your  friend  ?” — 

“  What?”  said  the  Prince,  “Did  not  the  Sicilian 
assure  us,  that  from  the  little  which  he  had  learned 
from  me  he  had  composed  a  similar  story?  Does 
not  this  prove  that  the  invention  was  obvious  and 
natural  ?  Besides,  the  answers  of  the  ghost,  like 
those  of  an  oracle,  were  so  obscure,  that  he  was  in 
no  danger  of  being  detected  in  a  falsehood.  If 
the  man  who  personated  the  ghost  possessed  saga¬ 
city  and  presence  of  mind,  and  knew  ever  so  little 
of  the  affair  on  which  he  was  consulted,  to  what 
length  might  not  he  have  carried  the  deception  ? 

“  Pray  consider,  your  highness,  how  much  pre¬ 
paration  such  a  complicated  artifice  would  have 
required  from  the  Armenian  ;  how  much  time  it 
takes  to  paint  a  face  with-  sufficient  exactness  ; 
how  much  time  would  have  been  requisite  to  in- 
instruct  the  pretended  ghost,  so  as  to  guard  him 
against  gross  errors;  what  a  degree  of  minute  at¬ 
tention  to  regulate  every  minor  attendant  or  ad¬ 
ventitious  circumstance,  which  must  be  auswered 
in  some  manner,  lest  they  should  prove  detri¬ 
mental  !  And  remember  that  the  Russian  officer 
was  absent  but  half  an  hour.  Was  that  short 
space  of  time  sufficient  to  make  even  such  arrange¬ 
ments  as  were  most  indispensable?  Surely,  my 
Prince,  not  even  a  dramatic  writer,  who  has  the 
least  desire  to  preserve  the  three  terrible  unities 
of  Aristotle,  durst  venture  to  load  the  interval 
between  one  act  and  another  with  such  a  variety 
of  action,  or  to  presume  upon  such  a  facility  of 
belief  in  his  audience.” 

“What!  You  think  it  absolutely  impossible 
that  every  necessary  preparation  should  have  been 
made  in  the  space  of  half  an  hour?” 

“Indeed,  1  look  upon  it  as  almost  impossi¬ 
ble.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  this  expression.  Does  it 
militate  against  the  physical  laws  of  time  and 
space,  or  of  matter  and  motion,  that  a  man  so  in¬ 
genious  and  so  expert  as  this  Armenian  must  un- 
I  doubtedly  be,  assisted  by  agents  whose  dexterity 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


301 


• 

and  acuteness  are  probably  not  inferior  to  bis 
own  ;  favored  by  the  time  of  night,  and  watched 
by  no  one,  provided  with  such  means  and  instru¬ 
ments  as  a  man  of  this  profession  is  never  with¬ 
out — is  it  impossible  that  such  a  man,  favored  by 
such  circumstances,  should  be  able  to  effect  so 
much  in  so  short  a  time?  Is  it  ridiculous  or  ab¬ 
surd  to  suppose,  that  by  a  very  small  number  of 
words  or  signs  he  can  convey  to  his  assistants 
very  extensive  commissions,  and  direct  very  com¬ 
plex  operations? — Nothing  ought  to  be  admitted 
that  is  contrary  to  the  established  laws  of  nature, 
unless  it  is  something  with  which  these  laws  are 
absolutely  incompatible.  Would  you  rather  give 
credit  to  a  miracle  than  admit  an  improbability? 
Would  you  solve  a  difficulty  rather  by  overturning 
the  powers  of  nature  than  by  believing  an  artful 
and  uncommon  combination  of  them  ?” 

“  Though  the  fact  will  not  justify  a  conclusion 
such  as  you  have  condemned,  you  must,  however, 
grant  that  it  is  far  beyond  our  conception.” 

“  I  am  almost  tempted  to  dispute  even  this,” 
said  the  Prince,  with  a  quiet  smile.  “  What 
would  you  say,  my  dear  count,  if  it  should  be 
proved,  for  instance,  that  the  operations  of  the 
Armenian  were  prepared  and  carried  on,  not  only 
during  the  half  hour  that  he  was  absent  from  us, 
not  only  in  haste  and  incidentally,  but  during  the 
whole  evening  and  the  whole  night  ?  You  recol¬ 
lect  that  the  Sicilian  employed  nearly  three  hours 
in  preparation.” 

“  The  Sicilian  ?  Yes,  my- Prince.” 

*  “  And  how  will  you  convince  me  that  this 
juggler  had  not  as  much  concern  in  the  second 
apparition  as  in  the  first?” 

“  How  so,  your  highness?” 

“  That  he  was  not  the  principal  assistant  of  the 
Armenian  ?  In  a  word,  how  will  you  convince 
me  that  they  did  not  co-operate  ?” 

“  It  wTould  be  a  difficult  task  to  prove  that,”  ex¬ 
claimed  I,  with  no  little  surprise. 

“  Not  so  difficult,  my  dear  count,  as  you  imagine. 
What  1  Could  it  have  happened  by  mere  chance 
that  these  two  men  should  form  a  design  so  ex¬ 
traordinary  and  so  complicated  upon  the  same 
person,  at  the  same  time,  and  in  the  same  place  ? 
Could  mere  chance  have  produced  such  an  exact 
harmony  between  their  operations,  that  one  of 
them  should  play  so  exactly  the  game  of  the 
other?  Suppose  for  a  moment  that  the  Armenian 
intended  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  deception, 
by  introducing  it  after  a  less  refined  one — that  he 
created  a  Hector  to  make  himself  his  Achilles. 
Suppose  that  he  has  done  all  this  to  discover  what 
degree  of  credulity  he  could  expect  to  find  in  me, 
to  examine  the  readiest  way  to  gain  my  confidence, 
to  familiarize  himself  with  his  subject  by  an  at¬ 
tempt  that  might  have  miscarried  without  any 
prejudice  to  his  plan  ;  in  a  word,  to  tune  the  instru¬ 
ment  on  which  he  intended  to  play.  Suppose  he 
did  this  with  the  view  of  exciting  my  suspicions 
on  one  subject,  in  order  to  divert  my  attention 
from  another  more  important  to  his  design. 
Lastly,  suppose  he  wishes  to  have  some  indirect 
methods  of  information,  which  he  had  himself 
some  occasion  to  practice,  imputed  to  the  Sor¬ 
cerer,  in  order  to  divert  suspicion  from  the  true 
channel.” 


“  How  do  yon  mean  ?”  said  I. 

“  Suppose  for  instance  that  he  may  have  bribed 
some  of  my  servants,  to  give  him  secret  intelli¬ 
gence,  or,  perhaps,  even  some  papers  which  may 
serve  his  purpose.  I  have  missed  one  of  my  do¬ 
mestics.  What  reason  have  I  to  think  that  the 
Armenian  is  not  concerned  in  his  leaving  me? 
Such  a  connection,  however,  if  it  existed,  may  be 
accidentally  discovered  ;  a  letter  may  be  inter¬ 
cepted  ;  a  servant,  who  is  in  the  secret,  may  be¬ 
tray  his  trust.  Now  all  the  consequence  of  the 
Armenian  is  destroyed,  if  I  detect  the  source  of 
his  omniscience.  He  therefore  introduces  this 
Sorcerer,  who  must  be  supposed  to  have  some  de¬ 
sign  upon  me.  He  takes  care  to  give  me  early 
notice  of  him,  and  his  intentions,  so  that  whatever 
I  may  hereafter  discover,  my  suspicions  must  ne¬ 
cessarily  rest  upon  the  Sicilian.  This  is  the  pup¬ 
pet  with  which  he  amuses  me,  whilst  he  himself, 
unobserved  and  unsuspected,  is  entangling  me  in 
invisible  snares. 

“  We  will  allow  this.  But  is  it  consistent  with 
the  Armenian’s  plan  that  he  himself  should  des¬ 
troy  the  illusion  which  he  has  created,  and  dis¬ 
close  the  mysteries  of  his  science  to  the  eyes  of 
the  uninitiated  ?” 

“What  mysteries  does  he  disclose?  None, 
surely,  which  he  intends  to  practice  on  me.  He 
therefore  loses  nothing  by  the  discovery.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  what  an  advantage  will  he  gain, 
if  this  pretended  victory  over  juggling  and  decep¬ 
tion  should  render  me  secure  and  unsuspecting ; 
if  he  succeeds  in  diverting  my  attention  from  the 
right  quarter,  and  in  fixing  my  wavering  suspi¬ 
cions  on  an  object  the  most  remote  from  the  real 
one !  He  could  naturally  expect  that,  sooner  or 
later,  either  from  my  own  doubts,  or  at  the  sug¬ 
gestion  of  another,  I  should  be  tempted  to  seek 
a  key  to  his  mysterious  wonders,  in  the  mere  art 
of  a  juggler  ;  how  could  he  better  provide  against 
such  an  inquiry  than  by  contrasting  his  prodigies 
with  juggling  tricks.  By  confining  the  latter 
within  artificial  limits,  and  by  delivering,  as  it 
were,  into  my  hands  a  scale  by  which  to  appre¬ 
ciate  them,  he  naturally  exalts  and  perplexes  my 
ideas  of  the  former.  How  many  suspicions  he 
precludes  by  this  single  contrivance  !  How  many 
methods  of  accounting  for  his  miracles,  which 
might  afterward  have  occurred  to  me,  does  he 
refute  beforehand  !” 

“But  in  exposing  such  a  finished  deception,  he 
has  acted  very  much  against  his  own  interest, 
both  by  quickening  the  penetration  of  those  whom 
he  meant  to  impose  upon,  and  by  staggering  their 
belief  in  miracles  in  general.  Your  highness’s 
self  is  the  best  proof  of  the  insufficiency  of  his 
plan,  if  indeed  he  ever  had  one.” 

“  Perhaps  he  has  been  mistaken  in  respect  to 
myself,”  said  the  Prince:  “but  his  conclusions 
have  nevertheless  been  well  founded.  Could  he 
foresee  that  I  should  exactly  notice  the  very  cir¬ 
cumstance  which  threatens  to  become  the  key  to 
the  whole  artifice?  AY as  it  in  his  plan  that  the 
creature  he  employed  should  render  himself  thus 
vulnerable?  Are  we  certain  that  the  Sicilian 
I  has  not  far  exceeded  his  commission  ?  He  has 
undoubtedly  done  so  with  respect  to  the  ring,  and 
yet'it  is  chiefly  this  single  circumstance  which 


802 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


determined  my  distrust  in  him.  How  easily  may 
a  plan,  whose  contexture  is  most  artful  and  re¬ 
fined,  be  spoiled  in  the  execution  by  an  awkward 
instrument.  It  certainly  was  not  the  Armenian’s 
intention  that  the  Sorcerer  should  trumpet  his  fame 
to  us  in  the  style  of  a  mountebank,  that  he  should 
endeavor  to  impose  upon  us  such  fables  as  are  too 
gross  to  bear  the  least  reflection.  For  instance, 
with  what  countenance  could  this  impostor  affirm, 
that  the  miraculous  being  he  spoke  of  must  re¬ 
nounce  all  commerce  with  mankind  at  twelve  in 
the  night?  Did  we  not  see  him  among  us  at  that 
very  hour?” 

“  That  is  true,”  cried  I.  “  He  must  have  for¬ 
gotten  it.” 

“  It  often  happens  to  people  of  this  description, 
that  they  overact  their  parts  ;  and,  by  aiming  at 
too  much,  mar  the  effects  which  a  well-managed 
deception  is  calculated  to  produce.” 

“I  cannot,  however,  yet  prevail  on  myself  to 
look  upon  the  whole  as  a  mere  preconcerted 
scheme.  What !  the  Sicilian’s  terror — his  con¬ 
vulsive  fits — his  swoon — the  deplorable  situation 
in  which  we  saw  him,  and  which  was  even  such 
as  to  move  our  pity — were  all  these  nothing  more 
than  a  studied  part  ?  I  allow  that  a  skillful  per¬ 
former  may  carry  imitation  to  a  very  high  pitch, 
but  he  certainly  has  no  power  over  the  organs  of 
life.” 

“  As  for  that,  my  friend,”  replied  the  Prince, 
“  I  have  seen  Richard  the  Third  performed  by 
Garrick.  But  were  we  at  that  moment  sufficiently 
cool  to  be  capable  of  observing  dispassionately? 
Could  we  judge  of  the  emotion  of  the  Sicilian, 
when  we  were  almost  overcome  by  our  own  ?  Be¬ 
sides,  the  decisive  crisis  even  of  a  deception  is  so 
momentous  to  the  deceiver  himself,  that  excessive 
anxiety  may  produce  in  him  symptoms  as  violent 
as  those  which  surprise  excites  in  the  deceived. 
Add  to  this  the  unexpected  entrance  of  the 
watch.” 

“I  am  glad  you  remind  me  of  that,  Prince. 
Would  the  Armenian  have  ventured  to  discover 
such  a  dangerous  scheme  to  the  eye  of  justice; 
to  expose  the  fidelity  of  his  creature  to  so  severe 
a  test  ?  And  for  what  purpose  ?” 

“  Leave  that  matter  to  him  ;  he  is  no  doubt 
acquainted  with  the  people  he  employs.  Do  we 
know  what  secret  crimes  may  have  secured  him 
the  silence  of  this  man  ?  5Tou  have  been  informed 
of  the  office  he  holds  in  Venice;  what  difficulty 
will  he  find  in  saving  a  man  of  whom  he  himself 
is  the  only  accuser?” — 

[This  suggestion  of  the  Prince  was  but  too  well 
justified  by  the  event.  For,  some  days  after,  on 
inquiring  after  the  prisoner,  we  were  told  that  he 
had  escaped,  and  had  not  since  been  heard  of.] 

“  You  ask  what  could  be  his  motives  for  deliver¬ 
ing  this  man  into  the  hands  of  justice?”  continued 
the  Prince.  “By  what  other  method,  except 
this  violent  one,  could  he  have  wrested  from  the 
Sicilian  such  an  infamous  and  improbable  confes¬ 
sion,  which,  however,  was  so  material  to  the  suc¬ 
cess  of  his  plan  ?  Who,  but  a  man  whose  case  is 
desperate,  and  who  has  nothing  to  lose,  would 
consent  to  give  s<j  humiliating  an  account  of  him¬ 


self?  Under  what  other  circumstances  could  we 
have  believed  such  a»confession  ?” 

“I  grant  all  this,  my  Prince.  That  the  two 
apparitions  were  mere  contrivances  of  art :  that 
the  Sicilian  has  imposed  upon  us  a  tale  which  the 
Armenian,  his  master,  had  previously  taught  hirn  ; 
that  the  efforts  of  both  have  been  directed  to  the 
same  end,  and,  from  this  mutual  intelligence,  all 
the  wonderful  incidents  which  have  astonished  us 
in  this  adventure,  may  be  easily  explained.  But 
the  prophecy  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark,  that  first 
miracle,  which,  as  it  were,  opened  the  door  to  all 
the  rest,  still  remains  unexplained  ;  and  of  what 
use  is  the  key  to  all  his  other  wonders,  if  we  des¬ 
pair  of  resolving  this  single  one  ?” 

“  Rather  invert  the  proposition,  my  dear  Count,” 
answered  the  Prince,  “and  say,  what  do  all  these 
wonders  prove,  if  I  can  demonstrate  that  a  single 
one  among  them  is  a  juggling  trick?  The  pre¬ 
diction,  I  own,  is  totally  beyond  my  conception. 
If  it  stood  alone  ;  if  the  Armenian  had  closed  the 
scene  with  it,  instead  of  beginning  it,  I  confess  I 
do  not  know  how  far  I  might  have  been  carried. 
But,  in  the  base  alloy  with  which  it  is  mixed,  it  is 
certainly  rather  suspicious.  Time  may  explain, 
or  not  explain  it;  but  believe  me,  my  frieud  !” 
added  the  Prince,  taking  my  hand,  with  a  grave 
countenance — “a  man,  who  can  command  super¬ 
natural  powers  has  no  occasion  to  employ  the  arts 
of  a  juggler  ;  he  despises  them.” 

“  Thus,”  says  Count  0 - ,  “ended  a  conversa¬ 

tion  which  I  have  related  word  for  word,  because 
it  shows  the  difficulties  which  were  to  be  overcome 
before  the  Prince  could  be  effectually  imposed 
upon;  and  I  hope  it  may  free  his  memory  from 
the  imputation  of  having  blindly  and  inconsider¬ 
ately  thrown  himself  into  a  snare,  which  was 
spread  for  his  destruction,  by  the  most  unexampled 
and  diabolical  wickedness.  Not  all,”  continues 

Count  0 - ,  “  who,  at  the  moment  I  am  writing 

smile  contemptuously  at  the  Prince’s  credulity, 
and,  in  the  fancied  superiority  of  their  own  yet 
unteinpted  understanding,  unconditionally  con¬ 
demn  him  ;  not  all  of  these,  I  apprehend,  would 
have  stood  his  first  trial  so  courageously.  If  after¬ 
ward,  notwithstanding  this  providential  warning, 
we  witness  his  downfall  ;  if  we  see  that  the  black 
design  against  which,  at  the  very  outset,  he  was 
thus  cautioned,  is  finally  successful,  we  shall  be 
less  inclined  to  ridicule  his  weakness,  than  to  be 
astonished  at  the  infamous  ingenuity  of  a  plot 
which  could  seduce  an  understanding  so  fully  pre¬ 
pared.  Considerations  of  worldly  interest  can 
have  no  influence  upon  my  testimony ;  he,  who 
alone  would  be  thankful  for  it,  is  now  no  more. 
His  dreadful  destiny  is  accomplished  ;  his  soul  has 
long  since  been  purified  before  the  throne  of  truth, 
where  mine  will  likewise  have  appeared  before 
these  passages  meet  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Pardon 
the  involuntary  tears  which  now  flow  at  the  re¬ 
membrance  of  my  dearest  friend.  But  for  the 
sake  of  justice  I  must  write  this.  His  was  a  noble 
character,  and  would  have  adorned  a  throne  which, 
seduced  by  the  most  atrocious  artifice,  he  attempt¬ 
ed  to  ascend  by  the  commission  of  a  crime. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


303 


BOOK  THE  SECOND. 

"Not  long  after  these  events,”  continues  Count 

O - ,  in  his  narrative,  “I  began  to  observe  an 

extraordinary  alteration  in  the  disposition  of  the 
Prince,  which  was  partly  the  immediate  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  last  event,  and  partly  produced  by 

the  concurrence  of  manv  adventitious  circum- 

*/ 

stances.  Hitherto  he  had  avoided  every  severe 
trial  of  his  faith,  and  contented  himself  with  puri¬ 
fying  the  rude  and  abstract  notions  of  religion,  in 
which  he  had  been  educated,  by  those  more  ra¬ 
tional  ideas  upon  this  subject  which  forced  them¬ 
selves  upon  his  attention,  or  comparing  the  many 
discordant  opinions  with  each  other,  without  in¬ 
quiring  into  the  foundations  of  his  faith.  Reli- 
gious  subjects,  he  has  many  times  confessed  to 
me,  always  appeared  to  him  like  an  enchanted 
castle,  into  which  one  does  not  set  one’s  foot  with¬ 
out  horror,  and  that  they  act  therefore  much  the 
wiser  part,  who  pass  it  in  respectful  silence,  with¬ 
out  exposing  themselves  to  the  danger  of  being 
bewildered  in  its  labyrinths.  A  servile  and  bigoted 
education  was  the  source  of  this  dread:  this  had 
impressed  frightful  images  upon  his  tender  brain, 
which,  during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  he  was 
never  able  wholly  to  obliterate.  Religious  me¬ 
lancholy  was  an  hereditary  disorder  in  his  family. 
The  education  which  he  and  his  brothers  had  re¬ 
ceived  was  calculated  to  produce  it ;  and  the  men 
to  whose  care  they  were  intrusted,  selected  with 
this  object,  were  also  either  enthusiasts  or  hypo¬ 
crites. 

“  To  stifle  all  the  sprightliness  of  the  boy,  by  a 
gloomy  restraint  of  his  mental  faculties,  was  the 
only  method  of  securing  to  themselves  the  highest 
approbation  of  his  royal  parents.  The  whole  of 
our  Prince’s  childhood  wore  a  dark  and  gloomy 
aspect,  mirth  was  banished  even  from  his  amuse¬ 
ments.  All  his  ideas  of  religion  were  accompa¬ 
nied  by  some  frightful  image,  and  the  representa¬ 
tions  of  terror  and  severity  were  those  which  first 
took  hold  of  his  lively  imagination,  and  which  the 
longest  retained  their  empire  over  it.  His  God 
was  an  object  of  terror,  a  being  whose  occupation 
is  to  chastise;  and  the  adoration  he  paid  him,  was 
cither  slavish  fear,  or  a  blind  submission  which 
stifled  all  his  energies.  In  all  his  youthful  pro¬ 
pensities,  which  a  vigorous  growth  and  a  fine  con¬ 
stitution  naturally  excited  to  break  out  with  the 
greater  violence,  religion  stood  in  his  way;  it  op¬ 
posed  every  thing  upon  which  his  young  heart 
was  bent;  he  learned  to  consider  it  not  as  a  friend, 
but  as  the  scourge  of  his  passions  ;  so  that  a  silent 
indignation  was  gradually  kindled  against  it  in 
his  heart,  which,  together  with  a  bigoted  faith  and 
a  blind  fear,  produced  an  incongruous  mixture  of 
feelings,  and  an  abhorrence  of  a  ruler  before  whom 
he  trembled. 

“  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  took  the 
first  opportunity  of  escaping  from  so  galling  a 
yoke — but  he  fled  from  it  as  a  bond-slave  who,  es¬ 
caping  from  his  rigorous  master,  drags  along  with 
him  a  sense  of  his  servitude,  even  in  the  midst  of 
freedom  ;  for,  as  he  did  not  renounce  the  faith  of 
his  earlier  years  from  a  deliberate  conviction,  and 
did  not  wait  till  the  maturity  and  improvement  of 
his  reasoning  had  weaned  him  from  it,  but  escaped 


from  it  like  a  fugitive,  upon  whose  person  the 
rights  of  his  master  are  still  in  force,  so  was  he 
obliged,  even  after  his  widest  separation,  to  re¬ 
turn  to  it  at  last.  He  had  escaped  with  his  chain, 
and  for  that  reason  must  necessarily  become  the 
prey  of  any  one  who  should  discover  it,  and  know 
how  to  make  use  of  the  discovery.  That  such  a 
one  presented  himself,  the  sequel  of  this  history 
will  prove ;  most  likely  the  reader  has  already 
surmised  it. 

“The  confessions  of  the  Sicilian  left  a  deeper 
impression  upon  his  mind  than  they  ought,  con¬ 
sidering  the  circumstances  ;  and  the  small  victory 
which  his  reason  had  thence  gained  over  this  weak 
imposture,  remarkably  increased  his  reliance  upon 
his  own  powers.  The  facility  with  which  he  had 
been  able  to  unravel  this  deception,  appeared  to 
have  surprised  him.  Truth  and  error  were  not 
^i^^^^curatejy  distinguished  from  each  other 
•  that  he  often  mistook  the  arjru- 

ments  which  were  in  favor  of  the  one  for  those  in 
favor  of  the  other.  Thence  it  arose,  that  the  same 
blow  which  destroyed  his  faith  in  wonders,  made 
the  whole  edifice  of  it  totter.  In  this  instance, 
he  fell  into  the  same  error  as  an  inexperienced  man 
who  has  been  deceived  in  love  or  friendship,  be¬ 
cause  he  happened  to  make  a  bad  choice,  and  who 
denies  the  existence  of  these  sensations,  because 
he  takes  the  occasional  exceptions  for  distinguish¬ 
ing  features.  The  unmasking  of  a  deception  made 
even  truth  suspicious  to  him,  because  he  had  un¬ 
fortunately  discovered  truth  by  false  reasoning. 

“  This  imaginary  triumph  pleased  him  in  pro¬ 
portion  to  the  magnitude  of  the  oppression  from 
which  it  seemed  to  deliver  him.  From  this  in¬ 
stant  there  arose  in  his  mind  a  skepticism  which 
did  not  spare  even  the  most  sacred  objects. 

“  Many  circumstances  concurred  to  encourage, 
and  still  more  to  confirm  him  in  this  turn  of  mind. 
He  now  quitted  the  retirement  in  which  he  had 
hitherto  lived,  and  gave  way  to  a  more  dissipated 
mode  of  life.  His  rank  was  discovered  ;  atten¬ 
tions  which  he  was  obliged  to  return,  etiquettes 
for  which  he  was  indebted  to  his  rank,  drew  him 
imperceptibly  within  the  vortex  of  the  great 
world.  His  rank,  as  well  as  his  personal  attrac¬ 
tions,  opened  to  him  the  circles  of  all  the  beaux 
espnts  in  Venice,  and  he  soon  found  himself  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  the  most  enlightened  per¬ 
sons  in  the  republic,  men  of  learning  as  well  as 
politicians.  This  obliged  him  to  enlarge  the  mo¬ 
notonous  and  limited  circle  to  which  his  under¬ 
standing  had  hitherto  been  confined.  He  began 
to  perceive  the  poverty  and  feebleness  of  his 
ideas,  and  to  feel  the  want  of  more  elevated  im¬ 
pressions.  The  old-fashioned  turn  of  his  under¬ 
standing,  in  spite  of  the  many  advantages  with 
which  it  was  accompanied,  formed  an  unpleasing 
contrast  with  the  current  ideas  of  society  ;  his 
ignorance  of  the  commonest  things  frequently  ex¬ 
posed  him  to  ridicule,  than  which  he  dreaded 
nothing  more.  The  unfortunate  prejudice  which 
attached  to  his  native  country,  appeared  to  him  a 
challenge  to  overcome  it  in  his  own  person.  Be¬ 
sides  this,  there  was  a  peculiarity  in  his  charac¬ 
ter  ;  he  was  offended  with  every  attention  that  he 
thought  was  paid  him  on  account  of  his  rank, 
rather  than  his  personal  qualities.  He  felt  this 


I 


304 


irROSE  WRITINGS. 


humiliation  principally  in  the  company  of*persons 
who  shone  by  their  abilities,  and  triumphed,  as  it 
were,  over  their  birth  by  their  merit.  To  per¬ 
ceive  himself  distinguished  as  a  prince,  in  such  a 
society,  was  always  a  deep  humiliation  to  him, 
because  he  unfortunately  fancied  himself  excluded 
bv  his  rank  from  all  competition.  These  circum¬ 
stances  convinced  him  of  the  necessity  of  culti¬ 
vating  his  mind,  in  order  to  raise  it  to  a  level  with 
the  thinking  part  of  the  world,  from  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  so  separated  ;  and  for  that  purpose 
he  chose  the  most  modern  books,  and  applied 
himself  to  them  with  all  the  ardor  with  which  he 
was  accustomed  to  pursue  every  object,  to  which 
he  devoted  himself.  But  the  unskillful  hand  that 
directed  his  choice  always  prompted  him  to  select 
such  as  were  little  calculated  to  improve  either 
bis  heart  or  his  reason  ;  besides  that,  he  was  in¬ 
fluenced  by  a  propensity  which  rendered  every 
thing  irresistible  which  was  HMflpp 
He  had  neither  attention  nor  memory  for  any 
thing  that  was  not  of  that  character,  and  both  his 
reason  and  his  heart  remained  untouched,  while 
he  was  filling  the  vacuities  of  his  brain  with  con¬ 
fused  ideas.  The  dazzling  style  of  some  writers 
captivated  his  imagination,  while  the  subtilty  of 
others  insnared  his  reason.  Together,  they  easily 
took  possession  of  a  mind  which  became  the  prey 
of  whatever  was  obtruded  upon  it  with  a  certain 
degree  of  dogmatism.  A  course  of  reading,  which 
had  been  continued  with  ardor  for  more  than  a 
year,  had  scarcely  enriched  him  with  one  benevo¬ 
lent  idea,  but  had  filled  his  head  with  doubts, 
which,  as  a  natural  consequence  with  such  a  cha¬ 
racter,  had  almost  found  an  unfortunate  road  to 
his  heart:  In  a  word,  he  had  entered  this  laby¬ 
rinth  as  a  credulous  enthusiast,  had  left  it  as  a 
skeptic,  and  at  length  became  a  perfect  free¬ 
thinker. 

“  Among  the  circles  into  which  he  had  been  in¬ 
troduced,  there  was  a  private  society  called  the 
Bucentauro,  which,  under  the  mask  of  a  noble 
and  rational  liberality  of  sentiment,  encouraged 
the  most  unbridled  licentiousness  of  manners  and 
opinion.  As  it  enumerated  many  of  the  clergy 
among  its  members,  and  could  even  boast  of  some 
cardinals  at  its  head,  the  Prince  was  the  more 
easily  induced  to  join  it.  He  thought  that  cer¬ 
tain  dangerous  truths,  which  reason  discovers, 
could  be  nowhere  better  preserved  than  in  the 
hands  of  such  persons,  whose  rank  compelled 
them  to  moderation,  and  who  had  the  advantage 
of  hearing  and  examining  the  other  side  of  the 
question.  The  Prince  did  not  recollect  that  li¬ 
centiousness  of  sentiment  and  manners  takes  so 
much  the  stronger  hold  among  persons  of  this 
rank,  inasmuch  as  they  for  that  reason  feel  one 
curb  less ;  and  this  was  the  case  with  the  Bucen¬ 
tauro  ;  most  of  whose  members,  through  an  exe¬ 
crable  philosophy,  and  manners  worthy  of  such  a 
guide,  were  not  only  a  disgrace  to  their  own  rank, 
but  even  to  human  nature  itself.  The  society  had 
its  secret  degrees ;  and  I  will  believe,  for  the  cre¬ 
dit  of  the  Prince,  that  they  never  thought  him 
worthy  of  admission  into  the  inmost  sanctuary. 
Every  one  who  entered  this  society,  was  obliged, 
at  least  so  long  as  he  continued  to  be  a  member 
of  it,  to  lay  aside  all  distinctions  arising  from 


rank,  nation,  or  religion ;  in  short,  every  general 
mark  or  distinction  whatever,  and  to  submit  him¬ 
self  to  the  condition  of  universal  equality.  To 
be  elected  a  member  was  indeed  a  difficult  matter, 
as  superiority  of  understanding  alone  paved  the 
way  to  it.  The  society  boasted  of  the  highest  ton 
and  the  most  cultivated  taste,  and  such  indeed 
was  its  fame  throughout  all  Venice.  This,  as 
well  as  the  appearance  of  equality  which  predom¬ 
inated  in  it,  attracted  the  Prince  irresistibly. 
Sensible  conversations,  set  off  by  the  most  ad¬ 
mirable  humor,  instructive  amusements,  and  the 
flower  of  the  learned  and  political  world,  which 
were  all  attracted  to  this  point  as  to  their  com¬ 
mon  centre,  concealed  from  him  for  a  long  time 
the  danger  of  this  connection.  As  he  by  degrees 
discovered,  through  its  mask,  the  spirit  of  the  in¬ 
stitution,  as  they  grew  tired  of  being  any  longer 
on  their  guard  before  him,  to  recede  was  dange¬ 
rous,  and  false  shame  and  anxiety  for  his  safety 
obliged  him  to  conceal  the  displeasure  he  felt. 
But  he  already  began,  merely  from  familiarity 
with  men  of  this  class  and  their  sentiments, 
though  they  did  not  excite  him  to  imitation,  to 
lose  the  pure  and  charming  simplicity  of  his  cha¬ 
racter,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  moral  feelings. 
His  understanding,  supported  by  real  knowledge, 
could  not,  without  foreign  assistance,  solve  the 
fallacious  sophisms  with  which  he  had  been  here 
insnared  ;  and  this  fatal  poison  had  already  de¬ 
stroyed  all,  or  nearly  all  the  basis  on  which  his 
morality  rested.  He  surrendered  the  natural  and 
indispensable  safeguards  of  his  happiness  for  so¬ 
phisms  which  deserted  him  at  the  critical  mo¬ 
ment,  and  he  was  consequently  left  to  the  opera¬ 
tion  of  any  specious  argument  which  came  in  his 
way. 

“  Perhaps  the  hand  of  a  friend  might  yet  have 
been  in  time  to  extricate  him  from  this  abyss ; 
but,  besides  that  I  did  not  become  acquainted 
with  the  real  character  of  the  Bucentauro  till  long 
after  the  evil  had  taken  place,  an  urgent  circum¬ 
stance  called  me  away  from  Venice  just  at  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  this  period.  Lord  Seymour,  too,  a 
valuable  acquaintance  of  the  Prince’s,  whose  cool 
understanding  was  proof  against  every  species  of 
deception,  and  who  would  have  infallibly  been  a 
secure  support  to  him,  left  us  at  this  time,  in  order 
to  return  to  his  native  country.  Those  in  whose 
hands  I  left  the  Prince  were  indeed  worthy  men, 
but  inexperienced,  excessively  narrow  in  their  re¬ 
ligious  opinions,  deficient  in  their  perception  of 
the  evil,  and  wanting  in  credit  with  the  Prince. 
They  had  nothing  to  oppose  to  his  captious 
sophisms,  except  the  maxims  of  a  blind  and  unin¬ 
quiring  faith,  which  either  irritated  him,  or  excited 
his  ridicule.  He  saw  through  them  too  easily,  and 
his  superior  reason  soon  silenced  those  weak  de¬ 
fenders  of  the  good  cause,  as  will  be  clearly 
evinced  from  an  instance  which  I  shall  introduce 
in  the  sequel.  Those  who,  subsequent  to  this, 
possessed  themselves  of  his  confidence,  were  much 
more  interested  in  plunging  him  deeper  into  error. 
When  I  returned  to  Venice  in  the  following  year, 
how  great  a  change  had  already  taken  place  iu 
every  thing  ! 

“The  influence  of  this  new  philosophy  soon 
showed  itself  in  the  Prince’s  conduct.  The  more 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


305 


openly  he  pursued  pleasure,  and  acquired  new 
friends,  the  more  did  he  lose  in  the  estimation  of 
his  old  ones.  He  pleased  me  less  and  less  every 
day ;  we  saw  each  other  more  seldom,  and,  indeed, 
he  was  seldom  accessible.  He  had  launched  out 
into  the  torrent  of  the  great  world.  His  thresh¬ 
old  was  eternally  thronged  when  he  was  at  home. 
Amusements,  banquets,  and  galas  followed  each 
other  in  rapid  succession.  He  was  the  idol  whom 
every  one  courted — the  great  attraction  of  every 
circle.  In  proportion  as  he  in  his  secluded  life 
had  fancied  living  in  society  to  be  difficult,  did  he 
to  his  astonishment  find  it  easy.  Every  thing  met 
his  wishes.  Whatever  he  uttered  was  admirable, 
and  when  he  remained  silent  it  was  like  committing 
a  robbery  upon  the  company.  They  understood 
the  art  of  drawing  his  thoughts  insensibly  from 
his  soul,  and  then  with  a  little  delicate  manage¬ 
ment  to  surprise  him  with  them.  This  happiness, 
which  accompanied  him  every  where,  and  this 
universal  success,  raised  him  indeed  too  much  in 
his  own  ideas,  because  it  gave  him  too  much  con¬ 
fidence  and  too  much  reliance  upon  himself. 

“  The  heightened  opinion  which  he  thus  acquired 
of  his  own  worth,  made  him  credit  the  excessive 
and  almost  idolatrous  adoration  that  was  paid  to 
his  understanding ;  which,  but  for  this  increased 
self-complacency,  must  have  necessarily  recalled 
him  from  his  aberrations.  For  the  present,  how¬ 
ever,  this  universal  voice  was  only  a  confirmation 
of  what  his  complacent  vanity  whispered  in  his 
ear — a  tribute  which  he  felt  entitled  to  by  right. 
He  would  have  infallibly  disengaged  himself  from 
this  snare,  had  they  allowed  him  to  take  breath — 
had  they  granted  him  a  moment  of  uninterrupted 
leisure  to  compare  his  real  merit  with  the  picture 
that  was  exhibited  to  him  in  this  seducing  mirror ; 
but  his  existence  was  a  continued  state  of  intoxi¬ 
cation,  a  whirl  of  excitement.  The  higher  he  had 
been  elevated,  the  more  difficulty  had  he  to  sup¬ 
port  himself  in  his  elevation.  This  incessant  ex¬ 
ertion  slowly  undermined  him — rest  had  forsaken 
even  his  slumbers.  His  weakness  had  been  dis¬ 
covered,  and  the  passion  kindled  in  his  breast 
turned  to  good  account. 

“  His  worthy  attendants  soon  found,  to  their 
cost,  that  their  lord  had  become  a  wit.  That 
anxious  sensibility,  those  glorious  truths  which 
his  heart  once  embraced  with  the  greatest  enthusi¬ 
asm,  now  began  to  be  the  objects  of  his  ridicule. 
He  revenged  himself  on  the  great  truths  of  reli¬ 
gion  for  the  oppression  which  he  had  so  long  suf¬ 
fered  from  misconception.  But,  since  from  too 
true  a  voice  his  heart  combated  the  intoxication 
of  his  head,  there  was  more  of  acrimony  than  of 
humor  in  his  jests.  His  disposition  began  to 
alter,  and  caprice  to  exhibit  itself.  The  most 
beautiful  ornament  of  his  character,  his  modesty, 
vanished — parasites  had  poisoned  his  excellent 
heart.  That  tender  delicacy  of  address  which 
frequently  made  his  attendants  forget  that  he  was 
their  lord,  now  gave  place  to  a  decisive  and  des¬ 
potic  tone,  which  made  the  more  sensible  impres¬ 
sion,  because  it  was  not  founded  upon  distinction 
of  rank,  for  the  want  of  which  they  could  have 
consoled  themselves,  but  upon  an  arrogant  estima¬ 
tion  of  his  own  superior  merit.  When  at  home, 
he  was  attacked  by  reflections,  that  seldom  made 
Vol.  II.— 20 


their  appearance  in  the  bustle  of  company;  his 
own  people  scarcely  ever  saw  him  otherwise  than 
gloomy,  peevish,  and  unhappy,  whilst  elsewhere  a 
forced  vivacity  made  him  the  soul  of  every  circle. 
With  the  sincerest  sorrow  did  we  behold  him 
treading  this  dangerous  path,  but  in  the  vortex  in 
which  he  was  involved  the  feeble  voice  of  friend¬ 
ship  was  no  longer  heard,  and  he  was  too  much 
intoxicated  to  understand  it. 

“Just  at  the  beginning  of  this  epoch,  an  affair 
of  the  greatest  consequence  required  my  presence 
in  the  court  of  my  sovereign,  which  I  dared  not 
postpone  even  for  the  dearest  interests  of  friend¬ 
ship.  An  invisible  hand,  the  agency  of  which  I 
did  not  discover  till  long  afterward,  had  contrived 
to  derange  my  affairs,  and  to  spread  reports  con¬ 
cerning  me  which  I  was  obliged  to  contradict  by 
my  presence.  The  parting  from  the  Prince  was 
painful  to  me,  but  did  not  affect  him.  The  ties 
which  united  us  had  been  severed. for  some  time, 
but  his  fate  had  awakened  all  my  anxiety :  I,  on 

that  account,  prevailed  on  the  Baron  von  F - 

to  inform  me  by  letter  of  every  event,  which  he 
has  done  in  the  most  conscientious  manner.  As 
I  was,  for  a  considerable  time,  no  longer  an  eye¬ 
witness  of  these  events,  it  will  be  allowable  for  me 

to  introduce  the  Baron  von  F -  in  my  stead, 

and  to  fill  up  the  gap  in  my  narrative  by  the  con¬ 
tents  of  his  letters.  Notwithstanding  that  the 

representation  of  my  friend  F - is  not  always 

what  I  should  have  given,  I  would  not  alter  ary 
of  his  expressions,  so  that  the  reader  will  be 
enabled  to  discover  the  truth  with  very  lit*Ie 
trouble.” 


LETTER  I. 

BARON  VON  F -  TO  COUNT  VON  0 - . 

May  l" 

I  thank  you,  my  most  honored  friend,  for  the 
permission  you  have  given  me  to  continue  in  your 
absence  that  confidential  intercourse  with  you, 
which  during  your  stay  here  formed  my  greatest 
pleasure.  You  must  be  aware  that  there  is  no 
one  here  to  whom  I  can  venture  to  open  my 
heart  on  certain  private  matters.  Whatever  you 
may  urge  to  the  contrary,  I  detest  the  j^ople 
here.  Since  the  Prince  has  become  one  of  them, 
and  since  we  have  lost  your  society,  I  feel  solitary 

in  the  midst  of  this  populous  city.  Z - takes 

it  less  to  heart,  and  the  fair  ones  of  V'enice  manage 
to  make  him  forget  the  mortifications  he  is  com¬ 
pelled  to  share  with  me  at  home.  And  why  should 
he  make  himself  unhappy?  He  desires  nothing 
more  in  the  Prince  than  a  master,  whom  he  could 
also  find  elsewhere.  But  I ! — you  know  how  deep 
an  interest  I  feel  in  our  Prince’s  weal  and  woe, 
and  how  much  cause  I  have  for  doing  so :  I  have 
now  lived  with  him  sixteen  years,  and  seem  to 
exist  only  for  his  sake.  As  a  boy  of  nine  years 
old  I  first  entered  his  service,  and  since  that  time 
we  have  never  been  separated.  1  have  grown  up 
under  his  eye — a  long  intercourse  has  insensibly 
attached  me  more  and  more  to  him — I  have  borne 
a  part  in  all  his  adventures,  great  and  small. 
Until  this  last  unhappy  year,  I  have  been  accus- 


306 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


tomed  to  look  upon  him  in  the  light  of  a  friend,  or 
of  an  elder  brother — I  have  basked  in  his  smile  as 
in  the  sunshine  of  a  summer’s  day — no  cloud 
hung  over  my  happiness  ! — and  all  this  must  now 
go  to  ruin  in  this  unlucky  Venice  ! 

Since  your  departure  several  changes  have  taken 

place  in  our  establishment.  The  prince  of - 

arrived  here  last  week,  with  a  numerous  and  bril¬ 
liant  retinue,  and  has  caused  a  new  and  tumul¬ 
tuous  life  in  our  circle.  As  he  is  so  nearly  re¬ 
lated  to  our  Prince,  and  as  they  are  moreover  at  j 
present  upon  pretty  good  terms,  they  will  be  very  i 
little  apart  during  his  sojourn,  which  I  hear  is  to  j 
last  until  after  the  feast  of  the  Ascension.  A 
goo:  beginning  has  already  been  made ;  for  the 
last  ton  days  our  Prince  has  hardly  had  time  to 

breathe.  The  Prince  of - has  all  along  been 

living  in  a  very  expensive  way,  which  was  excusa¬ 
ble  in  him,  as  he  will  soon  take  his  departure ;  but 
the  worst  of  the  business  is  that  he  has  inoculated  j 
our  Prince  with  his  extravagance,  because  he 
could  not  well  withdraw  himself  from  his  com¬ 
pany,  and,  in  the  peculiar  relation  which  exists 
between  the  two  houses,  thought  it  incumbent 
upon  himself  to  assert  the  dignity  of  his  own. 
We  shall,  moreover,  depart  from  Venice  in  a  few 
weeks,  which  will  relieve  the  Prince  from  the 
necessity  of  continuing  for  any  length  of  time  this 
extraordinary  expenditure. 

The  Prince  of - ,  it  is  reported,  is  here  on 

business  of  the - order,  in  which  he  imagines 

that  he  plays  an  important  part.  That  he  has 
taken  advantage  of  all  the  acquaintances  of  our  j 
Prince,  you  may  readily  imagine.  He  has  been  ] 
introduced  with  distinguished  honor  into  the 
society  of  the  Bucentauro,  as  he  is  pleased  to 
consider  himself  a  wit,  and  a  man  of  great  genius, 
and  allows  himself  to  be  styled  in  his  correspon¬ 
dence  which  he  keeps  up  throughout  all  parts  of 
the  world,  the  “Prince  philosophique.”  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  have  ever  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  him.  He  displays  a  promising  exterior, 
piercing  eyes,  a  countenance  full  of  expression, 
much  show  of  reading,  mnch  acquired  natural¬ 
ness  (if  I  may  he  allowed  the  expression),  joined 
to  a  princely  condescension  toward  the  human 
race,  a  large  amount  of  confidence  in  himself,  and 
an  eloquence  which  talks  down  all  opposition. 
Who. could  refuse  to  pay  homage  to  such  splendid 
qualities  in  a  “  Royal  Highness”  ?  But  to  what 
advantage  the  quiet  and  sterling  worth  of  our 
Prince  will  appear,  when  contrasted  with  these 
dazzling  accomplishments,  the  event  must  show. 

In  the  arrangement  of  our  establishment,  various 
and  important  changes  have  taken  place.  We 
have  rented  a  new  and  magnificent  house  opposite 
the  new  Procuracy,  because  the  lodging  at  the 
Moor  Hotel  became  too  confined  for  the  Prince. 
Our  suite  has  been  augmented  by  twelve  persons, 
pages,  Moors,  guards,  &c.  During  your  stay  here,  j 
you  complained  of  unnecessary  expense — you 
should  see  us  now  ! 

Our  internal  arrangements  remain  the  same  as 
of  old,  except  that  the  Prince,  no  longer  held  in 
check  by  your  presence,  is,  if  possible,  more  re-  j 
served  and  distant  toward  us  than  ever  ;  we  see 
very  little  of  him,  except  while  dressing  or  un-  j 
dressing  him.  Under  the  pretext  that  we  speak 


the  French  language  very  badly,  and  the  Italian 
not  at  all,  he  has  found  means  to  exclude  us  from 
most  of  his  entertainments,  which  to  me  personally 
is  not  a  very  great  grievance  ;  but  I  believe  I  know 
the  true  reason  of  it — he  is  ashamed  of  us :  and 
this  hurts  me,  for  we  have  not  deserved  it  of  him. 

As  you  wish  to  know  all  our  minor  affairs,  I 
must  tell  you,  that  of  all  his  attendants,  the 
Prince  almost  exclusively  employs  Biondello, 
whom  he  took  into  his  service,  as  you  will  recol¬ 
lect,  on  the  disappearance  of  his  huntsman,  and 
who,  in  his  new  mode  of  life,  has  become  quite 
indispensable  to  him.  This  man  knows  Venice 
thoroughly,  and  turns  every  thing  to  some  account. 
It  is  as  though  he  had  a  thousand  eyes,  and  could 
set  a  thousand  hands  in  motion  at  once.  This  he 
accomplishes,  as  he  says,  by  the  help  of  the  gon¬ 
doliers.  To  the  Prince  he  renders  himself  very 
useful  by  making  him  acquainted  with  all  the 
strange  faces  that  present  themselves  at  his  assem¬ 
blies,  and  the  private  information  he  gives  his 
highness  has  always  proved  to  be  correct.  Be¬ 
sides  this,  he  speaks  and  writes  both  Italian  and 
French  excellently,  and  has  in  consequence  al¬ 
ready  risen  to  be  the  Prince’s  secretary.  I  must, 
however,  relate  to  you  an  instance  of  fidelity  in 
him  which  is  rarely  found  among  people  of  his 
station.  The  other  day,  a  merchant  of  good 
standing  from  Rimini  requested  an  audience  of 
the  Prince.  The  object  of  his  visit  was  an  ex¬ 
traordinary  complaint  concerning  Biondello.  The 
Procurator,  his  former  master,  who  must  have 
been  rather  an  odd  fellow,  had  lived  in  irrecon¬ 
cilable  enmity  with  his  relations;  this  enmity  he 
wished  if  possible  to  continue  even  after  his  death. 
Biondello  possessed  his  entire  confidence,  and  was 
the  repository  of  all  his  secrets ;  while  on  his 
death-bed,  he  obliged  him  to  swear  that  he  would 
keep  them  inviolably,  and  would  never  disclose 
them  for  the  benefit  of  his  relations ;  a  handsome 
legacy  was  to  be  the  reward  of  his  silence. 
When  the  deceased  Procurator’s  will  was  opened, 
and  his  papers  inspected,  many  blanks  and  irre¬ 
gularities  were  found,  to  which  Biondello  alone 
could  furnish  a  key.  He  persisted  in  denying  that 
he  knew  any  thing  about  it,  gave  up  his  very 
handsome  legacy  to  the  heirs,  and  kept  his  secrets 
to  himself.  Large  offers  were  made  to  him  by  the 
relations,  but  all  in  vain  ;  at  length,  in  order  to 
escape  from  their  importunities  and  their  threats 
of  legally  prosecuting  him,  he  entered  the  service 
of  the  Prince.  The  merchant,  who  was  the  chief 
heir,  now  applied  to  the  Prince,  and  made  larger 
offers  than  before,  if  Biondello  would  alter  his 
determination.  But  even  the  persuasions  of  the 
Prince  were  fruitless.  He  admitted  that  secrets  of 
consequence  had  really  been  confided  to  him  ;  he 
did  not  deny  that  the  deceased  had  perhaps  carried 
his  enmity  toward  his  relations  too  far;  but,  added 
he,  he  was  my  dear  master  and  benefactor,  and 
died  with  a  firm  belief  in  my  integrity.  I  was  the 
only  friend  he  had  left  in  the  world,  and  will 
therefore  never  prove  myself  unworthy  of  his 
confidence.  At  the  same  time,  he  hinted  that  the 
avowals  they  wished  him  to  make  would  not  tend 
to  the  honor  of  the  deceased.  Was  not  that  act¬ 
ing  nobly  and  delicately?  You  may  easily  ima¬ 
gine  that  the  Prince  did  not  renew  his  endeavors 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


307 


to  shake  so  praiseworthy  a  determination.  The 
extraordinary  fidelity  which  he  has  shown  to¬ 
ward  his  deceased  master,  has  procured  him  the 
unlimited  confidence  of  his  present  one  ! 

Farewell,  my  dear  friend.  How  I  sigh  for  the 
quiet  life  we  led  when  first  you  came  amongst  us, 
for  the  stillness  of  which  your  society  so  agree¬ 
ably  indemnified  us.  I  fear  my  happy  days  in 
Venice  are  over,  and  shall  be  glad  if  the  same 
remark  does  not  also  apply  to  the  Prince.  The 
element  in  which  he  now  lives  is  not  calculated  to 
render  him  permanently  happy,  or  my  sixteen 
years’  experience  has  deceived  me. 


LETTER  II. 

BARON  VON  F -  TO  COUNT  VON  O - . 

May  ISth. 

I  should  never  have  thought  that  our  stay  at 
Venice  would  have  been  productive  of  any  good 
consequences.  It  has  been  the  means  of  saving 
a  man’s  life,  and  I  am  reconciled  to  it. 

Some  few  evenings  ago  the  Prince  was  being 
carried  home,  late  at  night,  from  the  Bucentauro; 
two  domestics,  of  whom  Biondello  was  one,  ac¬ 
companied  him.  By  some  accident  it  happened 
that  the  sedan,  which  had  been  hired  in  haste, 
broke  down,  and  the  Prince  was  obliged  to  pro¬ 
ceed  the  remainder  of  the  way  on  foot.  Biondello 
walked  in  front;  their  course  lay  through  several 
dark,  retired  streets,  and,  as  daybreak  was  at 
hand,  the  lamps  were  either  burning  dimly  or  had 
gone  out  altogether.  They  had  proceeded  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  Biondello  discovered 
that  he  had  lost  his  way.  The  similarity  of  the 
bridges  had  deceived  him,  and,  instead  of  cross¬ 
ing  that  of  St.  Mark,  they  found  themselves  in 
Sestiere  di  Gastello.  It  was  in  a  by-street,  and 
not  a  soul  was  stirring ;  they  were  obliged  to  turn 
back,  in  order  to  gain  a  main  street  by  which  to 
set  themselves  right.  They  had  proceeded  but  a 
few  paces  when  they  heard  cries  of  “  murder”  in  a 
neigboring  street.  With  his  usual  determined 
courage,  the  Prince,  unarmed  as  he  was,  snatched 
a  stick  from  one  of  his  attendants,  and  rushed 
forward  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  came. 
Three  ruffianly  looking  fellows  were  just  about  to 
assassinate  a  man,  who  with  his  companion  was 
feebly  defending  himself;  the  Prince  appeared 
just  in  tirpe  to  arrest  the  fatal  blow.  The  voices 
of  the  Prince  and  his  followers  alarmed  the  mur¬ 
derers,  who  did  not  expect  any  interruption  in 
so  lonely  a  place ;  after  inflicting  a  few  slight 
wounds  with  their  daggers,  they  abandoned  their 
victim  and  took  to  their  heels.  Exhausted  with 
the  unequal  combat,  the  wounded  man  sunk  half 
fainting  into  the  arms  of  the  Prince;  his  com¬ 
panion  informed  my  master,  that  the  man  whose 
life  he  had  saved  was  the  Marquis  Civitella,  a 
nephew  of  the  Cardinal  A - i.  As  the  Mar¬ 

quis’s  wounds  bled  freely,  Biondello  acted  as  sur¬ 
geon,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  and  the  Prince 
took  care  to  have  him  conveyed  to  the  palace  of 
his  uncle,  which  was  near  at  hand,  and  whither  he 
himself  accompanied  him.  This  done,  he  left  the 
house  without  revealing  his  name. 


This,  however,  was  discovered  by  a  servant  who 
had  recognized  Biondello.  Already  on  the  fol¬ 
lowing  morning,  the  cardinal,  an  old  acquaintance 
from  the  Bucentauro,  waited  upon  the  Prince 
The  interview  lasted  an  hour  ;  the  Cardinal  was 
much  moved  ;  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  when  they 
parted  ;  the  Prince,  too,  was  affected.  The  same 
evening  a  visit  was  paid  to  the  sick  man,  of  wdiose 
case  the  surgeon  gives  a  very  favorable  report  ; 
the  mantle  in  which  he  was  wrapped  had  rendered 
the  thrusts  unsteady,  and  weakened  their  force. 
Since  this  event  not  a  day  has  passed  without  the 
Prince’s  paying  a  visit  at  the  Cardinal’s,  or  re¬ 
ceiving  one  from  him,  and  a  close  intimacy  has 
begun  to  exist  between  him  and  the  Cardinal’s 
family.’ 

The  Cardinal  is  a  venerable  man  of  sixty,  with 
a  majestic  aspect,  but  full  of  gayety  and  good 
health.  He  is  said  to  be  the  richest  prelate 
throughout  all  the  dominions  of  the  republic. 
He  is  reported  to  manage  his  immense  fortune  in 
a  very  liberal  manner,  and,  although  prudently 
economical,  to  despise  none  of  the  joys  of  this 
life.  This  nephew,  who  is  his  sole  heir,  is  not  al¬ 
ways  on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  uncle.  For, 
although  the  Cardinal  is  any  thing  but  an  enemy 
to  youthful  pleasures,  the  conduct  of  the  nephew 
must  exhaust  the  utmost  tolerance.  His  loose 
principles  and  dissipated  manner  of  living,  aided 
unhappily  by  all  the  attractions  which  can  make 
vice  tempting,  and  excite  sensuality,  have  ren¬ 
dered  him  the  terror  of  all  fathers,  and  the  bane 
of  all  husbands ;  this  last  attack  also  was  said  to 
have  been  caused  by  an  intrigue  he  had  begun 
with  the  wife  of  the  -  Ambassador,  with¬ 

out  speaking  of  other  serious  broils  from  which 
the  power  and  the  money  of  the  Cardinal  could 
scarcely  extricate  him.  But  for  this,  the  Cardi¬ 
nal  would  be  the  happiest  man  in  Italy,  for  he 
possesses- every  thing  that  can  make  life  agree¬ 
able  ;  but  by  this  one  domestic  misfortune  all  the 
gifts  of  fortune  are  annulled,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  his  wealth  is  embittered  to  the  Cardinal,  by 
the  continual  fear  of  finding  nobody  to  inherit  it. 

The  whole  of  this  information  I  have  obtained 
from  Biondello.  The  Prince  has  found  in  this 
man  a  real  treasure.  Every  day  he  becomes  more 
indispensable,  and  we  are  continually  discovering 
in  him  some  new  talent.  Some  days  ago  the 
Prince  felt  feverish  and  could  not  sleep;  the 
night-lamp  was  extinguished,  and  all  his  ringing 
failed  to  arouse  the  valet-de-chambre,  who  had 
gone  to  sleep  out  of  the  house  with  an  opera- 
dancer.  At  length  the  Prince  determined  to  rise 
himself,  and  to  rouse  one  of  his  people.  He  had 
not  proceeded  far,  when  a  strain  of  delicious  me¬ 
lody  met  his  ear.  Like  one  enchanted,  he  fol¬ 
lowed  the  sound,  and  found  Biondello  in  his  room 
playing  upon  the  flute,  with  his  fellow-servants 
assembled  round  him.  The  Prince  could  hardly 
believe  his  senses,  and  commanded  him  to  pro¬ 
ceed.  With  a  surprising  degree  of  facility  he 
began  to  vary  a  touching  adagio  air  with  some 
fine  extempore  variations,  which  he  executed  with 
all  the  taste -of  a  virtuoso.  The  Prince,  who,  as 
you  know,  is  a  judge  of  music,  says  that  he  might 
play  with  confidence  in  the  finest  choir  in  Italy. 

“  I  must  dismiss  this  man,”  said  he  to  me  next 


308 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


morning,  “for  I  am  unable  to  reward  him  accord¬ 
ing  to  his  merits.”  Biondello,  who  had  overheard 
these  words,  came  forward.  “  If  you  dismiss  me, 
gracious  Prince,”  you  deprive  me  of  my  best  re¬ 
ward.” 

“You  are  born  to  something  better  than  to 
serve,”  answered  my  master.  “  I  must  not  stand 
in  the  way  of  your  fortune.” 

“  Do  not  press  upon  me  any  better  fortune, 
gracious  Sir,  than  that  which  I  have  chosen  for 
myself.” 

“  To  neglect  talent  like  yours - No  !  I  can 

never  permit  it.” 

“Then  permit  me,  gracious  Sir/ sometimes  to 
exercise  it  in  your  presence.” 

Preparations  were  immediately  made  for1  carry¬ 
ing  this  proposition  into  effect.  Biondello  had  a 
room  assigned  to  him  next  the  apartment  of  the 
Prince,  so  that  he  can  lull  him  to  sleep  with 
his  strains,  and  wake  him  in  the  same  manner. 
The  Prince  wished  to  double  his  salary,  but  Bion¬ 
dello  declined,  requesting  that  this  intended  boon 
should  be  retained  in  his  master’s  hands  as  a  capi¬ 
tal  of  which  he  might  some  day  wish  to  avail  him¬ 
self.  The  Prince  expects  that  he  will  soon  come 
to  ask  a  favor  at  his  hands  ;  and  whatever  it  may 
be,  it  is  granted  beforehand.  Farewell,  dearest 
friend.  I  am  waiting  with  impatience  for  tidings 
from  K - n. 


LETTER  III. 

BARON  VON  F - TO  COUNT  VON  O - . 

June  4th. 

The  Marquis  of  Civitella,  who  is  now  entirely 
recovered  from  his  wounds,  was  last  week  intro¬ 
duced  to  the  Prince  by  his  uncle  the  Cardinal,  and 
since  then  he  has  follow-ed  him  like  his  shadow. 
Biondello  cannot  have  told  me  the  truth  respect¬ 
ing  this  Marquis,  or  at  any  rate  his  account  must 
be  greatly  exaggerated.  His  mien  is  highly  en¬ 
gaging,  and  his  manners  irresistibly  winning.  It 
is  impossible  to  be  out  of  humor  with  him  ;  the 
first  sight  of  him  has  disarmed  me.  Imagine  a 
man  of  the  most  enchanting  figure,  withcorres 
ponding  grace  and  dignity,  a  countenance  full  of 
thought  and  genius,  an  expression  frank  and  in¬ 
viting  ;  a  persuasive  tone  of  voice,  the  most  flow¬ 
ing  eloquence,  and  a  glow  of  youthful  beauty, 
joined  to  all  the  advantages  of  a  most  liberal 
education.  He  has  none  of  that  contemptuous 
pride,  none  of  that  solemn  starchness,  which  we 
disliked  so  much  in  all  the  other  nobles.  His 
whole  being  is  redolent  of  youthful  joyousness, 
benevolence,  and  warmth  of  feeling.  His  excesses 
must  have  been  much  exaggerated  ;  I  never  saw 
a  more  perfect  picture  of  health.  If  he  is  really 
so  wholly  abandoned  as  Biondello  represents  him, 
he  is  a  siren  whom  none  can  resist. 

Toward  me  he  behaved  with  much  frankness. 
He  confessed  with  the  most  pleasing  sincerity, 
that  he  was  by  no  means  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  his  uncle  the  Cardinal,  and  that  it  was  his 
own  fault.  But  he  was  seriously  resolved  to 
amend  his  life,  and  the  merit  would  be  entirely 
the  Prince’s.  At  the  same  time,  he  hoped  through 


his  instrumentality  to  be  reconciled  to  his  uncle, 
as  the  Prince’s  influence  with  the  Cardinal  was 
unbounded.  The  only  thing  he  had  wanted,  till 
now,  was  a  friend  and  a  guide,  and  he  trusted  he 
should  find  both  in  the  person  of  the  Prince. 

The  Prince  has  now  assumed  the  authority  of  a 
preceptor  toward  him,  and  treats  him  with  all  the 
watchfulness  and  strictness  of  a  Mentor.  Bat 
this  intimacy  also  gives  the  Marquis  a  certain 
degree  of  influence,  of  which  he  well  knows  how 
to  avail  himself.  He  hardly  stirs  from  his  side; 
he  is  present  at  all  parties  where  the  Prince  is 
one  of  the  guests  ;  for  the  Bucentauro  alone  he  is 
fortunately  as  yet  too  young.  Wherever  he 
appears  in  public  with  the  Prince,  he  manages  to 
draw  him  away  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  by 
the  pleasing  manner  in  which  he  engages  him  in 
conversation  and  arrests  his  attention.  Nobody, 
they  say,  has  yet  been  able  to  reclaim  him,  and 
the  Prince  will  deserve  to  be  immortalized  in  an 
epic,  should  he  accomplish  such  an  Herculean  task. 
I  am  much  afraid,  however,  that  the  tables  may 
be  turned,  and  the  guide  be  led  away  by  the  pupil, 
of  which,  in  fact,  there  seems  to  be  every  pros¬ 
pect. 

The  Prince  of - has  taken  his  departure, 

much  to  the  satisfaction  of  us  all,  my  master  not 

excepted.  What  I  predicted,  my  dear  0 - ,  has 

come  to  pass.  Two  characters  so  widely  opposed 
must  inevitably  clash  together,  and  cannot  main¬ 
tain  a  good  understanding  for  any  length  of  time. 

The  Prince  of  -  had  not  been  long  in 

Yenice  before  a  terrible  schism  took  place  in  the 
intellectual  world,  which  threatened  to  deprive 
our  Prince  of  one-half  of  his  admirers.  Wherever 
he  went  he  was  crossed  by  this  rival,  who  pos¬ 
sessed  exactly  the  requisite  amount  of  small  cun¬ 
ning  to  avail  himself  of  every  little  advantage  he 
gained.  As  he  besides  never  scrupled  tomakeuseof 
any  petty  manoeuvres  to  increase  his  consequence, 
he  in  a  short  time  drew  all  the  weak-minded  of 
the  community  on  his  side,  and  shone  at  the  head 
of  a  company  of  parasites  worthy  of  such  a 
leader.*  The  wiser  course  would  certainly  have 
been,  not  to  enter  into  competition  at  all  with  an 
adversary  of  this  description,  and  a  few  months 
back  this  is  the  part  which  the  Prince  would 
have  takeu.  But  now  he  has  launched  too  far 
into  the  stream  easily  to  regain  the  shore.  These 
trifles  have,  perhaps  by  the  circumstances  in 
which  he  is  placed,  acquired  a  certain  degree  of 
importance  in  his  eyes,  and  had  he  even  despised 
them,  his  pride  would  not  have  allowed  him  to 
retire  at  a  moment  when  his  yielding  would  have 
been  looked  upon  less  as  a  voluntary  act,  than  as 
a  confession  of  inferiority.  Added  to  this,  an 
unlucky  revival  of  forgotten  satirical  speeches 
had  taken  place ;  and  the  spirit  of  rivalry  which 
took  possession  of  his  followers  had  affected  the 
Prince  himself.  In  order,  therefore,  to  maintain 
that  position  in  society,  which  public  opinion  had 
now  assigned  him,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to 

*  The  harsh  judgment  which  Baron  F - (both  here 

and  in  some  passages  of  his  first  letter)  pronounced  upon 
this  talented  Prince,  will  be  found  exaggerated  by  every 
one  who  has  the  good  fortune  to  be  acquainted  with  him, 
and  must  be  attributed  to  the  prejudiced  views  of  the 
young  observer. — Note  of  the  Count  von  0 - . 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


309 


seize  every  possible  opportunity  of  display  and  of 
increasing-  the  number  of  his  admirers  ;  but,  this 
could  only  be  effected  by  the  most  princely  ex¬ 
penditure  ;  he  was,  therefore,  eternally  giving 
feasts,  entertainments,  and  expensive  concerts, 
making  costly  presents,  and  playing  high.  As 
this  strange  madness,  moreover,  had  also  infected 
the  Prince’s  retinue,  who  are  generally  much  more 
punctilious  in  respect  to  what  they  deem  “  the 
honor  of  the  family,”  than  their  masters,  the 
Prince  was  obliged  to  assist  the  zeal  of  his  fol¬ 
lowers  by  his  liberality.  Here,  then,  is  a  whole 
catalogue  of  ills,  all  irremediable  consequences  of 
a  sufficiently  excusable  weakness,  to  which  the 
Prince,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  gave  way  ! 

We  have,  it  is  true,  got  rid  of  our  rival,  but  the 
harm  he  has  done  will  not  so  soon  be  remedied. 
The  finances  of  the  Prince  are  exhausted  ;  all 
that  he  had  saved  by  the  wise  economy  of  years  is 
spent;  and  he  must  hasten  from  Venice,  if  he 
would  escape  plunging  into  debt,  which  till  now 
he  has  most  scrupulously  avoided.  It  is  deci¬ 
sively  settled  that  we  leave  as  soon  as  fresh  re¬ 
mittances  arrive. 

I  should  not  have  minded  all  this  splendor  if 
the  Prince  had  but  reaped  the  least  real  satisfac¬ 
tion  from  it.  But  he  was  never  less  happy  than 
at  present!  He  feels  that  he  is  not  what  he  for¬ 
merly  was — he  seeks  to  regain  his  self-respect — 
he  is  dissatisfied  with  himself,  and  launches  into 
fresh  dissipation,  in  order  to  drown  the  recollec¬ 
tion  of  the  last.  One  new  acquaintance  follows 
another,  and  each  involves  him  more  deeply.  I 
know  not  where  this  will  end.  We  must  away — 
there  is  no  other  chance  of  safety — we  must  away 
from  Venice. 

But,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  not  yet  received  a 
single  line  from  you  !  How  am  I  to  interpret  this 
long  and  obstinate  silence? 


LETTER  IV. 

BARON  VON  F -  TO  COUNT  VON  O - . 

June  12th. 

I  thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  for  the  token  of 
your  remembrance  which  young  B — hi  brought 
me.  But  what  is  it  you  say  about  letters  I  ought 
to  have  received?  I  have  received  no  letter  from 
you  ;  not  a  single  line.  What  a  circuitous  route 

must  they  have  taken  !  In  future,  dear  0 - , 

when  you  honor  me  with  an  epistle,  dispatch  it 
via  Trent,  under  cover  to  the  Prince,  my  master 
We  have  at  length  been  compelled,  my  dear 
friend,  to  resort  to  a  measure  which  till  now  we  had 
so  happily  avoided.  Our  remittances  have  failed 
to  arrive — failed,  for  the  first  time,  in  this  press¬ 
ing  emergency,  and  we  have  been  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  a  usurer,  as  the  Prince  is  willing  to 
pay  handsomely  to  keep  the  affair  secret.  The 
worst  of  this  disagreeable  occurrence  is,  that  it 
retards  our  departure.  On  this  affair  the  Prince 
and  I  have  had  an  explanation.  The  whole  trans¬ 
action  had  been  arranged  by  Biondello,  and  the 
son  of  Israel  was  there  before  I  had  any  suspicion 
of  the  fact.  It  grieved  me  to  the  heart  to  see  the 


Prince  reduced  to  such  an  extremity,  and  revived 
all  my  recollections  of  the  past  and  fears  for  the 
future,  and  I  suppose  I  may  have  looked  rather 
sorrowful  and  gloomy  when  the  usurer  left  the 
room.  The  Prince,  whom  the  foregoing  scene 
had  left  in  not  the  happiest  frame  of  mind,  was 
pacing  angrily  up  and  down  the  room  ;  the  rou¬ 
leaus  of  gold  were  still  lying  on  the  table  ;  I  stood 
at  the  window  counting  the  panes  of  glass  in  the 
procurator’s  house  opposite.  There  was  a  long 
pause.  At  length  the  Prince  broke  silexce. 

“  F - !”  he  began,  “  I  cannot  bear  to  see  dismal 

faces  about  me.” 

I  remained  silent. 

“Why  do  you  not  answer  me?  Bo  I  not  per¬ 
ceive  that  your  heart  is  almost  bursting  to  vent 
some  of  its  vexation  ?  I  insist  on  your  speaking, 
otherwise  you  will  begin  to  fancy  that  you  are 
keeping  some  terribly  momentous  secret,” 

“If  I  am  gloomy,  gracious  sir,”  replied  I,  “it 
is  only  because  I  do  not  see  you  cheerful.” 

“  I  know,”  continued  he,  “  that  you  have  been 
dissatisfied  with  me  for  some  time  past — that  you 
disapprove  of  every  step  I  take — that — what  does 
Count  0 - say  in  his  letters?” 

“  Count  O - has  not  written  to  me.” 

“Not  written?  Why  do  you  deny  it?  You 
keep  up  a  confidential  correspondence  together, 
you  and  the  Count ;  I  am  quite  aware  of  that. 
Come,  you  may  confess  it,  for  I  have  no  wish  to 
pry  into  your  secrets.” 

“  Count  O - ,”  replied  I,  “has  not  yet  an¬ 

swered  any  of  the  three  letters  which  I  have  writ¬ 
ten  to  him.” 

“I  have  done  wrong,”  continued  he;  “don’t 
you  think  so?”  (taking  up  one  of  the  rouleaus) 
“  I  should  not  have  done  this?” 

“  I  see  that  it  was  necessary.” 

“  I  ought  not  to  have  reduced  myself  to  such  a 
necessity  ?” 

I  did  not  answer. 

“Oh,  of  course!  I  ought  never  to  have  in¬ 
dulged  my  wishes,  but  have  grown  gray  in  the 
same  dull  manner  in  which  I  was  brought  up  ! 
Because  I  once  venture  a  step  beyond  the  drear 
monotony  of  my  past  life,  and  look  around  mp,  to 
see  whether  there  be  not  some  new  source  ol  en¬ 
joyment  in  store  for  me — because  I ” 

“If  it  was  but  a  trial,  gracious  sir,  I  have  no 
more  to  say ;  for  the  experience  you  have  gained 
would  not  be  dearly  bought  at  three  times  the 
price  it  has  cost.  It  grieves  me,  I  confess,  to 
think  that  the  opinion  of  the  world  should  be  con¬ 
cerned  in  determining  the  question — how  you  are 
to  choose  your  own  happiness.” 

“  It  is  well  for  you  that  you  can  afford  to  de¬ 
spise  the  world’s  opinion,”  replied  he  ;  “I  am  its 
creature,  I  must  be  its  slave.  What  are  we 
princes  but  opinion  ?  With  us  it  is  every  thing. 
Public  opinion  is  our  nurse  and  preceptor  in 
infancy,  our  oracle  and  idol  in  riper  years,  our 
staff  in  old  age.  Take  from  us  what  we  derive 
from  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  the  poorest  of 
the  humblest  class  is  in  a  better  position  than  we, 
for  his  fate  has  taught  him  a  lesson  of  philosophy 
which  enables  him  to  bear  it.  But  a  prince  who 
laughs  at  the  world’s  opinion  destroys  himself, 
like  the  priest  who  denies  the  existence  ot  a  God.” 


310 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


“  And  yet,  gracious  Prince - ” 

“  I  see  what  you  would  say  ;  I  can  break  through 
the  circle  which  my  birth  has  drawn  around  me. 
But  can  I  also  eradicate  from  my  memory  all  the 
false  impressions  which  education  and  early  habit 
hare  implanted,  and  which  a  hundred  thousand 
fools  have  been  continually  laboring  to  impress 
more  and  more  firmly?  Every  body  naturally 
wishes  to  be  what  he  is  in  perfection  :  in  short, 
the  whole  aim  of  a  prince’s  existence  is  to  appear 
happy.  If  we  cannot  be  happy  after  your  fashion, 
is  that  any  reason  why  we  should  discard  all  other 
means  of  happiness,  and  not  be  happy  at  all  ?  If 
we  cannot  drink  of  joy  pure  from  the  fountain 
head,  can  there  be  any  reason  why  We  should  not 
beguile  ourselves  with  artificial  pleasure — nay, 
even  be  content  to  accept  a  sorry  substitute  from 
the  very  hand  that  robs  us  of  the  higher  boon  ?” 

‘‘You  were  wont  to  look  for  this  compensation 
in  your  own  heart.” 

“  But  if  I  no  longer  find  it  there? — Oh,  how 
came  we  to  fall  on  this  subject?  Why  did  you  re¬ 
vive  these  recollections  in  me?  I  had  recourse  to 
this  tumult  of  the  senses  in  order  to  stifle  an  in¬ 
ward  voice,  which  embitters  my  whole  life — in 
order  to  lull  to  rest  this  inquisitive  reason,  which, 
like  a  sharp  sickle,  moves  to  and  fro  in  my  brain, 
at  each  new  research  lopping  off  another  branch 
of  my  happiness  !” 

“  My  dearest  Prince  !” — He  had  risen,  and  was 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room  in  unusual  agi¬ 
tation.* 

“  When  every  thing  gives  way  before  me  and 
behind  me — when  the  past  lies  in  the  distance  in 
dreary  monotony,  like  a  city  of  the  dead — when 
the  future  offers  me  nought — when  I  see  my  whole 
being  inclosed  within  the  narrow  circle  of  the 
present — who  can  blame  me  if  I  clasp  this  nig¬ 
gardly  present  of  time  in  my  arms  with  fiery 
eagerness,  as  though  it  were  a  friend  whom  I  was 
embracing  for  the  last  time  ?  Oh,  I  have  learned 
to  value  the  present  moment !  The  present  mo¬ 
ment  is  our  mother — let  us  love  it  as  such  !” 

“  Gracious  sir,  you  were  wont  to  believe  in  a 
more  lasting  good.” 

“  Do  but  make  the  enchantment  last,  and  fer¬ 
vently  will  I  embrace  it.  But  what  pleasure  can 
it  give  to  me  to  render  beings  happy  who  to-mor¬ 
row  will  have  passed  away  like  myself?  Is  not 
every  thing  passing  away  around  me?  Each  one 
bustles  and  pushes  his  neighbor  aside  hastily  to 
catch  a  few  drops  from  the  fountain  of  life,  and 
then  departs  thirsting.  At  this  very  moment, 
while  I  am  rejoicing  in  my  strength,  some  being 

*  I  have  endeavored,  dearest  0 - ,  to  relate  to  you 

this  remarkable  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred;  but 
this  I  found  impossible,  although  I  sat  down  to  write  it 
the  evening  of  the  day  it  took  place.  In  order  to  assist 
my  memory,  I  was  obliged  to  transpose  the  observation 
of  the  Prince,  and  thus  this  compound  of  a  conversation 
and  a  philosophical  lecture,  which  is,  in  some  respects, 
better,  and  in  others  worse,  than  the  source  from  which 
I  took  it,  arose  ;  but  I  assure'  you  that  I  have  rather 
omitted  some  of  the  Prince’s  words  than  ascribed  to  him 
any  of  my  own  ;  all  that  is  mine  is  the  arrangement,  and 
a  few  observations,  whose  ownership  you  will  easily 
recognize  by  their  stupidity. — Note  of  the  Baron  von 


is  waiting  to  start  into  life  at  my  dissolution 
Show  me  one  being  who  will  endure,  and  I  will 
become  a  virtuous  man.” 

“  But  what  then  has  become  of  those  benevo¬ 
lent  sentiments  which  used  to  be  the  joy  and  the 
rule  of  your  life  ?  To  sow  seeds  for  the  future,  to 
assist  in  carrying  out  the  designs  of  a  high  and 
eternal  providence — ” 

“Future!  eternal  providence!  —  If  you  take 
away  from  man  all  that  he  derives  from  his  own 
heart,  all  that  he  associates  with  the  idea  of  a 
Godhead,  and  all  that  belongs  to  the  law  of  na¬ 
ture, — what  then  do  you  leave  him  ?” 

“  What  has  already  happened  to  me,  and  what 
fnay  still  follow,  I  look  upon  as  two  black  im¬ 
penetrable  curtains  hanging  over  the  two  extremi¬ 
ties  of  human  life,  and  which  no  mortal  has  ever 
yet  drawn  aside.  Many  hundred  generations  have 
stood  before  the  second  of  these  curtains,  casting 
the  light  of  their  torches  upon  its  folds,  specu¬ 
lating  and  guessing  as  to  what  it  may  conceal. 
Many  have  beheld  themselves,  in  the  magnified 
image  of  their  passions,  reflected  upon  the  curtain 
which  hides  futurity  from  their  gaze,  and  have 
turned  away  shuddering  from  their  own  shadows. 
Poets,  philosophers,  and  statesmen,  have  painted 
their  fancies  on  the  curtain,  in  brighter  or  more 
sombre  colors,  according  as  their  own  prospects 
were  bright  or  gloomy.  Many  a  juggler  has  also 
taken  advantage  of  the  universal  curiosity,  and  by 
well-managed  deceptions  led  astray  the  excited 
imagination.  A  deep  silence  reigns  behind  this 
curtain  ;  no  one  who  passes  beyond  it  answers  any 
questions;  all  the  reply  is  an  empty  echo,  like  the 
sound  yielded  by  a  vault.  Sooner  or  later,  all 
must  go  behind  this  curtain,  and  they  approach  it 
with  fear  and  trembling,  in  doubt  who  may  be 
waiting  there  behind  to  receive  them  ;  quid  sit  id, 
quod  tarduun  morituri  vident.  There  have  been 
infidels  who  asserted  that  this  curtain  only  deluded 
mankind,  and  that  we  saw  nothing  behind  it, 
because  there  was  nothing  there  to  see  ;  but,  to 
convince  them,  they  were  quickly  sent  behind  it 
themselves.” 

“  It  was,  indeed,  a  rash  conclusion,”  said  I,  “if 
they  had  no  better  ground  for  it  than  that  they 
saw  nothing  themselves.” 

“You  see,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  modest  enough 
not  to  wish  to  look  behind  this  curtain,  and  the 
wisest  course  will  doubtless  be,  to  abstain  from  all 
curiosity.  But  while  I  draw  this  impassable 
circle  around  me,  and  confine  myself  within  the 
bounds  of  present  existence,  this  small  point  of 
time,  which  I  was  in  danger  of  neglecting  in  use¬ 
less  researches,  becomes  the  more  important  to 
me.  What  you  call  the  chief  end  and  aim  of  my 
existence  concerns  me  no  longer.  I  cannot  escape 
my  destiny  ;  I  cannot  promote  its  consummation  ; 
but  I  know,  and  firmly  believe,  that  I  am  here  to 
accomplish  some  end,  and  that  I  do  accomplish  it. 
But  the  means  which  nature  has  chosen  to  fulfill 
my  destiny  are  so  much  the  more  sacred  to  me — • 
to  me  it  is  every  thing — my  morality,  my  happi¬ 
ness.  All  the  rest  I  shall  never  learn.  1  am  like 
a  messenger  who  carries  a  sealed  letter  to  its 
place  of  destination.  What  the  letter  contains  is 
indifferent  to  him — his  business  is  only  to  earn  Ilia 
fee  for  carrying  it.” 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


311 


r  “  Alas  !”  said  I,  “  how  poor  a  thing  you  would 
leave  me!" 

“  But  in  what  a  labyrinth  have  we  lost  our¬ 
selves !”  exclaimed  the  Prince,  looking  with  a 
smile  at  the  table  on  which  the  rouleaus  lay. 
“After  all  perhaps  not  far  from  the  mark,”  con¬ 
tinued  he  ;  “you  will  now  no  doubt  understand  my 
reasons  for  this  new  mode  of  life.  I  could  not  so 
suddenly  tear  myself  away  from  my  fancied  wealth, 
could  not  so  readily  separate  the  props  of  my  mo¬ 
rality  and  happiness  from  the  pleasing  dream  with 
which  every  thing  within  me  was  so  closely  bound 
up.  I  longed  for  the  frivolity  which  seems  to  , 
render  the  existence  of  most  of  those  about  me 
endurable  to  themselves.  Every  thing  which  pre¬ 
cluded  reflection  was  welcome  to  me.  Shall  I 
confess  it  to  you  ?  I  wished  to  lower  myself,  in 
order  to  destroy  this  source  of  my  griefs,  by  dead¬ 
ening  the  power  of  reflection.” 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  a  visit.  In  my 
next  I  shall  have  to  communicate  to  you  a  piece 
of  news,  which  from  the  tenor  of  a  conversation 
like  the  one  of  to-day,  you  would  scarcely  have 
anticipated. 


LETTER  Y. 

BARON  VON  F -  TO  COUNT  VON  0 - . 

As  the  time  of  our  departure  from  Venice  is 
now  approaching  with  rapid  steps,  this  week  was 
to  be  devoted  to  seeing  every  thing  worthy  of  no¬ 
tice  in  pictures  and  public  edifices  ;  a  task  which, 
when  one  intends  making  a  long  stay  in  a  place 
is  always  delayed  till  the  last  moment. 

The  Marriage  at  Cana,  by  Paul  V eronese,  which 
is  to  be  seen  in  a  Benedictine  convent  in  the  island 
of  St.  George,  was  in  particular  mentioned  to  us 
in  high  terms.  Do  not  expect  me  to  give  you  a 
description  of  this  extraordinary  work  of  art, 
which,  on  the  whole,  made  a  very  surprising,  but 
not  equally  pleasing,  impression  on  me.  We 
should  have  required  as  many  hours  as  we  had 
minutes  to  study  a  composition  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  figures,  upon  a  ground  twenty  feet 
broad.  What  human  eye  is  capable  of  grasping 
so  complicated  a  whole,  or  at  once  to  enjoy  all  the 
beauty  which  the  artist  has  every  where  lavished 
upon  it!  It  is,  however,  to  be  lamented,  that  a 
work  of  so  much  merit,  which,  if  exhibited  in  some 
public  place,  would  command  the  admiration  of 
every  one,  should  be  destined  merely  to  ornament 
the  refectory  of  a  few  monks.  The  church  of  the 
monastery  is  no  less  worthy  of  admiration,  being 
one  of  the  finest  in  the  whole  city.  Toward  even¬ 
ing  we  went  in  a  gondola  to  the  Guidecca,  in  order 
to  spend  the  pleasant  hours  of  evening  in  its  charm¬ 
ing  garden.  Our  party,  which  was  not  very  nu¬ 
merous,  soon  dispersed  in  various  directions;  and 
Civitella,  who  had  been  waiting  all  day  for  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  speaking  to  me  privately,  took  me 
aside  into  an  arbor. 

“You  are  a  friend  of  the  Prince,”  he  began, 
“from  whom  he  is  accustomed  to  keep  no  secrets, 
as  I  know  from  very  good  authority.  As  I  en¬ 
tered  his  hotel  to-day,  I  met  a  man  coming  out, 
whose  occupation  is  well  known  to  me,  and  when 


I  entered  the  room,  the  Prince’s  brow  was  clouded.” 
I  wished  to  interrupt  him — “  You  cannot  deny  it,” 
continued  he;  “I  knew  the  man,  I  looked  at  him 
well.  And  is  it  possible  that  the  Prince  should 
have  a  friend  in  Venice — a  friend  who  owes  his 
life  to  him,  and  yet  be  reduced  on  an  emergency 
to  make  use  of  such  creatures? 

“Tell  me  frankly,  Baron!  Is  the  Prince  in 
difficulties  ?  It  is  in  vain  you  strive  to  conceal  it 
from  me.  What!  you  refuse  to  tell  me!  I  can 
easily  learn  from  one  who  would  sell  any  secret 
for  gold.” 

“My  good  Marquis — ” 

“  Pardon  me  !  I  must  appear  intrusive,  in  order 
not  to  be  ungrateful.  To  the  Prince  I  am  in¬ 
debted  for  life,  and,  what  is  still  more,  for  a  rea¬ 
sonable  use  of  it.  Shall  I  stand  idly  by,  and  see 
him  take  steps  which,  besides  being  inconvenient 
to  him,  are  beneath  his  dignity?  Shall  1  feel  it 
in  my  power  to  assist  him,  and  hesitate  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  to  step  forward  ?” 

“The  Prince,”  replied  I,  “is  not  in  difficulties. 
Some  remittances  which  we  expected  via  Trent 
have  not  yet  arrived,  most  likely  either  by  acci¬ 
dent,  or  because  not  feeling  certain  whether  he 
had  not  already  left  Venice,  they  waited  for  a  com¬ 
munication  from  him.  This  has  now  been  done, 
and  until  their  arrival-—” 

Civitella  shook  his  head.  “  Do  not  mistake  my 
motive,”  said  he;  “in  this  there  can  be  no  ques¬ 
tion  as  to  diminishing  the  extent  of  my  obliga¬ 
tions  toward  the  Prince,  which  all  my  uncle’s 
wealth  would  be  insufficient  to  cancel.  My  ob¬ 
ject  is  simply  to  spare  him  a  few  unpleasant  mo¬ 
ments.  My  uncle  possesses  a  large  fortune,  which 
I  can  command  as  freely  as  though  it  were  my 
own.  A  fortunate  circumstance  occurs,  which 
enables  me  to  avail  myself  of  the  only  means  by 
which  I  can  possibly  be  of  the  slightest  use  to 
your  master.  I  know,”  continued  he,  “  how  much 
delicacy  the  Prince  possesses,  but  the  feeling  is 
mutual,  and  it  would  be  noble  on  his  part  to 
afford  me  this  slight  gratification,  were  it  only  to 
make  me  appear  to  feel  less  heavily  the  load  of 
obligation  under  which  I  labor.” 

He  continued  to  urge  his  request,  until  I  had 
pledged  my  word  to  assist  him  to  the  utmost  of 
my  ability.  I  knew  the  Prince’s  character,  and 
had  but  small  hopes  of  success.  The  Marquis 
promised  to  agree  to  any  conditions  the  Prince 
might  impose,  but  added,  that  it  would  deeply 
wound  him  to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a 
stranger. 

In  the  heat  of  our  conversation  we  had 
strayed  far  away  from  the  rest  of  the  company, 

and  were  returning,  when  Z - came  to  meet 

us. 

“  I  am  in  search  of  the  Prince,”  he  cried  ;  “is 
he  not  with  you  ?” 

“We  were  just  going  to  him,”  was  our  reply, 
“We  thought  to  find  him  with  the  rest?  of  the 
party.” 

“  The  company  is  all  together,  but  he  is  no¬ 
where  to  be  found.  I  cannot  imagine  how  we 
lost  sight  of  him.” 

It  now  occurred  to  Civitella  that  he  might  have 
gone  to  look  at  the  adjoining  church,  which  had 
a  short  time  before  attracted  his  attention.  We 


312 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


immediately  went  to  look  for  him  there.  As  we 
approached,  we  found  Biondello  waiting  in  the 
porch.  On  coming  nearer,  we  saw  the  Prince 
emerge  hastily  from  a  side  door  ;  his  countenance 
was  flushed,  and  he  looked  anxiously  round  for 
Biondello,  whom  he  called.  He  seemed  to  be 
giving  him  very  particular  instructions  for  the 
execution  of  some  commission,  while  his  eyes 
continued  constantly  fixed  on  the  church  door, 
which  had  remained  open.  Biondello  hastened 
into  the  church.  The  Prince,  without  perceiving 
us,  passed  through  the  crowd,  and  went  back  to 
his  party,  which  he  reached  before  us. 

We  resolved  to  sup  in  an  open  pavilion  of  the 
garden,  where  the  Marquis  had,/  without  our 
knowledge,  arranged  a  little  concert,  which  was 
quite  first-rate.  There  was  a  young  singer  in  par¬ 
ticular,  whose  delicious  voice  and  charming  figure 
excited  general  admiration.  Nothing,  however, 
seemed  to  make  an  impression  on  the  Prince;  he 
spoke  little,  and  gave  confused  answers  to  our 
questions  ;  his  eyes  were  anxiously  fixed  in  the 
direction  from  whence  he  expected  Biondello ; 
and  he  seemed  much  agitated.  Civitella  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  the  church  ;  he  was  un¬ 
able  to  give  any  description  of  it.  Some  beautiful 
pictures,  which  rendered  the  church  remarkable, 
were  spoken  of;  the  Prince  had  not  noticed 
them.  We  perceived  that  our  questions  annoyed 
him,  and  therefore  discontinued  them.  Hour  after 
hour  rolled  on,  and  still  Biondello  returned  not. 
The  Prince  could  no  longer  conceal  his  impa¬ 
tience  ;  he  rose  from  table,  and  paced  alone,  with 
rapid  strides,  up  and  down  a  retired  walk.  No¬ 
body  could  imagine  what  had  happened  to  him. 

I  did  not  venture  to  ask  him  the  reason  of  so  re¬ 
markable  a  change  in  his  demeanor  ;  I  have  for 
some  time  past  resigned  my  former  place  in  his  con¬ 
fidence.  It  was,  therefore,  with  the  utmost  impa¬ 
tience  that  I  awaited  the  return  of  Biondello  to 
explain  this  riddle  to  me. 

It  was  past  ten  o’clock  when  he  made  his  ap¬ 
pearance.  The  tidings  he  brought  did  not  make 
the  Prince  more  communicative.  He  returned  in 
an  ill-humor  to  the  company,  the  gondola  was  or¬ 
dered,  and  we  returned  home. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  evening  I  could 
find  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Biondello,  and 
was,  therefore,  obliged  to  retire  to  my  pillow  with 
my  curiosity  unsatisfied.  The  Prince  had  dis¬ 
missed  us  early,  but  a  thousand  reflections  flitted 
across  my  brain,  and  kept  me  awake.  For  a 
long  time  I  could  hear  him  pacing  up  and  down 
his  room  ;  at  length  sleep  overcame  me.  Late 
at  midnight  I  was  awakened  by  a  voice,  and  I  felt 
a  hand  passed  across  my  face ;  I  opened  my  eyes,  I 
and  saw  the  Prince  standing  at  my  bedside,  with  j 
a  lamp  in  his  hand.  He  told  me  he  was  unable 
to  sleep,  and  begged  me  to  keep  him  company  I 
through  the  night.  I  was  going  to  dress  myself, 
but  he  told  me  to  stay  where  I  was,  and  seated 
himself  at  my  bedside. 

“  Something  has  happened  to  me,  to-day,”  he 
began,  “the  impression  of  which  will  never  be  ef¬ 
faced  from  my  soul.  I  left  you,  as  you  know,  to 

see  the  -  church,  respecting  which  Civitella  j 

had  raised  my  curiosity,  and  which  had  already 
attracted  my  attention.  As  neither  you  nor  he  ! 


were  at  hand,  I  walked  the  short  distance  alone 
and  ordered  Biondello  to  wait  for  me  at  the  door. 
The  church  was  quite  empty;  a  dim  and  solemn 
light  surrounded  me  as  I  entered,  from  the  blaz¬ 
ing  sultry  day  without.  I  stood  alone  in  the  spa¬ 
cious  building,  throughout  which  there  reigned 
the  stillness  of  the  grave.  I  placed  myself  in  the 
centre  of  the  church,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the 
feelings  which  the  sight  was  calculated  to  pro¬ 
duce  ;  by  degrees,  the  grand  proportions  of  this 
majestic  building  expanded  to  my  gaze,  and  I 
stood  wrapped  in  deep  and  pleasing  contempla¬ 
tion.  Above  me,  the  evening  bell  was  tolling; 
its  tones  died  softly  away  in  the  aisles,  and  found 
an  echo  in  my  heart.  Some  altar-pieces  at  a  dis¬ 
tance  attracted  my  attention.  1  approached  to 
look  at  them  ;  unconsciously  I  had  wandered 
through  one  side  of  the  church,  and  was  now 
standing  at  the  opposite  end.  Here,  a  few  steps 
raised  round  a  pillar,  led  into  a  little  chapel,  con¬ 
taining  several  small  altars,  with  statues  of  saints 
in  the  niches  above  them.  On  entering  the  cha¬ 
pel  on  the  right,  I  heard  a  whispering,  as  though 
some  one  near  me  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice.  I 
turned  toward  the  spot  whence  the  sound  pro¬ 
ceeded,  and  saw  before  me  a  female  form.  No! 
I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  beauty  of  this  form. 
My  first  feeling  was  one  of  awe,  which,  however, 
soon  gave  place  to  ravishing  surprise.” 

“  But  this  figure,  your  Highness  ?  Are  you  cer¬ 
tain  that  it  was  something  living,  something  real, 
and  not  perhaps  a  picture,  or  an  illusion  of  your 
fancy  ?” 

“  Hear  me  further.  It  was  a  lady.  Surely,  till 
that  moment,  I  have  never  seen  her  sex  in  its  full 
perfection  !  All  around  was  sombre  ;  the  setting 
sun  shone  through  a  single  window  into  the  cha- 
j  pel,  and  its  rays  rested  upon  her  figure.  With 
inexpressible  grace,  half  kneeling,  half  lying,  she 
was  stretched  before  an  altar ; — one  of  the  most 
striking,  most  lovely,  and  picturesque  objects  in 
all  nature.  Her  dress  was  of  black  moreen,  fit¬ 
ting  tightly  to  her  slender  wTaist  and  beautifully- 
formed  arms,  the  skirts  spreading  around  her,  like 
a  Spanish  robe ;  her  long,  light-colored  hair  was 
divided  into  two  broad  plaits,  which,  apparently 
from  their  own  weight,  had  escaped  from  under 
her  vail,  and  flowed  in  charming  disorder  down 
her  back.  One  of  her  hands  grasped  the  crucifix, 
and  her  head  rested  gracefully  upon  the  other. 
But,  where  shall  I  find  words  to  describe  to  you 
the  angelic  beauty  of  her  countenance,  in  which 
the  charms  of  a  seraph  seemed  displayed.  The 
setting  sun  shone  full  upon  her  face,  and  its  gold¬ 
en  beams  seemed  to  surround  it,  as  with  a  glory. 
Can  you  recall  to  your  mind  the  Madonna  of  our 
Florentine  painter  ?  She  was  here  personified, 
even  to  those  few  deviations  from  the  studied  cos¬ 
tume,  which  so  powerfully,  so  irresistibly  attracted 
me  in  the  picture.” 

With  regard  to  the  Madonna,  of  whom  the 
Prince  spoke,  the  case  is  this  : — Shortly  after 
your  departure,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
Florentine  painter,  who  had  been  summoned  to 
Venice,  to  paint  an  altar-piece  for  some  church, 
the  name  of  which  I  do  not  recollect.  He  had 
brought  with  him  three  paintings,  which  had  been 
intended  for  the  gallery  in  the  Cornari  palace. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


818 


They  consisted  of  a  Madonna,  a  Heloise,  and  a 
Venus,  very  lightly  appareled.  All  three  were 
of  great  beauty;  and,  although  the  subjects  were 
quite  different,  they  were  so  intrinsically  equal, 
that  it  seemed  almost  impossible  to  determine 
which  to  prefer.  The  Prince  alone  did  not  hesi¬ 
tate  for  a  moment.  As  soon  as  the  pictures  were 
placed  before  him,  the  Madonna  absorbed  his 
whole  attention ;  in  the  two  others,  he  admired 
the  painter’s  genius — but  in  this,  he  forgot  the 
artist  and  his  art,  his  whole  soul  being  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  work.  He  was  quite 
moved,  and  could  scarcely  tear  himself  away  from 
it.  We  could  easily  see,  by  the  artist’s  counte¬ 
nance,  that  in  his  heart  he  coincided  with  the 
Prince’s  judgment  ;  he  obstinately  refused  to 
separate  the  pictures,  and  demanded  fifteen  hun¬ 
dred  zechins  for  the  three.  The  Prince  offered 
him  half  that  sum  for  the  Madonna  alone,  but  in 
vain.  The  artist  insisted  on  his  first  demand, 
and  who  knows  what  might  have  been  the  result 
if  a  ready  purchaser  had  not  stepped  forward. 
Two  hours  afterward,  all  three  pictures  were 
sold,  and  we  never  saw  them  again.  It  was  this 
Madonna  which  now  recurred  to  the  Prince’s 
mind. 

“I  stood,”  continued  he,  “  gazing  at  her  in  si¬ 
lent  admiration.  She  did  not  observe  me;  my 
arrival  did  not  disturb  her,  so  completely  was  she 
absorbed  in  her  devotion.  She  prayed  to  her 
Deity,  and  I  prayed  to  her — yes,  I  adored  her ! — 
All  the  pictures  of  saints,  all  the  altars  and  the 
burning  tapers  around  me,  had  failed  to  remind 
me  of  what  now  for  the  first  time  burst  upon  me, 
that  I  was  in  a  sacred  place.  Shall  I  confess  it 
to  you  ?  In  that  moment  I  believed  firmly  in 
Him,  whose  image  was  clasped  in  her  beautiful 
hand.  I  read  in  her  eyes  that  he  answered  her 
prayers.  Thanks  be  to  her  charming  devotion,  it 
had  revealed  Him  to  me.  I  wandered  with  her 
through  all  the  paradise  of  prayer. 

“  She  rose,  and  I  recollected  myself.  I  stepped 
aside,  confused;  but  the  noise  I  made  in  moving 
discovered  me.  I  thought  that  the  unexpected 
presence  of  a  man  might  alarm,  that  my  boldness 
would  offend  her  ;  but  neither  of  these  feelings 
were  expressed  in  the  look  with  which  she  re¬ 
garded  me.  Peace,  benign  peace,  was  portrayed 
in  her  countenance,  and  a  cheerful  smile  played 
upon  her  lips.  She  was  descending  from  her 
heaven — and  I  was  the  first  happy  mortal  who 
met  her  benevolent  look.  Her  mind  was  still 
wrapt  in  her  concluding  prayer — she  had  not  yet 
come  in  contact  with  earth. 

“  I  now  heard  something  stir  in  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  chapel.  It  was  an  elderly  lady,  who 
rose  from  a  cushion  close  behind  me.  Till  now  I 
had  not  observed  her.  She  had  been  distant  only 
a  few  steps  from  me,  and  must  have  seen  my 
every  motion.  This  confused  me.  I  cast  my 
eyes  to  the  earth,  and  both  the  ladies  passed  by 
me.” 

On  this  last  point  I  thought  myself  able  to  con¬ 
sole  the  Prince. 

“  Strange,”  continued  he,  after  a  long  silence, 
u  that  there  should  be  something  which  one  has 
never  known — never  missed  ;  and  that  yet,  on  a 
sudden,  one  should  seem  to  live  and  breathe  for 


that  alone !  Can  one  single  moment  so  com¬ 
pletely  metamorphose  a  human  being?  It  would 
now  be  as  impossible  for  me  to  indulge  in  the 
wishes,  or  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  yesterday,  as  it 
would  be  to  return  to  the  toys  of  my  childhood  ; 
and  all  this  since  I  have  seen  this  object,  which 
lives  and  rules  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  my  soul. 
It  seems  to  say  that  I  can  love  nothing  else,  and 
that  nothing  else  in  this  world  can  produce  an 
impression  upon  me.” 

“But  consider,  gracious  Prince,”  said  I,  “the 
excitable  mood  you  were  in,  when  this  apparition 
surprised  you,  and  how  all  the  circumstances  con¬ 
spired  to  inflame  your  imagination.  Quitting  the 
dazzling  light  of  day,  and  the  busy  throng  of 
men,  you  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  twilight 
and  repose.  You  confess  that  you  had  quite 
given  yourself  up  to  those  solemn  emotions 
which  the  majesty  of  the  place  was  calculated  to 
awaken — the  contemplation  of  fine  works  of  art 
had  rendered  you  more  susceptible  to  the  impres¬ 
sions  of  beauty  in  any  form.  You  supposed  your¬ 
self  alone — when  you  saw  a  maiden,  who,  I  will 
readily  allow,  may  have  been  very  beautiful,  and 
whose  charms  were  heightened  by  a  favorable 
illumination  of  the  setting  sun,  a  graceful  atti¬ 
tude,  and  an  expression  of  fervent  devotion — 
what  is  more  natural  than  that  your  vivid  fancy 
should  look  upon  such  a  form  as  something  super- 
naturally  perfect  ?” 

“  Can  the  imagination  give  what  it  never  re¬ 
ceived  ?”  replied  he.  “  In  the  whole  range  of  my 
fancy,  there  is  nothing  which  I  can  compare  with 
that  image.  It  is  impressed  on  my  mind  distinctly 
and  vividly  as  in  the  moment  when  I  beheld  it. 
1  can  think  of  nothing  but  that  picture — but  you 
might  offer  me  whole  worlds  for  it  in  vain.” 

“  My  gracious  Prince,  this  is  love.” 

“  Must  the  sensation  which  makes  me  happy 
necessarily  have  a  name  ?  Love  !  Do  not  degrade 
my  feeling  by  giving  it  a  name,  which  is  so  often 
misapplied  by  the  weak-minded.  Who  ever  felt 
before  what  I  do  now?  Such  a  being  never  be¬ 
fore  existed  ;  how  then  can  the  name  be  admitted 
before  the  emotion  which  it  is  meant  to  express  ? 
Mine  is  a  novel  and  peculiar  feeling,  connected 
only  with  this  being,  and  capable  of  being  applied 
to  her  alone.  Love  !  From  love  I  am  secure  !” 

“You  sent  away  Biondello,  no  doubt,  to  follow 
in  the  steps  of  these  strangers,  and  to  make  in¬ 
quiries  concerning  them  ?  What  news  did  he 
bring  you?” 

“  Biondello  discovered  nothing ;  or,  at  least,  as 
good  as  nothing.  An  aged,  respectably  dressed 
man,  who  looked  more  like  a  citizen  than  a  ser¬ 
vant,  came  to  conduct  them  to  their  gondola.  A 
number  of  poor  people  placed  themselves  in  a 
row,  and  quitted  her,  apparently  well  satisfied. 
Biondello  said,  he  saw  one  of  her  hands,  which 
was  ornamented  with  several  precious  stones. 
She  spoke  a  few  words,  which  Biondello  could  not 
comprehend,  to  her  companion  ;  he  says  it  was 
Greek.  As  she  had  some  distance  to  walk  to 
the  canal,  the  people  began  to  throng  together, 
attracted  by  the  strangeness  of  her  appear¬ 
ance.  Nobody  knew  her — but  beauty  seems  born 
to  rule.  All  made  way  for  her,  in  a  respectful 
manner.  She  let  fall  a  black  vail,  that  covered 


314 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


half  of  her  person,  over  her  face,  and  hastened 
into  the  gondola.  Along  the  whole  Guidecca, 
Biondello  managed  to  keep  the  boat  in  view,  but 
the  crowd  prevented  his  following  it  further.” 

“But  surely  he  took  notice  of  the  gondolier,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  recognize  him  again.” 

“  He  has  undertaken  to  find  out  the  gondolier, 
but  he  is  not  one  of  those  with  whom  he  asso¬ 
ciates.  The  mendicants,  whom  he  questioned, 
could  give  him  no  further  information  than  that 
the  Signora  had  come  to  the  church  for  the  last 
few  Saturdays,  and  had  each  time  divided  a  gold 
piece  among  them.  It  was  a  Dutch  ducat,  which 
Biondello  changed  for  them,  and  brought  to  me.” 

“  It  appears,  then,  that  she  is  a/  Greek — most 
likely  of  rank ;  at  any  rate,  rich  and  charitable. 
That  is  as  much  as  we  dare  venture  to  conclude 
at  present,  gracious  Sir ;  perhaps  too  much.  But 
a  Greek  lady  in  a  Catholic  church  ?” 

“  Why  not  ?  She  may  have  changed  her  re¬ 
ligion.  But  there  is  certainly  some  mystery  in 
the  affair.  Why  should  she  go  only  once  a  week? 
Why  always  on  Saturday,  on  which  day,  as  Bion¬ 
dello  tells  me,  the  church  is  generally  deserted  ? 
Next  Saturday,  at  the  latest,  must  decide  this 
question.  Till  then,  dearest  friend,  you  must 
help  me  to  while  away  the  hours.  But  it  is  in 
vain.  They  will  go  their  lingering  pace,  though 
my  soul  is  burning  with  expectation  !” 

“  And  when  this  day  at  length  arrives — what 
then,  gracious  Prince  ?  What  do  you  purpose 
doing  ?” 

“What  do  I  purpose  doing?  I  shall  see  her. 

I  will  discover  where  she  lives,  and  who  she  is. 
But  to  what  does  all  this  tend  ?  I  hear  you  ask. 
What  I  saw  made  me  happy ;  I  therefore  now 
know  wherein  my  happiness  consists  !” 

And  our  departure  from  Yenice,  which  is  fixed 
for  next  Monday?” 

“How  could  I  know  that  Yenice  still  contained 
such  a  treasure  for  me?  You  ask  me  questions 
of  my  past  life.  I  tell  you  that  from  this  day  for¬ 
ward  I  will  begin  a  new  existence.” 

“  I  thought  that  now  was  the  opportunity  to 
keep  my  word  to  the  Marquis.  I  explained  to  the 
Prince  that  a  protracted  stay  in  Yenice  was  al¬ 
together  incompatible  with  the  exhausted  state 
of  his  finances,  and  that,  if  he  extended  his  so¬ 
journ  here  beyond  the  appointed  time,  he  could 
not  reckon  on  receiving  funds  from  his  court.  On 
this  occasion  I  learned  what  had  hitherto  been  a 
secret  to  me,  namely,  that  the  Prince  had,  with¬ 
out  the  knowledge  of  his. other  brothers,  received 
from  his  sister,  the  reigning - of - ,  consid¬ 

erable  loans,  which  she  would  gladly  double,  if 
his  court  left  him  in  the  lurch.  This  sister,  who, 
as  you  know,  is  a  pious  enthusiast,  thinks  that 
the  large  savings  which  she  makes  at  a  very  econ¬ 
omical  court,  cannot  be  deposited  in  better  hands 
than  in  those  of  a  brother  whose  wise  benevolence 
she  well  knows,  and  whose  character  she  warmly 
honors.  I  have,  indeed,  known  for  some  time  that 
a  very  close  intercourse  has  been  kept  up  between 
the  two,  and  that  many  letters  have  been  ex¬ 
changed  ;  but,  as  the  Prince’s  own  resources  have 
hitherto  always  been  sufficient  to  cover  his  ex¬ 
penditure,  I  have  never  guessed  at  this  hidden 
channel.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  the  Prince  ; 


must  have  had  some  expenses  which  have  been 
and  still  are  unknown  to  me ;  but  if  I  can  judge 
of  them  by  his  general  character,  they  will  cer¬ 
tainly  not  be  of  such  a  description  as  to  tend  to 
his  disgrace.  And  yet  I  thought  I  understood 
him  thoroughly.  After  this  disclosure,  I,  of 
course  did  not  hesitate  to  make  known  to  him 
the  Marquis’s  offer,  which,  to  my  no  small  sur¬ 
prise,  he  immediately  accepted.  He  gave  me  the 
authority  to  transact  the  business  with  the  Mar¬ 
quis  in  whatever  way  I  thought  most  advisable, 
and  then  immediately  to  settle  the  account  with 
the  usurer.  To  his  sister  he  proposed  to  write 
without  delay. 

It  was  morning  when  we  separated.  However 
disagreeable  this  affair  is  to  me  for  more  than  one 
reason,  the  worst-  of  it  is,  that  it  seems  to  threaten 
a  longer  residence  in  Yenice.  From  the  Prince’s 
passion,  I  rather  augur  good  than  evil.  It  is,  per¬ 
haps,  the  most  powerful  method  of  withdrawing 
him  from  his  metaphysical  dreams  to  the  concerns 
and  feelings  of  real  life.  It  will  have  its  crisis, 
and,  like  an  illness  produced  by  artificial  means, 
will  eradicate  the  natural  disorder. 

Farewell,  my  dear  friend.  I  have  written  down 
these  incidents  immediately  upon  their  occurrence. 
The  post  starts  immediately  ;  you  will  receive  this 
letter  on  the  same  day  as  my  last. 


LETTER  YI. 

BARON  F -  TO  COUNT  0 - . 

June  20th. 

This  Civitella  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  oblig¬ 
ing  personages  in  the  world.  The  Prince  had 
scarcely  left  me  the  other  day,  before  I  received 
a  note  from  the  Marquis,  enforcing  his  former 
offers  with  renewed  earnestness.  I  instantly  for¬ 
warded  him,  in  the  Prince’s  name,  a  bond  for 
6,000  zechins  ;  in  less  than  half  an  hour  it  was  re¬ 
turned,  with  double  the  sum  required,  in  notes 
and  gold.  The  Prince  at  length  assented  to  this 
increase,  but  insisted  that  the  bond,  ’which  was 
drawn  only  for  six  weeks,  should  be  accepted. 

The  whole  of  the  present  week  has  been  con¬ 
sumed  in  inquiries  after  the  mysterious  Greek. 
Biondello  set  all  his  engines  to  work,  but  until 
now  in  vain.  He  certainly  discovered  the  gondo¬ 
lier  ;  but  from  him  he  could  learn  nothing,  save 
that  the  ladies  had  disembarked  on  the  island  of 
Murano,  where  they  entered  two  sedan  chairs 
which  were  waiting  for  them.  He  supposed  them 
to  be  English  because  they  spoke  a  foreign  lan¬ 
guage,  and  had  paid  him  in  gold.  He  did  not 
even  know  their  guide,  but  believed  him  to  be  a 
glass  manufacturer  from  Murano.  We  were  now, 
at  least,  certain  that  we  must  not  look  for  her  in 
the  Guidecca,  and  that  in  all  probability  she  lived 
in  the  island  of  Murano  ;  but,  unluckily,  the  de¬ 
scription  the  Prince  gave  of  her  was  not  such  as 
to  make  her  recognizable  by  a  third  party.  The 
passionate  interest  with  which  he  had  regarded 
her  had  hindered  him  from  observing  her  minutely  ; 
for  all  the  minor  details,  which  other  people  would 
i  not  have  failed  to  notice,  had  escaped  his  obser- 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


315 


ration ;  from  his  description,  one  would  have 
sooner  expected  to  find  her  prototype  in  the  works 
of  Ariosto  or  Tasso  than  on  a  Venetian  island. 
Besides,  our  inquiries  had  to  be  conducted  with 
the  utmost  caution,  in  order  not  to  become  preju¬ 
dicial  to  the  lady,  or  to  excite  undue  attention. 
As  Biondello  was  the  only  man  besides  the  Prince 
who  had  seen  her,  even  through  her  vail,  and  could 
therefore  recognize  her,  he  strove  to  be  as  much 
as  possible  in  all  the  places  where  she  was  likely 
to  appear;  the  life  of  the  poor  man,  during  the 
whole  week,  was  a  continual  race  through  all  the 
streets  of  Venice.  In  the  Greek  church,  particu¬ 
larly,  every  inquiry  was  made,  but  always  with  the 
same  ill  success;  and  the  Prince,  whose  impa¬ 
tience  increased  with  every  successive  failure, 
was  at  last  obliged  to  wait  till  Saturday,  with  what 
patience  he  might.  His  restlessness  was  exces¬ 
sive.  Nothing  interested  him,  nothing  could  fix 
his  attention.  He  was  in  constant  feverish  excite¬ 
ment  ;  he  fled  from  society,  but  the  evil  increased 
in  solitude.  He  had  never  been  so  much  besieged 
by  visitors  as  in  this  week.  His  approaching 
departure  had  been  announced,  and  every  body 
crowded  to  see  him.  It  was  necessary  to  occupy 
the  attention  of  the  people  in  order  to  lull  their 
suspicions,  and  to  amuse  the  Prince  with  the  view 
of  diverting  his  mind  from  its  all-engrossing  ob¬ 
ject.  In  this  emergency  Civitella  hit  upon  play  ; 
and,  for  the  purpose  of  driving  away  most  of  the 
visitors,  proposed  that  the  stakes  should  be  high. 
He  hoped  by  awakening  in  the  Prince  a  transient 
liking  for  play,  from  which  it  wrould  afterward  be 
easy  to  wean  him,  to  destroy  the  romantic  bent  of 
his  passion.  “  The  cards,”  said  Civitella,  “  have 
saved  me  from  many  a  folly  which  I  had  intended 
to  commit,  and  repaired  many  which  I  had  already 
perpetrated.  At  the  faro-table  I  have  often  re¬ 
covered  my  tranquillity  of  mind  of  which  a  pair 
of  bright  eyes  had  robbed  me,  and  women  never 
had  more  power  over  me  than  when  I  had  not 
money  enough  to  play.” 

I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  as  to  how  far 
Civitella  was  right;  but  the  remedy  we  had  hit 
upon  soon  began  to  be  worse  than  the  disease  it 
was  intended  to  cure.  The  Prince,  who  could 
only  make  the  game  at  all  interesting  to  himself 
by  staking  extremely  high,  soon  overstepped  all 
bounds.  He  was  quite  out  of  his  element.  Every¬ 
thing  he  did  seemed  to  be  done  in  a  passion  ;  all 
his  actions  betrayed  the  uneasiness  of  his  mind. 
You  know  his  general  indifference  to  money  ;  he 
seemed  now  to  have  become  totally  insensible  to 
its  value.  Gold  flowed  through  his  hands  like 
water.  As  he  played  without  the  slightest  cau¬ 
tion  he  lost  almost  invariably.  He  lost  immense 
sums,  for  he  staked  like  a  desperate  gamester. 

Dearest  0 - ,  with  an  aching  heart  I  write  it, 

in  four  days  he  had  lost  above  12,000  zechins. 

Do  not  reproach  me.  I  blame  myself  suf¬ 
ficiently.  But  how  could  I  prevent  it?  Could  I 
do  more  than  warn  him  ?  I  did  all  that  was  in  my 
power,  and  cannot  find  myself  guilty.  Civitella, 
too,  lost  not  a  little  ;  I  won  about  GOO  zechins. 
The  unprecedented  ill  luck  of  the  Prince  excited 
general  attention,  and,  therefore,  he  would  not 
leave  off  playing.  Civitella,  who  is  always  ready 


to  oblige  him,  immediately  advanced  him  the  re¬ 
quired  sum.  The  deficit  is  made  up,  but  the 
Prince  owes  the  Marquis  24,000  zechins.  Oh! 
how  I  long  for  the  savings  of  his  pious  sister! 
Are  all  sovereigns  so,  my  dear  friend  ?  The 
Prince  behaves  as  though  he  had  done  the  Marquis 
a  great  honor,  and  he,  at  any  rate,  plays  his  part  well. 

Civitella  sought  to  quiet  me  by  saying,  that  this 
recklessness,  this  extraordinary  ill  luck,  would  be 
most  effectual  in  bringing  the  Prince  to  his  senses. 
The  money,  he  said,  was  of  no  consequence.  He 
himself  would  not  feel  the  loss  in  the  least,  and 
would  be  happy  to  serve  the  Prince  at  any  moment 
with  three  times  the  amount.  The  Cardinal  also 
assured  me  that  his  nephew’s  intentions  were 
honest,  and  that  he  should  be  ready  to  assist  him 
in  carrying  them  out. 

The  most  unfortunate  thing  was,  that  these  tre¬ 
mendous  sacrifices  did  not  even  effect  their  object. 
One  would  have  thought  that  the  Prince  would  at 
least  feel  some  interest  in  his  play.  But  such  w’as 
not  the  case.  His  thoughts  were  wandering  far 
away,  and  the  passion  which  he  wished  to  stifle, 
by  his  ill  luck  in  play,  seemed,  on  the  contrary, 
only  to  gather  strength.  When,  for  instance,  a 
decisive  stroke  was  about  to  be  played,  and  every 
one’s  eyes  were  fixed  full  of  expectation  on  the 
board,  his  were  searching  for  Biondello,  in  order 
to  catch  the  news  he  might  have  brought  him, 
from  the  expression  of  his  countenance.  Biondello 
brought  no  tidings,  and  his  master’s  losses  con¬ 
tinued. 

The  gains,  however,  fell  into  very  needy  hands. 
A  few  “  your  Excellencies''  whom  scandal  reports 
to  be  in  the  habit  of  carrying  home  their  frugal 
dinner  from  the  market  in  their  senatorial  caps, 
entered  our  house  as  beggars,  and  left  it  with 
well-lined  purses.  Civitella  pointed  them  out  to 
me.  “  Look,”  said  he,  “  how  many  poor  devils 
make  their  fortunes  by  one  great  man  taking  a 
whim  into  his  head  !  This  is  what  I  like  to  see. 
It  is  princely  and  royal.  A  great  man  must,  even 
by  his  failings,  make  some  one  happy,  like  a  river, 
which,  by  its  overflowing,  fertilizes  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  fields.” 

Civitella  has  a  noble  and  generous  way  of  think¬ 
ing,  but — the  Prince  owes  him  24.000  zechins  ! 

At  length  the  long-wished  for  Saturday  arrived, 
and  my  master  insisted  upon  going,  directly  after 
dinner,  to  the - church.  He  stationed  him¬ 

self  in  the  chapel  where  he  had  first  seen  the  un¬ 
known,  but  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  be  immediately 
observed.  Biondello  had  orders  to  keep  watch  at 
the  church  door,  and  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  the  attendant  of  the  ladies.  I  had  taken 
upon  myself  to  enter,  like  a  chance  passenger, 
into  the  same  gondola  with  them  on  their  return, 
in  order  to  follow  their  track,  if  the  other  schemes 
should  fail.  At  the  spot  where  the  gondolier  said 
he  had  landed  them  the  last  time,  two  sedans  were 

stationed  ;  the  Chamberlain  Z - was  ordered  to 

follow  in  a  separate  gondola,  in  order  to  trace  the 
retreat  of  the  unknown,  if  all  else  should  fail. 
The  Prince  wished  to  give  himself  wholly  up  to 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her,  and,  if  possible,  try  to 
make  her  acquaintance  in  church.  Civitella  wa3 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  altogether,  as  his  reputa- 


316 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


tion  among  the  women  of  Venice  was  so  bad  that 
his  presence  could  not  have  failed  to  excite  the 
suspicions  of  the  lady.  You  see,  dear  Count,  it 
was  not  through  any  want  of  precaution  on  our 
part  that  the  fair  unknown  escaped  us. 

Never,  perhaps,  were  there  offered  up  in  any 
church  such  ardent  prayers  for  success,  and  never 
were  hopes  so  cruelly  disappointed.  The  Prince 
waited  till  after  sunset,  starting  in  expectation  at 
every  sound  which  approached  the  chapel,  and  at 
every  creaking  of  the  church  door.  Seven  full 
hours  passed,  and  no  Greek  lady !  I  need  not 
describe  his  state  of  mind.  You  know  what  hope 
deferred  is — hope  which  one  has  nourished  un¬ 
ceasingly  for  seven  days  and  seven  nights. 


LETTER  VII. 

BARON  VON  F -  TO  COUNT  VON  O - . 

July. 

The  mysterious  unknown  of  the  Prince  reminded 
Marquis  Civitella  of  a  romantic  incident,  which 
happened  to  himself  a  short  time  since,  and,  to 
divert  the  Prince,  he  offered  to  relate  it.  I  will 
give  it  you  in  his  own  words;  but  the  lively  spirit 
which  he  infuses  into  all  he  tells  will  be  lost  in  my 
narration. 

[Here  follows  the  subjoined  fragment ,  which 
appeared  in  the  eighth  part  of  the  Thalia ,  and 
was  originally  intended  for  the  seco7ul  volume  of 
the  Ghost-Seer.  It  found  a  place  here ,  after 
Schiller  had  given  up  the  idea  of  completing  the 
Ghost- Seer). 

“  In  the  spring  of  last  year,”  began  Civitella, 
“  I  had  the  misfortune  to  embroil  myself  with  the 
Spanish  ambassador,  a  gentleman  who,  in  his 
seventieth  year,  had  been  guilty  of  the  folly  of 
wishing  to  marry  a  Roman  girl  of  eighteen.  His 
vengeance  pursued  me,  and  my  friends  advised  me 
to  secure  my  safety  by  a  timely  flight,  and  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  until  the  hand  of  Nature,  or  an  ad¬ 
justment  of  differences,  had  secured  me  from  the 
wrath  of  this  formidable  enemy.  As  I  felt  it  too 
severe  a  punishment  to  quit  Venice  altogether,  I 
took  up  my  abode  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  town, 
where  I  lived  in  a  lonely  house,  under  a  feigned 
name,  keeping  myself  concealed  by  day,  and  de¬ 
voting  the  night  to  the  society  of  my  friends,  and 
to  pleasure. 

“  My  windows  looked  upon  a  garden,  the  west 
side  of  which  was  bounded  by  the  walls  of  a  con¬ 
vent,  while  toward  the  east  it  jutted  out  into  the 
Laguna,  in  the  form  of  a  little  peninsula.  The 
garden  was  charmingly  situated,  but  little  fre¬ 
quented.  It  was  my  custom  every  morning,  after 
my  friends  had  left  me,  to  spend  a  few  moments 
at  the  window  before  retiring  to  rest,  to  see  the 
suu  rise  over  the  Adriatic,  and  then  to  bid  him 
good  night.  If  you,  my  dear  Prince,  have  not  yet 
enjoyed  this  pleasure,  I  recommend  exactly  this 
station,  the  most  eligible  one,  perhaps,  in  all  Ve¬ 
nice,  to  enjoy  so  splendid  a  prospect  in  perfection. 
A  purple  twilight  hangs  over  the  deep,  and  a 
golden  mist  on  the  Laguna  announces  the  sun’s 
approach.  The  heavens  and  the  sea  are  wrapped 
in  expectant  silence.  In  two  seconds  the  orb  of 


day  appears  casting  a  flood  of  fiery  light  on  the 
waves.  It  is  an  enchanting  sight ! 

“  One  morning,  when  I  was,  according  to  cus¬ 
tom,  enjoying  the  beauty  of  this  prospect,  I  sud¬ 
denly  discovered  that  I  was  not  the  only  spectator 
of  the  scene.  I  fancied  I  heard  voices  in  the  gar¬ 
den,  and  turning  to  the  quarter  whence  the  sound 
proceeded,  I  perceived  a  gondola  steering  for  the 
land.  In  a  few  moments  I  saw  figures  walking  at 
a  slow  pace  up  the  avenue.  They  were  a  man 
and  a  woman,  accompanied  by  a  little  negro.  The 
female  was  clothed  in  white,  and  had  a  brilliant 
on  her  finger ;  it  was  not  light  enough  to  perceive 
more. 

“  My  curiosity  was  raised.  Doubtless  a  rendez¬ 
vous  of  a  pair  of  lovers — but  in  such  a  place,  and 
at  so  unusual  an  hour!  It  was  scarcely  three 
o’clock,  and  every  thing  was  still  vailed  in  dusky 
twilight.  The  incident  seemed  to  me  novel,  and 
proper  for  a  romance,  and  I  waited  to  see  the 
end. 

“  I  soon  lost  sight  of  them  among  the  foliage 
of  the  garden,  and  some  time  elapsed  before  they 
again  emerged  to  view.  Meanwhile  a  delightful 
song  was  heard.  It  proceeded  from  the  gondo¬ 
lier,  who  was  in  this  manner  shortening  the  time, 
and  was  answered  by  a  comrade  a  short  way  off. 
They  sang  stanzas  from  Tasso ;  time  and  place 
were  in  unison,  and  the  melody  sounded  sweetly 
in  the  profound  silence  around. 

“  Day  in  the  mean  time  had  dawned,  and  objects 
were  discerned  more  plainly.  I  sought  my  peo¬ 
ple,  whom  I  found  walking  hand-in-hand  up  a 
broad  walk,  often  standing  still,  but  always  with 
their  back  turned  toward  me,  and  proceeding  fur¬ 
ther  from  my  residence.  Their  noble,  easy  car¬ 
riage,  convinced  me  at  once  that  they  were  people 
of  rank,  and  the  splendid  figure  of  the  lady  made 
me  augur  as  much  of  her  beauty.  They  appeared 
to  converse  little;  the  lady,  however,  more  than 
her  companion.  In  the  spectacle  of  the  rising 
sun,  which  now  burst  out  in  all  its  splendor,  they 
seemed  to  take  not  the  slightest  interest. 

“  While  I  was  employed  in  adjusting  my  glass, 
in  order  to  bring  them  into  view  as  closely  as  pos- 
sibfe,  they  suddenly  disappeared  down  a  side  path, 
and  some  time  elapsed  before  I  regained  sight  of 
them.  The  sun  had  now  fully  risen  ;  they  were 
approaching  straight  toward  me,  with  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  where  I  stood.  What  a  heavenly 
form  did  I  behold!  Was  it  illusion,  or  the  magic 
effect  of  the  beautiful  light?  I  thought  I  beheld 
a  supernatural  being,  for  my  eyes  quailed  before 
the  angelic  brightness  of  her  look. — So  much 
loveliness,  combined  with  so  much  dignity  ! — so 
much  mind,  and  so  much  blooming  youth  !  It  is 
in  vain  I  attempt  to  describe  it.  I  had  never 
seen  true  beauty  till  that  moment. 

“  In  the  heat  of  conversation  thev  lingered 
near  me,  and  I  had  full  opportunity  to  contem¬ 
plate  her.  Scarcely,  however,  had  1  cast  my  eyes 
upon  her  companion,  but  even  her  beauty  was  uot 
powerful  enough  to  fix  my  attention.  He  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  a  man  still  in  the  prime  of  life, 
rather  slight,  and  of  a  tall,  noble  figure.  Never 
have  I  beheld  so  much  mind,  so  much  noble  ex-, 
pression  in  a  human  countenance.  Though  per¬ 
fectly  secured  from  observation,  I  was  unable  to 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


317 


meet  the  lightning  glance  that  shot  from  beneath 
his  dark  eyebrows.  There  was  a  moving  expres¬ 
sion  of  sorrow  about  his  eyes,  but  an  expression 
of  benevolence  about  the  mouth  which  relieved 
the  settled  gravity  spread  over  his  whole  counte¬ 
nance.  A  certain  cast  of  features,  not  quite  Eu¬ 
ropean,  together  with  his  dress,  which  appeared  to 
have  been  chosen  with  inimitable  good  taste 
from  the  most  varied  costumes,  gave  him  a  pecu¬ 
liar  air,  which  not  a  little  heightened  the  impres¬ 
sion  produced  by  his  appearance.  A  degree  of 
wildness  in  his  looks  warranted  the  supposition 
that  he  was  an  enthusiast,  but  his  deportment  and 
carriage  showed  that  his  character  had  been 
formed  by  mixing  in  society.” 

Z - ,  who  you  know  must  always  give  utter¬ 

ance  to  what  he  thinks,  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  “  Our  Armenian  !”  cried  he.  “  Our  very 
Armenian,  and  nobody  else.” 

“  What  Armenian,  if  one  may  ask  ?”  inquired 
Civitella. 

“  Has  no  one  told  you  of  the  farce  ?”  replied 
the  Prince.  “  But  no  interruption  !  I  begin  to 
feel  interested  in  your  hero.  Pray  continue  your 
narrative.” 

“There  was  something  inexplicable  in  his  whole 
demeanor,”  continued  Civitella.  “  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  companion  with  an  expression  of 
anxiety  and  passion,  but  the  moment  they  met 
hers,  he  looked  down  abashed.  ‘  Is  the  man  be¬ 
side  himself?’  thought  I.  I  could  stand  for  ages 
and  gaze  at  nothing  else  but  her. 

“  The  foliage  again  concealed  them  from  my 
sight.  Long,  long  did  I  look  for  the  re-appear¬ 
ance,  but  in  vain.  At  length  I  caught  sight  of 
them  from  another  window. 

“  They  were  standing  before  the  basin  of  a  foun¬ 
tain,  at  some  distance  apart,  and  both'  wrapped  in 
deep  silence.  They  had,  probably,  remained  some 
time  in  the  same  position.  Her  clear  and  intelli¬ 
gent  eyes  were  resting  inquiringly  on  his,  and 
seemed  as  if  they  would  imbibe  every  thought 
from  him  as  it  revealed  itself  in  his  countenance. 
He,  as  if  he  wanted  courage  to  look  directly  into 
her  face,  furtively  sought  its  reflection  in  the  wa¬ 
tery  mirror  before  him,  or  gazed  steadfastly  at  the 
dolphin  which  bore  the  water  to  the  basin.  Who 
knows  how  long  this  silent  scene  might  have  con¬ 
tinued  could  the  lady  have  endured  it?  With  the 
most  bewitching  grace,  the  lovely  girl  advanced 
toward  him,  and  passing  her  arm  round  his  neck, 
raised  his  hand  to  her  lips.  Calmly  and  unmoved 
the  strange  being  suffered  her  caresses,  but  did 
not  return  them. 

“  This  scene  moved  me  strangely.  It  was  the 
man  that  chiefly  excited  my  sympathy  and  inter¬ 
est.  Some  violent  emotion  seemed  to  struggle  in 
his  breast ;  it  was  if  some  irresistible  force  drew 
him  toward  her,  while  an  unseen  arm  held  him 
back.  Silent,  but  agonizing,  was  the  struggle, 
and  beautiful  the  temptation.  ‘No,’  I  thought, 
‘  he  attempts  too  much;  he  will,  he  must  yield.’ 

“  At  his  silent  intimation  the  young  negro  dis¬ 
appeared.  I  now  expected  some  touching  scene 
• — a  prayer  on  bended  knees,  and  a  reconciliation 
sealed  with  glowing  kisses.  But  no  !  nothing  of 
the  kind  occurred.  The  incomprehensible  being 


took  from  his  pocket-book  a  sealed  packet,  and 
placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  lady..  Sadness 
overcast  her  face  as  she  looked  at  it,  and  a  tear 
bedewed  her  eye. 

“  After  a  short  silence  they  separated.  At  this 
moment  an  elderly  lady  advanced  from  one  of  the 
side  walks,  who  had  remained  at  a  distance,  and 
whom  I  now  first  discovered.  She  and  the  fair 
girl  slowly  advanced  along  the  path,  and,  while 
they  were  earnestly  engaged  in  conversation,  the 
stranger  took  the  opportunity  of  remaining  be¬ 
hind.  With  his  eyes  turned  toward  her  he  stood 
irresolute,  at  one  instant  making  a  rapid  step  for¬ 
ward,  and  in  the  next  retreating.  In  another 
moment,  he  had  diappeared  in  the  copse. 

“  The  women  at  length  look  round,  seem  ’ineasy 
at  not  finding  him,  and  pause  as  if  to  await  his 
coming.  He  comes  not !  Anxious  glances  are 
cast  around,  and  steps  are  redoubled.  My  eyes 
aid  in  searching  through  the  garden  ;  he  comes 
not,  he  is  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

“  Suddenly  I  hear  a  plash  in  the  canal,  and  see 
a  gondola  moving  from  the  shore.  It  is  he,  and  I 
scarcely  can  refrain  from  calling  to  him.  Now 
the  whole  thing  is  clear — it  was  a  parting. 

“  She  appears  to  have  a  presentiment  of  what  has 
happened.  With  a  speed  that  her  companion 
cannot  use,  she  hastens  to  the  shore.  Too  late  ! 
Quick  as  the  arrow  in  its  flight,  the  gondola 
bounds  forward,  and  soon  nothing  is  visible  but  a 
white  handkerchief  fluttering  in  the  air  from  afar. 
Soon  after  this,  I  saw  the  fair  incognita  and  her 
companion  cross  the  water. 

“  When  I  awoke  from  a  short  sleep,  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  my  delusion.  My  fancy  had  in¬ 
corporated  these  events  in  my  dreams,  until  truth 
itself  seemed  a  dream.  A  maiden,  fair  as  ahouri, 
wandering  beneath  my  windows  at  break  of  day 
with  her  lover — and  a  lover  wrho  did  not  know 
how  to  make  a  better  use  of  such  an  hour! 
Surely  these  supplied  materials  for  the  composi¬ 
tion  of  a  picture  which  might  well  occupy  the 
fancy  of  a  dreamer !  But  the  dream  had  been 
too  lovely  for  me  not  to  desire  its  renewal  again 
and  again  ;  nay,  even  the  garden  had  become  more 
charming  in  my  sight  since  my  imagination  had 
peopled  it  with  such  attractive  forms.  Several 
cheerless  days  that  succeeded  this  eventful  morn¬ 
ing  drove  me  from  the  window',  but  the  first  fine 
evening  involuntarily  drew  me  back  to  my  post  of 
observation.  Judge  of  my  surprise,  when,  after  a 
short  search,  I  caught  sight  of  the  white  dress  of 
my  incognita  l  Yes,  it  was  she  herself.  I  had 
not  dreamed  ! 

“Her  former  companion  was  with  her,  and  led 
by  the  hand  a  little  boy  ;  but  the  fair  girl  herself 
walked  apart,  and  seemed  absorbed  in  thought. 
All  spots  were  visited  that  had  been  rendered 
memorable  by  the  presence  of  her  friend.  She 
paused  for  a  long  time  before  the  basin,  and  her 
fixed  gaze  seemed  to  seek  on  Its  crystal  mirror  the 
reflection  of  one  beloved  form. 

“  Although  her  noble  beauty  had  attracted  me 
when  I  first  saw  her,  the  impression  produced  was 
even  stronger  on  this  occasion  ;  although,  per¬ 
haps,  at  the  same  time  more  conducive  to  gentler 
emotions.  I  had  now  ample  opportunity  of  con- 


31S 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


sidering  this  divine  form  ;  the  surprise  of  the  first 
impression  gradually  gave  place  to  softer  feelings. 
The  glory  that  seemed  to  invest  her  had  departed, 
and  I  saw  before  me  the  loveliest  of  women,  and 
felt  my  senses  inflamed.  In  a  moment  the  reso¬ 
lution  was  formed  that  she  must  be  mine. 

“  While  I  was  deliberating  whether  I  should 
descend  and  approach  her,  or  whether,  before  I 
ventured  on  such  a  step,  it  would  not  be  better  to 
obtain  information  regarding  her,  a  door  opened 
in  the  convent  wall,  through  which  there  advanced 
a  Carmelite  monk.  The  sound  of  his  approach 
roused  the  lady,  and  I  saw  her  advance  with  hur¬ 
ried  steps  toward  him.  He  drew  frpm  his  bosom 
a  paper,  which  she  eagerly  grasped,  while  a  vivid 
color  instantaneously  suffused  her  countenance. 

“At  this  moment  I  was  called  from  the  window 
by  the  arrival  of  my  usual  evening  visitor.  I 
carefully  avoided  approaching  the  spot  again,  as  I 
had  no  desire  to  share  my  conquest  with  another. 
For  a  whole  hour  I  was  obliged  to  endure  this 
painful  constraint  before  I  could  succeed  in 
freeing  myself  from  my  importunate  guest,  and 
when  I  hastened  to  the  window,  all  had  disap¬ 
peared. 

“  The  garden  was  empty  when  I  entered  it ;  no 
vessel  of  any  kind  was  visible  in  the  canal  ;  no 
trace  of  people  on  any  side ;  I  neither  knew 
whence  she  had  come,  or  whither  she  had  gone. 
While  I  was  looking  round  me  in  all  directions,  I 
observed  something  white  upon  the  ground.  On 
drawing  near,  I  found  it  was  a  piece  of  paper 
folded  in  the  shape  of  a  note.  What  could  it  be 
but  the  letter  which  the  Carmelite  had  brought? 

‘  Happy  discovery  !’  I  exclaimed  :  ‘  this  will 
reveal  the  whole  secret,  and  make  me  master  of 
her  fate.’ 

“The  letter  was  sealed  with  a  sphinx — had  no 
superscription,  and  was  written  in  ciphers  ;  this, 
however,  did  not  discourage  me,  for  1  have  some 
knowledge  of  this  mode  of  writing.  I  copied  it 
hastily,  as  there  was  every  reason  to  expect  that 
she  would  soon  miss  it  and  return  in  search  of  it. 
If  she  should  not  find  it,  she  would  regard  its  loss 
as  an  evidence  that  the  garden  was  resorted  to  by 
different  persons,  and  such  a  discovery  might 
easily  deter  her  from  visiting  it  again.  And  what 
worse  fortune  could  attend  my  hopes  ? 

“That  which  I  had  conjectured  actually  took 
place,  and  I  had  scarcely  ended  my  copy  when 
she  re-appeared  with  her  former  companion,  anx¬ 
iously  intent  on  the  search.  I  attached  the  note 
to  a  tile  which  I  had  detached  from  the  roof,  and 
dropped  it  at  a  spot  which  she  would  pass.  Her 
gracefully  expressed  joy  at  finding  it  rewarded 
me  for  my  generosity.  She  examined  it  in  every 
part  with  keen  searching  glances,  as  if  she  were 
seeking  to  detect  the  unhallowed  hands  that 
might  have  touched  it ;  but  the  contented  look 
with  which  she  hid  it  in  her  bosom  showed  that 
she  was  free  from  all  suspicion.  She  went,  and 
the  parting  glance  she  threw  on  the  garden 
seemed  expressive  of  gratitude  to  the  guardian 
deities  of  the  spot,  who  had  so  faithfully  watched 
over  the  secret  of  her  heart. 

“  I  now  hastened  to  decipher  the  letter.  After 
trying  several  languages,  I  at  length  succeeded  ! 


'  by  the  use  of  English.  Its  contents  were  so  re- 
markable  that  my  memory  still  retains  a  perfect 

recollection  of  them - ” 

I  am  interrupted,  and  must  give  you  the  con¬ 
clusion  on  a  future  occasion. 


LETTER  YIII. 

BARON  F -  TO  COUNT  0 - . 

August. 

In  truth,  my  dearest  friend,  you  do  the  good 
Biondello  injustice.  The  suspicion  you  entertain 
against  him  is  unfounded,  and,  while  I  allow  you 
full  liberty  to  condemn  all  Italians  generally,  I 
must  maintain  that  this  one  at  least  is  an  honest 
man. 

You  think  it  singular  that  a  person  of  such 
brilliant  endowments  and  such  exemplary  conduct 
should  debase  himself  to  enter  the  service  of  an¬ 
other,  if  he  were  not  actuated  by  secret  motives, 
and  these,  you  further  conclude,  must  necessarily 
be  of  a  suspicious  character.  But  where  is  the 
novelty  of  a  man  of  talent  and  of  merit  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  win  favor  with  a  Prince  who  has  the  power 
of  establishing  his  fortune?  Is  there  any  thing 
derogatory  in  serving  the  Prince  ?  and  has  not 
Biondello  clearly  shown  that  his  devotion  is 
purely  personal,  by  confessing  that  he  earnestly 
desired  to  make  a  certain  request  of  the  Prince. 
The  whole  mystery  will,  therefore,  no  doubt  be 
revealed  when  he  acquaints  him  with  his  wishes. 
He  may  certainly  be  actuated  by  secret  motives, 
but  why  may  these  not  be  innocent  in  their  na¬ 
ture  ? 

You  think  it  strange  that  this  Biondello  should 
have  kept  all  his  great  talents  concealed,  and  in 
no  way  have  attracted  attention  during  the  early 
months  of  our  acquaintance  with  him,  when  you 
were  still  with  us.  This  I  grant ;  but  what  op¬ 
portunity  had  he  then  of  distinguishing  himself? 
The  Prince  had  not  yet  called  his  powers  into 
requisition,  and  chance,  therefore,  could  alone  aid 
us  in  discovering  his  talents. 

lie  very  recently  gave  a  proof  of  his  devotion 
and  honesty  of  purpose,  which  must  at  once  an¬ 
nihilate  all  your  doubts.  The  Prince  was 
watched  ;  measures  were  being  taken  to  gain  in¬ 
formation  regarding  his  mode  of  life,  associates, 
and  general  habits.  I  know  not  with  whom  this 
inquisitiveness  originated.  Let  me  beg  your  at¬ 
tention,  however,  to  what  I  am  about  to  relate : — 

There  is  a  house  in  St.  George’s  which  Bion¬ 
dello  is  in  the  habit  of  frequenting.  He  probably 
finds  some  peculiar  attractions  there,  but  of  this 
I  know  nothing.  It  happened,  a  few  days  ago, 
that  he  there  met  assembled  together  a  party  of 
civil  and  military  officers  in  the  service  of  the 
Government,  old  acquaintances  and  jovial  com¬ 
rades  of  his  own.  Surprise  and  pleasure  were 
expressed  on  all  sides  at  this  meeting.  Their 
former  good  fellowship  was  re-established  ;  and 
after  each  in  turn  had  related  his  own  history  up 
to  the  present  time,  Biondello  was  called  upon  to 
give  an  account  of  his  life  :  this  he  did  in  a  few 
words.  He  was  congratulated  on  his  new  posi- 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


319 


tion ;  his  companions  had  heard  accounts  of  the 

splendid  footing  on  which  the  Prince  of - ’s 

establishment  was  maintained  ;  of  his  liberality, 
especially  to  persons  who  showed  discretion  in 
keeping  secrets  ;  the  Prince’s  connection  with 

the  Cardinal  A - i  was  well  known,  he  was 

said  to  be  addicted  to  play,  &c.  Biondello’s  sur¬ 
prise  at  this  is  observed,  and  jokes  are  passed 
upon  the  mystery  which  he  tries  to  keep  up,  al¬ 
though  it  is  well  known  that  he  is  the  emissary 

of  the  Prince  of - .  The  two  lawyers  of  the 

party  make  him  sit  down  between  them  ;  their 
glasses  are  repeatedly  emptied,  he  is  urged  to 
drink,  but  excuses  himself  on  the  ground  of  his 
inability  to  bear  wine  ;  at  last,  however,  he  yields 
to  their  wishes,  in  order  that  he  may  the  better 
pretend  intoxication. 

“Yes!”  cried  one  of  the  lawyers,  “  Biondello 
understands  his  business,  but  he  has  not  yet 
learned  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  he  is  but  a 
novice.” 

“  What  have  I  still  to  learn  ?”  asked  Biondello. 

“You  understand  the  art  of  keeping  a  secret,” 
remarked  the  other;  “but  you  have  still  to  learn 
that  of  parting  with  it  to  advantage.” 

“  Am  I  likely  to  find  a  purchaser  for  any  that 
I  may  have  to  dispose  of?”  asked  Biondello. 

On  this  the  other  guests  withdrew  from  the 
apartment,  and  left  him  alone  with  his  two  neigh¬ 
bors,  who  continued  the  conversation  in  the  same 
strain.  The  substance  of  the  whole  was,  however, 
briefly  as  follows : — Biondello  was  to  procure 
them  certain  information  regarding  the  intercourse 
of  the  Prince  with  the  Cardinal  and  his  nephew, 
acquaint  them  with  the  sources  from  whence  the 
Prince  derived  his  money,  and  to  intercept  all 

letters  written  to  Count  0 - .  Biondello  put 

them  off  to  a  future  occasion,  but  he  was  unsuc¬ 
cessful  in  his  attempts  to  draw  from  them  the 
name  of  the  person  by  whom  they  were  employed. 
From  the  splendid  nature  of  the  proposals  made 
to  him,  it  was  evident,  however,  that  they  ema¬ 
nated  from  some  influential  and  extremely  wealthy 
party. 

Last  night  he  related  the  whole  occurrence  to 
the  Prince,  whose  first  impulse  was  without  fur¬ 
ther  ceremony  to  secure  the  manceuvrers  at  once, 
but  to  this  Biondello  strongly  objected.  He  urged 
that  he  would  be  obliged  to  set  them  at  liberty 
again,  and  that,  in  this  case,  he  should  endanger 
not  only  his  credit  among  this  class  of  men,  but 
even  his  life.  All  these  men  were  connected  to¬ 
gether,  and  bound  by  one  common  interest,  each 
one  making  the  cause  of  the  others  his  own  ;  in 
fact,  he  would  rather  make  enemies  of  the  Senate 
of  Venice  than  be  regarded  by  these  men  as  a 
traitor — and,  besides,  he  could  no  longer  be  useful 
to  the  Prince  if  he  lost  the  confidence  of  this  class 
of  people. 

We  have  pondered  and  conjectured  much  as  to 
the  source  of  all  this.  Who  is  there  in  Venice 
that  can  care  to  know  what  money  my  master  re¬ 
ceives  or  pays  out,  what  passes  between  Cardinal 

A - i  and  himself,  and  what  I  write  to  you? 

Can  it  be  some  scheme  of  the  Prince  of - d - , 

or  is  the  Armenian  again  on  the  alert  ? 


LETTER  IX. 

BARON  F -  TO  COUNT  0 - . 

August. 

The  Prince  is  reveling  in  love  and  bliss.  He 
has  recovered  his  fair  Greek.  I  must  relate  to 
you  how  this  happened. 

A  traveler,  who  had  crossed  from  Chiozza, 
gave  the  Prince  so  animated  an  account  of  the 
beauty  of  this  place,  which  is  charmingly  situated 
on  the  shores  of  the  gulf,  that  he  became  very 
anxious  to  see  it.  Yesterday  was  fixed  upon  for 
the  excursion  ;  and,  in  order  to  avoid  all  restraint 
and  display,  no  one  was  to  accompany  him  but 

Z - and  myself,  together  with  Biondello,  as  my 

master  wished  to  remain  unknown.  We  found  a 
vessel  ready  to  start,  and  engaged  our  passage 
at  once.  The  company  was  very  mixed  but  not 
numerous,  and  the  passage  was  made  without  the 
occurrence  of  any  circumstance  worthy  of  no¬ 
tice. 

Chiozza  is  built  like  Venice  on  a  foundation  of 
wooden  piles,  and  is  said  to  contain  about  forty 
thousand  inhabitants.  There  are  but  few  of  the 
higher  classes  resident  there,  but  one  meets  sailors 
and  fishermen  at  every  step.  Whoever  appears 
in  a  perruque,  or  a  cloak,  is  regarded  as  an  aris¬ 
tocrat — a  rich  man  ;  the  cap  and  overcoat  are  here 
the  insignia  of  the  poor.  The  situation  is  cer¬ 
tainly  very  lovely,  but  it  will  not  bear  a  compari¬ 
son  with  Venice. 

We  did  not  remain  long,  for  the  captain,  who 
had  more  passengers  for  the  return  voyage,  was 
obliged  to  be  in  Venice  at  an  early  hour,  and 
there  was  nothing  at  Chiozza  to  make  the  Prince 
desirous  of  remaining.  All  the  passengers  were 
on  board  when  we  reached  the  vessel.  As  we 
had  found  it  so  difficult  to  place  ourselves  on  a 
social  footing  with  the  company  on  the  outwrard 
passage,  we  determined  on  this  occasion  to  secure 
a  cabin  to  ourselves.  The  Prince  inquired  who 
the  new  comers  were,  and  was  informed  that  they 
were  a  Dominican  and  some  ladies,  who  were  re¬ 
turning  to  Venice.  My  master  evincing  no  cu¬ 
riosity  to  see  them,  we  immediately  betook  our¬ 
selves  to  our  cabin. 

The  Greek  was  the  subject  of  our  conversation 
throughout  the  whole  passage,  as  she  had  been 
during  our  former  transit.  The  Prince  dwelt  with 
ardor  on  her  appearance  in  the  church  ;  and  whilst 
numerous  plans  were  in  turn  devised  and  rejected, 
hours  passed  like  a  moment  of  time,  and  we  were 
already  in  sight  of  Venice.  Some  of  the  passen¬ 
gers  now  disembarked,  the  Dominican  amongst 
the  number.  The  captain  went  to  the  ladies,  who, 
as  we  now  first  learnt,  had  been  separated  from  us 
by  only  a  thin  wooden  partition,  and  asked  them 
where  they  wished  to  land.  The  island  of  Murano 
was  named  in  reply  to  his  inquiry,  and  the  house 
indicated -  “The  island  of  Murano!”  ex¬ 

claimed  the  Prince,  who  seemed  suddenly  struck 
by  a  startling  presentiment.  Before  I  could  reply 
to  his  exclamation,  Biondello  rushed  into  the 
cabin.  “  Do  you  know,”  asked  he  eagerly,  “  who 
is  on  board  with  us?”  The  Prince  started  to 
his  feet,  as  Biondello  continued,  “  She  is  here  ! 


320 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


she  herself!— I  have  just  spoken  to  her  com¬ 
panion  !” 

The  Prince  hurried  out.  He  felt  as  if  he  could 
not  breathe  in  our  narrow  cabin,  and  I  believe  at 
that  moment,  as  if  the  whole  world  would  have 
been  too  narrow  for  him.  A  thousand  conflicting 
feelings  struggled  for  the  mastery  in  his  heart  ; 
his  knees  trembled,  and  his  countenance  was  alter¬ 
nately  flushed  and  pallid.  I  sympathized  and 
participated  in  his  emotion,  but  I  cannot  by  words 
convey  to  your  mind  any  idea  of  the  state  in  which 
he  was. 

When  we  stopped  at  Murano,  the  Prince  sprang 
on  shore.  She  advanced  from  her,cabin.  I  read 
in  the  face  of  the  Prince  that  it  was  indeed  the 
Greek.  One  glance  was  sufficient  to  dispel  all 
doubt  on  that  point.  A  more  lovely  creature  I 
have  never  seen.  Even  the  Prince’s  glowing  de¬ 
scriptions  fell  far  short  of  the  reality.  A  radiant 
blush  suffused  her  face  when  she  saw  my  master. 
She  must  have  heard  all  we  said,  and  could  not 
fail  to  know  that  she  herself  had  been  the  subject 
of  our  conversation.  She  exchanged  a  significant 
glance  with  her  companion,  which  seemed  to  say, 
“That  is  he;”  and  then  cast  her  eyes  to  the 
ground  with  diffident  confusion.  On  placing  her 
foot  on  the  narrow  plank,  which  had  been  thrown 
from  the  vessel  to  the  shore,  she  seemed  anxiously 
to  hesitate,  less,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  from  the  fear 
of  falling  than  from  her  inability  to  cross  the 
board  without  assistance,  which  was  proffered  her 
by  the  outstretched  arm  of  the  Prince.  Neces¬ 
sity  overcame  her  reluctance,  and,  accepting  the 
aid  of  his  hand,  she  stepped  on  shore.  Excessive 
mental  agitation  had  rendered  the  Prince  un- 
courteous,  and  he  wholly  forgot  to  offer  his  services 
to  the  other  lady — but  what  was  there  that  he 
would  not  have  forgotten  at  this  moment?  My 
attention  in  atoning  for  the  remissness  of  the 
Prince  prevented  my  hearing  the  commencement 
of  a  conversation  which  had  begun  between  him 
and  the  young  Greek,  while  I  had  been  helping 
the  other  lady  on  shore. 

He  was  still  holding  her  hand  in  his,  probably 
from  absence  of  mind,  and  without  being  conscious 
of  the  fact. 

“  This  is  not  the  first  time,  Signora,  that - 

that - ”  he  stopped  short,  unable  to  finish  the 

sentence. 

“  I  think  I  remember - ”  she  faltered. 

“We  met  in  the  church  of - ”  said  he, 

quickly. 

“Yes,  it  was  in  the  church  of - ”  she  re¬ 

joined. 

“  And  could  I  have  supposed  that  this  day  would 
have  brought  me - ” 

Here  she  gently  withdrew  her  hand  from  his — 
he  was  evidently  embarrassed  ;  but  Biondello,  who 
had  in  the  mean  time  been  speaking  to  the  servant, 
now  came  to  his  aid. 

“  Signor,”  said  he,  “  the  ladies  had  ordered 
sedans  to  be  in  readiness  for  them  ;  they  have  not 
yet  come,  for  we  are  here  before  the  expected 
time.  But  there  is  a  garden  close  by,  in  which 
you  may  remain  until  the  crowd  has  dispersed.” 

The  proposal  was  accepted  ;  you  may  conceive 
with  what  alacrity  on  the  part  of  the  Prince!  | 
We  remained  in  the  garden  till  late  in  the  evening  ;  , 


and,  fortunately,  Z - and  myself  so  effectually 

succeeded  in  occupying  the  attention  of  the  elder 
lady,  that  the  Prince  was  enabled,  undisturbed,  to 
carry  on  his  conversation  with  the  fair  Greek. 
You  will  easily  believe  that  he  made  good  use  of 
his  time,  when  I  tell  you  that  he  obtained  per¬ 
mission  to  visit  her.  At  the  very  moment  that  I 
am  now  writing  he  is  with  her;  on  his  return  I 
shall  be  able  to  give  you  further  particulars  re¬ 
garding  her. 

When  we  got  home  yesterday,  we  found  that 
the  long  expected  remittances  had  arrived  from 
our  court ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  the  Prince  re¬ 
ceived  a  letter  which  excited  his  indignation  to 
the  highest  pitch.  He  has  been  recalled,  and 
that  in  a  tone  and  manner  to  which  he  is  wholly 
unaccustomed.  He  immediately  wrote  a  reply  in 
a  similar  spirit,  and  intends  remaining.  The  re¬ 
mittances  are  only  just  sufficient  to  pay  the  inter¬ 
est  on  the  capital  which  he  owes.  We  are  look¬ 
ing  with  impatience  for  a  reply  from  his  sister. 


LETTER  X. 

BARON  F -  TO  COUNT  Q - . 

September. 

The  Prince  has  fallen  out  with  his  court,  and 
all  resources  have  consequently  been  cut  off  from 
home. 

The  term  of  six  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which  my 
master  was  to  pay  the  Marquis,  has  already 
elapsed  several  days ;  but  still  no  remittances 
have  been  forwarded,  either  from  his  cousin,  of 
whom  he  had  earnestly  requested  an  additional 
allowance  in  advance,  or  from  his  sister.  You 
may  readily  suppose  that  Civitella  has  not  re¬ 
minded  him  of  his  debt ;  the  Prince’s  memory  is 
however,  all  the  more  faithful.  Yesterday  morn¬ 
ing  at  length  brought  an  answer  from  the  seat  of 
government. 

We  had  shortly  before  concluded  a  new  ar¬ 
rangement  with  the  master  of  our  hotel,  and  the 
Prince  had  publicly  announced  his  intention  to 
remain  here  some  time  longer.  Without  utter¬ 
ing  a  word,  my  master  put  the  letter  into  my 
hand.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and  I  could  read  the 
contents  in  his  face. 

Can  you  believe  it,  dear  0 - ?  all  my  mas¬ 
ter’s  proceedings  here  are  known  at  - ,  and 

have  been  most  calumniously  misrepresented  by  an 
abominable  tissue  of  lies.  “  Information  has  been 
received” — says  the  letter,  amongst  other  things 
— “  to  the  effect  that  the  Prince  has  for  some 
time  past  belied  his  former  character,  and 
adopted  a  mode  of  conduct  totally  at  variance 
with  his  former  exemplary  manner  of  acting  and 
thinking.”  “  It  is  known,”  the  writer  says,  “  that 
he  has  addicted  himself  with  the  greatest  excess 
to  women  and  play  ;  that  he  is  overwhelmed  with 
debts  ;  puts  his  confidence  in  visionaries  and 
charlatans,  who  pretend  to  have  power  over 
spirits  ;  maintains  suipicious  relations  with  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  prelates,  and  keeps  up  a  degree  of 
state  which  exceeds  both  his  rank  and  his  means. 
Nay,  it  is  even  said,  that  he  is  about  to  bring  this 
highly  offensive  conduct  to  a  climax,  by  apostasy 


2— G.  p.  388, 


2— E.  p.  320, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


321 


to  the  church  of  Home !  and,  in  order  to  clear 
himself  from  this  last  charge,  he  is  required  to 
return  immediately.  A  banker  at  Venice,  to 
whom  he  must  make  known  the  true  amount  of 
his  debts,  has  received  instructions  to  satisfy  his 
creditors  immediately  after  his  departure  ;  for, 
under  existing  circumstances,  it  does  not  appear 
expedient  to  remit  the  money  directly  into  his 
hands.” 

What  accusations,  and  what  a  mode  of  pre¬ 
ferring  them  !  I  read  the  letter  again  and  again, 
in  the  hope  of  discovering  some  expression  that 
admitted  of  a  milder  construction,  but  in  vain  ;  it 
was  wholly  incomprehensible. 

Z - now  reminded  me  of  the  secret  inquiries 

which  had  been  made  some  time  before  of  Bion- 
dello.  The  true  nature  of  the  inquiries  and  cir¬ 
cumstances  all  coincided.  He  had  falsely  ascribed 
them  to  the  Armenian  ;  but  now  the  source  from 
whence  they  came  was  very  evident.  Apostasy  ! 
But  who  can  have  any  interest  in  calumniating 
my  master  so  scandalously?  I  should  fear  it  was 

some  machination  of  the  Prince  of - ,  who  is 

determined  on  driving  him  from  Venice. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Prince  remained  absorbed 
in  thought,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
His  continued  silence  alarmed  me.  I  threw  my¬ 
self  at  his  feet.  “  For  God’s  sake,  your  Highness,” 
I  cried,  “  moderate  yonr  feelings — you  will— nay, 
you  shall  have  satisfaction.  Leave  the  whole 
affair  to  me.  Let  me  be  your  emissary.  It  is 
beneath  your  dignity  to  reply  to  such  accusations  ; 
but  you  will  not,  I  know,  refuse  me  the  privilege 
of  doing  so  for  you.  The  name  of  your  calumni¬ 
ator  must  be  given  up  and - ’s  eyes  must  be 

opened.” 

At  this  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Civitella,  who  inquired  with  surprise 

into  the  cause  of  our  agitation.  Z - and  I  did 

not  answer;  but  the  Prince,  who  has  long  ceased 
to  make  any  distinction  between  him  and  us,  and 
who,  besides,  was  too  much  excited  to  listen  to  the 
dictates  of  prudence,  desired  me  to  communicate 
the  contents  of  the  letter  to  him.  On  my  hesitat¬ 
ing  to  obey  him,  he  snatched  the  letter  from  my 
hand,  and  gave  it  to  the  Marquis. 

“  I  am  in  your  debt,  Marquis,”  said  he,  as  Civi¬ 
tella  gave  him  back  the  letter,  after  perusing  it, 
with  evident  astonishment — “  but  do  not  let  that 
circumstance  occasion  you  any  uneasiness — grant 
me  but  a  respite  of  twenty  days,  and  you  shall 
be  fully  satisfied.” 

“  Do  I  deserve  this  at  your  hands,  gracious 
Prince?”  exclaimed  Civitella,  with  extreme  emo¬ 
tion. 

“You  have  refrained  from  pressing  me,  and  I 
gratefully  appreciate  your  delicacy.  In  twenty 
days,  as  I  before  said,  you  shall  be  fully  satisfied.” 

“  But  how  is  this  ?”  asked  Civitella  with  agita¬ 
tion  and  surprise.  “  What  means  all  this  ?  I 
cannot  comprehend  it?” 

We  explained  to  him  all  that  we  knew,  and  his 
indignation  was  unbounded.  The  Prince,  he  as¬ 
serted,  must  insist  upon  full  satisfaction — the  in¬ 
sult  was  unparalleled.  In  the  mean  while  he  im¬ 
plored  him  to  make  unlimited  use  of  his  fortune 
and  his  credit. 

When  the  Marquis  left  us  the  Prince  still  con- 
Vol.  II.—  21 


tinued  silent.  He  paced  the  apartment  with  quick 
and  determined  steps,  as  if  some  strange  and  un¬ 
usual  emotion  were  agitating  his  frame.  At 
length  he  paused,  muttering  between  his  teeth, 
“  Congratulate  yourself — he  died  at  ten  o’clock  !” 

We  looked  at  him  in  terror. 

“  Congratulate  yourself,”  he  repeated  ;  “  did  he 
not  say  that  I  should  congratulate  myself?  What 
could  he  have  meant?” 

“  What  has  reminded  you  of  those  wmrds  ?”  I 
asked ;  “  and  what  have  they  to  do  with  the  pres¬ 
ent  business  ?” 

“  I  did  not  then  understand  what  the  man 
meant — but  now  I  do.  Oh  !  it  is  intolerable  to 
be  subject  to  a  master  !” 

“  Gracious  Prince !” 

“  Who  can  make  us  feel  our  dependence  ! - 

ha  ! — it  must  be  sweet,  indeed.” 

He  again  paused.  His  looks  alarmed  me,  for  I 
had  never  before  seen  him  thus  agitated. 

“Whether  a  man  be  poorest  of  the  poor” — 
he  continued — “  or  the  next  heir  to  the  throne, 
it  is  all  one  and  the  same  thing.  There  is  but 
one  difference  between  men — to  obey  or  to  com¬ 
mand  !” 

He  again  glanced  over  the  letter. 

“  You  know  the  man,”  lie  continued,  “  who  has 
dared  to  write  these  words  to  me  !  Would  you 
salute  him  in  the  street,  if  fate  had  not  made 
him  your  master?  By  Heaven!  there  is  some¬ 
thing  great  in  a  crown  !” 

He  went  on  in  this  strain,  giving  expression  to 
many  things  which  I  dare  not  trust  to  paper.  On 
this  occasion  the  Prince  confided  a  circumstance 
to  me  which  alike  surprised  and  terrified  me,  and 
which  may  be  followed  by  the  most  alarming  con¬ 
sequences.  We  have  hitherto  been  entirely  de¬ 
ceived  regarding  the  family  relations  of  the  court 
of - . 

He  answered  the  letter  on  the  spot,  notwith¬ 
standing  my  earnest  entreaty  that  he  should  post¬ 
pone  doing  so  ;  and  the  strain  in  which  he  wrote 
leaves  no  ground  to  hope  for  a  favorable  settle¬ 
ment  of  these  differences. 

You  are  no  doubt  impatient,  dear  0 - ,  to 

hear  something  definite  with  respect  to  the 
Greek  ;  but,  in  truth,  I  have  very  little  to  tell 
you.  .  From  the  Prince  I  can  learp  nothing,  as  he 
has  been  admitted  into  her  confidence;  and  is, 
I  believe,  bound  to  secrecy.  The  fact  has,  how¬ 
ever,  transpired  that  she  is  not  a  Greek  as  we 
supposed,  but  a  German  of  the  highest  descent. 
From  a  certain  report  that  has  reached  me,  it 
would  appear  that  her  mother  is  of  the  most  ex¬ 
alted  rank,  and  that  she  is  the  fruit  of  an  unfor¬ 
tunate  amour  which  was  once  talked  of  all  over 
Europe.  A  course  of  secret  persecution  to  which 
she  had  been  exposed,  in  consequence  of  her  ori¬ 
gin,  compelled  her  to  seek  protection  in  Venice, 
and  to  adopt  that  concealment  which  had  ren¬ 
dered  it  impossible  for  the  Prince  to  discover  her 
retreat.  The  respect  with  which  the  Prince  speaks 
of  her,  and  a  certain  deferential  deportment  which 
he  maintains  toward  her,  appear  to  corroborate 
the  truth  of  this  report. 

He  is  devoted  to  her  with  a  fearful  intensity  of 
passion  which  increases  day  by  day.  In  the  ear¬ 
liest  stage  of  their  acquaintance  but  few  inter- 


322 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 


views  were  granted;  but  after  the  first  week  the 
separations  were  of  shorter  duration,  and  now 
there  is  scarce  a  day  on  which  the  Prince  is  not 
with  her.  Whole  evenings  pass  without  our  even 
seeing  him,  and,  when  he  is  not  with  her,  she  ap¬ 
pears  to  form  the  sole  subject  of  his  thoughts. 
His  whole  being  seems  metamorphosed.  He  goes 
about  as  if  wrapped  in  a  dream,  and  nothing  that 
formerly  interested  him  has  now  power  to  arrest 
his  attention  even  for  a  moment. 

How  will  this  end,  my  dear  friend  ?  I  tremble 
for  the  future.  The  rupture  with  his  court  has 
placed  my  master  in  a  state  of  humiliating  de¬ 
pendence  on  one  sole  person — the  Marquis  Civi- 
tella.  This  man  is  now  master  of/  our  secrets — 
of  our  whole  fate.  Will  he  always  conduct  him¬ 
self  as  nobly  as  he  does  now?  Are  his  good  in¬ 
tentions  to  be  relied  upon  ?  and  is  it  expedient  to 
confide  so  much  weight  and  power  to  one  person- — 
even  were  he  the  best  of  men  ?  The  Prince’s  sis¬ 
ter  has  again  been  written  to — the  result  of  this 
fresh  appeal  you  shall  learn  in  my  next  letter. 


COUNT  0 -  IN  CONTINUATION. 

This  letter  never  reached  me.  Three  months 
passed  without  my  receiving  any  tidings  from 
Venice, — an  interruption  to  our  correspondence 
which  the  sequel  but  too  clearly  explained.  All 
my  friend’s  letters  to  me  had  been  kept  back  and 
suppressed.  My  emotion  maybe  conceived  when, 
in  the  December  of  the  same  year,  the  following 
letter  reached  me  by  mere  accident  (as  it  afterward 
appeared),  owing  to  the  sudden  illness  of  Biondello, 
into  whose  hands  it  had  been  committed. 

“  You  do  not  write  ;  you  do  not  answer  me. — 
Come !  I  intreat  you,  come  on  the  wings  of  friend¬ 
ship  S  Our  hopes  are  fled !  Read  the  inclosed. — 
All  our  hopes  are  at  an  end  ! 

“The  wounds  of  the  Marquis  are  reported  mor¬ 
tal.  The  Cardinal  vows  vengeance,  and  his  bravos 
are  in  pursuit  of  the  Prince.  My  master! — 
Oh  !  my  unhappy  master  ! — Has  it  come  to  this  ! 
Wretched,  horrible  fate!  We  are  compelled  to 
hide  ourselves,  like  malefactors,  from  assassins 
and  creditors. 

“  I  am  writing  to  you  from  the  convent  of  - , 

where  the  Prince  has  found  an  asylum.  At  this 
moment  he  is  resting  on  his  hard  couch  by  my 
side,  and  is  sleeping — but,  alas !  it  is  only  the 
sleep  of  deadly  exhaustion,  that  will  but  give  him 
new  strength  for  new  trials.  During  the  ten  days 
that  she  was  ill  no  sleep  closed  his  eyes.  I  was 
present  when  the  body  was  opened.  Traces  of 
poison  were  detected.  To-day  she  is  to  be  buried. 

“  Alas !  dearest  0  - ,  my  heart  is  rent.  I 

have  lived  through  scenes  that  can  never  be 
effaced  from  my  memory.  I  stood  beside  her 
•death-bed.  She  departed  like  a  saint,  and  her  last 
strength  was  spent  in  trying,  with  persuasive  elo¬ 
quence,  to  lead  her  lover  into  the  path  that  she 
•was  treading  in  her  way  to  heaven.  Our  firmness 
•was  completely  gone — the  Prince  alone  main¬ 
tained  his  fortitude,  and,  although  he  suffered  a 
triple  agony  of  death  with  her,  he  yet  retained 


strength  of  mind  sufficient  to  refuse  the  last  prayer 
of  the  pious  enthusiast.” 

This  letter  contained  the  following  inclosure:-— 

TO  THE  PRINCE  OF  - ,  FROM  HIS  SISTER. 

“  The  one  sole  redeeming  church  which  has 
made  so  glorious  a  conquest  of  the  Prince  of  — — • 
will  surely  not  refuse  to  supply  him  with  means  to 
pursue  the  mode  of  life  to  which  she  owes  this 
conquest.  I  have  tears  and  prayers  for  one  that 
has  gone  astray,  but  nothing  further  to  bestow  on 
one  so  worthless  !  Henriette - .” 


I  instantly  threw  myself  into  a  carriage — tra¬ 
veled  night  and  day,  and  in  the  third  week  I  was 
in  Venice.  My  speed  availed  nothing.  I  had 
come  to  bring  comfort  and  help  to  an  unhappy 
one,  but  I  found  a  happy  one  who  needed  not  my 
weak  aid.  F - was  ill  when  I  arrived,  and  un¬ 

able  to  see  me,  but  the  following  note  was  brought 
to  me  from  him. 

“  Return,  dearest  0 - ,  to  whence  you  came. 

The  Prince  no  longer  needs  you  or  me.  His 
debts  have  been  paid;  the  Cardinal  is  reconciled 
to  him,  and  the  Marquis  has  recovered.  “  Do  you 
remember  the  Armenian  who  perplexed  us  so 
much  last  year?  In  his  arms  you  will  find  the 
Prince,  who  five  days  since  attended  mass  for  the 
first  time.” 

Notwithstanding  all  this  I  earnestly  sought  an 
interview  with  the  Prince,  b^t  was  refused.  By 
the  bedside  of  my  friend  I  learned  the  particulars 
of  this  strange  story. 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LETTERS. 

PRELIMINARY  REMARKS. 

Reason  has  its  epochs,  its  events,  like  the 
heart,  but  its  history  is  written  much  less  fre¬ 
quently.  Authors  seem  to  content  themselves 
with  developing  the  passions  in  their  extremes, 
aberrations,  or  consequences,  without  considering 
how  intimately  they  are  allied  with  the  thinking 
system  of  the  individual.  The  general  source  of 
moral  depravity  is  a  one-sided  and  unstable  phi¬ 
losophy,  so  much  more  dangerous  as  it  dazzles 
the  clouded  reason  by  an  appearance  of  legiti¬ 
macy,  truth,  and  conviction,  and  on  this  very  ac¬ 
count  much  less  restrained  by  the  innate  moral 
sense.  An  enlightened  understanding,  on  the 
contrary,  likewise  ennobles  the  sentiment :  the 
head  has  to  form  the  heart. 

In  an  epoch  like  ours,  where  the  facilities  and 
extent  of  reading  material  have  so  greatly 
increased  the  thinking  portion  of  the  public ; 
where  the  bliss  of  ignorance  begins  to  make  room 
for  a  partial  enlightenment,  and  but  few  persons 
are  willing  to  remain  where  the  accident  of  birth 
has  placed  them  :  it  does  not  seem  to  be  alto¬ 
gether  unimportant,  to  call  attention  to  certain 
periods  of  the  awakening  and  progressing  reason, 
to  correct  certain  truths  and  errors  connected 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


323 


with  morality,  and,  possibly,  leading  either  to 
happiness  or  misery,  and  to  show  at  least  the 
hidden  cliffs  on  which  proud  reason  has  already 
stranded.  We  scarcely  ever  attain  to  truth  other¬ 
wise  than  by  extremes  ;  we  frequently  have  to 
exhaust  error,  and  even  absurdity,  before  we  suc¬ 
ceed  in  ascending  to  the  beautiful  goal  of  calm 
wisdom. 

A  few  friends,  animated  by  a  like  warmth  for 
truth  and  moral  beauty,  having  arrived  at  the 
same  conviction  upon  entirely  different  roads 
which  they  are  now  surveying  with  calmer  eyes, 
have  unitedly  conceived  the  project  of  presenting 
in  the  persons  of  two  youths  of  dissimilar  char¬ 
acters,  a  few  revolutions  and  epochs  of  the  think¬ 
ing  intellect,  a  few  excesses  of  the  searching 
reason,  and  of  laying  the  results  of  their  labors 
before  the  world.  The  following  letters  are  the 
beginning  of  this  attempt. 

The  opinions  which  are  advanced  in  these  let¬ 
ters,  can  only  be  relatively  true  or  false,  accord¬ 
ing  as  the  world  is  seen  by  the  writers’  souls  in 
one  light  or  another.  The  sequel  of  these  letters 
will  show  how  the  one-sided,  frequently  extrava¬ 
gant  and  contradictory,  assertions  of  their  authors 
finally  resolve  themselves  into  a  general,  purified 
and  firmly  founded  truth. 

Skepticism  and  free-thinking  are  the  fever-pa¬ 
roxysms  of  the  human  mind,  that  must  finally 
contribute  to  fortifying  it  by  the  unnatural  con¬ 
cussions  which  they  cause  in  well  organized  souls. 
The  more  dazzling,  the  more  seductive  the  error, 
the  greater  the  triumph  of  truth ;  the  more  tor¬ 
menting  the  doubt,  the  more  urgent  the  desire  for 
conviction  and  certainty.  It  was  necessary  to 
show  these  doubts  and  errors  ;  a  knowledge  of 
the  disease  had  to  precede  the  cure.  Truth  loses 
nothing  when  missed  by  a  passionate  youth,  any 
more  than  virtue  and  religion  when  denied  by  a 
worshiper  of  vice. 

These  remarks  had  to  be  stated  beforehand,  in 
order  to  explain  the  point  of  view  from  which  we 
desire  to  see  the  following  letters  read  and  judged. 


JULIUS  TO  RAPHAEL. 

October. 

Thou  art  gone,  Raphael,  and  beautiful  nature 
is  on  the  wane  ;  the  sallow  leaves  are  falling  off 
the  trees,  a  dim  autumn  fog  is  extended  over  the 
dying  fields.  Alone  I  wander  over  the  melan¬ 
choly  hills,  call  loudly  thy  name,  and  feel  wrathy 
because  my  Raphael  does  not  reply  to  my  call. 

I  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  thy  last  fare¬ 
well.  The  mournful  echo  of  the  carriage  which 
carried  thee  hence,  had  ceased  to  resound  in  my 
ear.  I  had  happily  succeeded  in  burying  my  past 
joys  in  the  bosom  of  those  memories,  when  thou, 
like  a  departed  spirit,  again  appearest  before  me 
in  these  parts,  and  remindest  me  of  thee  at  every 
favorite  spot  on  our  walks.  By  thy  side  I  as¬ 
cended  this  rock  ;  by  thy  side  I  enjoyed  this  end¬ 
less  prospect.  In  the  dark  sanctuary  of  these 
beech-trees  we,  for  the  first  time,  dreamed  of  the 
bold  ideal  of  our  friendship.  Here  it  was,  where 
we  first  unrolled  the  pedigree  of  spirits,  and  Ju¬ 
lius  discovered  such  a  near  relative  in  Raphael. 


There  is  here  no  spring,  no  grove,  no  hill,  where 
the  memory  of  some  past  bliss  does  not  threaten 
to  disturb  my  rest.  Every  thing  seems  to  con¬ 
spire  against  my  recovery.  Wherever  I  step,  I 
repeat  the  gloomy  scene  of  our  separation. 

What  hast  thou  done  with  me,  Raphael  ?  What 
has  become  of  me  this  short  while  past?  Dan¬ 
gerous  great  man  !  would  I  had  never  known,  or 
else  never  lost  thee !  Hasten  back  upon  the 
wings  of  love,  or  else  thy  whole  work  will  be 
spoiled.  Couldst  thou  dare,  with  thy  gentle  soul, 
to  leave  oft'  the  work  which  thou  liadst  commenced, 
when  it  was  still  so  far  from  being  perfect?  The 
pillars  of  thy  proud  wisdom  are  shaking  in  my 
brain  and  heart;  all  the  magnificent  palaces  which 
thou  hast  built,  are  falling  to  pieces,  and  the 
crushed  worm  is  writhing  beneath  the  ruins. 

Blissful  age  when  I  was  still  staggering  through 
life  like  one  intoxicated  ;  when  all  my  speculations 
and  desires  were  bounded  by  my  parental  home ; 
when  a  bright  sunset  inspired  me  with  no  higher 
expectations  than  a  fair  to-morrow  ;  when  a  po¬ 
litical  gazette  was  the  only  thing  that  bound  me 
to  the  world,  the  funeral  bell  the  only  thing  that 
reminded  me  of  eternity,  ghost-stories  the  only 
thing  that  illustrated  to  my  mind  a  future  ac¬ 
countability  ;  when  I  still  trembled  before  the 
devil,  and  was  so  much  more  cordially  attached  to 
the  Deity.  I  enjoyed  sentiment  and  was  happy. 
Raphael  has  taught  me  to  think,  and  I  am  about 
regretting  that  I  ever  was  born. 

Creation?  No,  this  is  a  meaningless*  sound, 
which  my  reason  cannot  accept.  There  was  a 
time  when  I  did  not  know  any  thing  of  any  body, 
where  nobody  knew  any  thing  of  me ;  hence  we 
say,  I  was  not.  This  age  is  no  more  ;  hence  they 
say,  I  am  created.  But  of  the  millions  that  ex¬ 
isted  hundreds  of  years  ago,  we  know  nothing  now, 
and  yet  we  say  that  they  are.  Upon  what  do  wre 
found  our  right  to  affirm  the  beginning  and  to  deny 
the  end?  It  is  asserted  that  the  cessation  of 
thinking  beings  is  contrary  to  infinite  goodness. 
Did  this  infinite  goodness  first  originate  with  the 
creation  of  the  world?  If  there  ever  has  been  a 
period  when  there  were  no  spirits,  infinite  good¬ 
ness  must  have  been  inactive  during  a  whole  pre¬ 
vious  eternity.  If  the  structure  of  the  world  is  a 
perfect  work  of  the  Creator,  another  perfect  work 
previous  to  the  world’s  creation  was  not  existing. 
Such  a  supposition  is  contrary  to  the  idea  ot  a 
perfect  Deity ;  hence  there  was  no  creation — where 
am  I  wandering,  Raphael?  Terrible  maze  ol  my 
inferences!  I  renounce  a  Creator  the  moment  I 
believe  in  a  God.  Of  what  use  is  a  God,  if  I  can 
get  along  without  a  Creator? 

Thou  hast  robbed  me  of  the  faith  that  gave  me 
peace.  Thou  hast  taught  me  contempt,  where  I 
felt  adoration.  A  thousand  objects  seemed  ve¬ 
nerable  to  me,  before  thy  gloomy  wisdom  showed 
them  to  me  in  their  nudity.  I  saw  a  crowd  hasten 
to  the  church  ;  I  heard  their  devotion  unite  in  a 
brotherly  prayer — twice  I  stood  by  a  death-bed, 
saw  twice— oh,  magic  power  of  religion  !  the  hope 
of  heaven  triumph  over  the  terrors  of  annihilation, 
aud  the  bright  ray  of  joy  kindle  in  the  closing  eye 
of  the  dying. 

Divine  must  be  the  doctrine,  I  exclaimed,  which 
the  best  among  mankind  confess,  which  triumphs 


824 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LETTERS. 


so  mightily,  and  comforts  with  such  marvelous 
certainty.  Thy  cold  wisdom  has  extinguished  my 
enthusiasm.  As  many,  saidst  thou  to  me,  have 
crowded  in  former  ages  around  the  Irmensaule,* 
and  to  Jupiter’s  temple  ;  as  many  have  with  the 
same  joy  ascended  the  burning  pile  in  honor  of 
Brama.  Wilt  thou  prove  the  divinity  of  thy  doc¬ 
trine  by  the  very  thing  that  seems  so  abominable 
to  thee  among  heathens? 

Believe  nothing  but  thy  own  reason,  thou  con- 
tinuedst.  There  is  nothing  sacred  but  truth. 
Truth  is  what  reason  acknowledges  as  such.  I 
have  obeyed  thee,  I  have  sacrificed  every  opinion  ; 
like  yonder  desperate  conqueror  I  have  set  fire  to 
all  my  ships  when  I  landed  on  this  inland,  and  have 
cut  off  all  hope  of  ever  returning.  I  can  never 
again  become  reconciled  with  an  opinion  that  I 
have  once  laughed  at.  My  reason  now  is  every 
thing  to  me,  my  only  authority  for  God,  virtue, 
immortality.  Woe  is  me,  if  I  should  ever  discover 
inconsistencies  in  its  testimony  !  if  I  should  lose 
my  respect  for  its  conclusions  !  if  the  tearing  of  a 
single  thread  in  its  arguments  should  bewilder  my 
conscience  !  Henceforth  my  bliss  depends  upon 
the  harmonious  rhythm  of  my  sensorium.  Woe  me, 
if  the  strings  of  this  instrument  should  prove  dis¬ 
cordant  in  the  dubious  period  of  my  life !  if  my 
convictions  should  waver  with  my  pulse  ! 


JULIUS  TO  RAPHAEL. 

Thy  doctrine  has  flattered  my  pride.  I  was  a 
prisoner.  Thou  hast  led  me  into  day-light,  the 
golden  light  and  the  immensity  of  the  open  space 
have  delighted  my  eyes.  Before,  I  was  contented 
with  the  modest  reputation  of  being  a  good  son,  a 
true  friend,  a  useful  member  of  society ;  thou 
hast  converted  me  into  a  citizen  of  the  universe. 
My  wishes  had  not  yet  encroached  upon  the  pri¬ 
vileges  of  the  great.  I  tolerated  these  happy 
ones,  because  beggars  tolerated  me.  I  did  not 
blush  at  envying  a  portion  of  the  human  race,  be¬ 
cause  a  larger  portion  was  still  left  which  I  had 
to  pity.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  found  out  that 
my  claims  to  enjoyment  were  as  good  as  those  of 
my  brethren.  Now  I  found  out  that  one  stage 
above  this  atmosphere  I  was  worth  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  rulers  of  this  earth.  Raphael 
loosened  all  the  bonds  of  conventional  opinions 
and  agreements.  I  felt  entirely  free,  for  Raphael 
had  told  me  that  reason  is  the  only  empire  in  the 
world  of  spirits,  that  I  carry  my  imperial  throne 
about  with  me  in  my  brain.  Every  thing  in 
heaven  and  upon  earth  is  worth  no  more  than  my 
reason  is  willing  to  own.  All  creation  is  mine, 
for  I  possess  an  incontrovertible  right  to  enjoy  it 
all.  All  spirits,  one  degree  below  the  most  per¬ 
fect  One,  are  my  brethren,  because  we  all  obey  one 
rule,  do  homage  to  one  head. 

How  sublime  and  splendid  seems  this  an¬ 
nouncement  ?  What  an  inexhaustible  fountain 
to  quench  my  thirst  for  knowledge  !  but — oh, 
fatal  contradiction  of  Nature  ! — this  free  and 

*  An  idol  of  the  heathenish  Saxons  before  they  were 
converted  to  Christianity  by  Charlemagne. — Ed. 


soaring  spirit  is  intertwined  with  the  rigid  and 
unchangeable  mechanism  of  a  mortal  body,  mixed 
up  with  its  trifling  wants,  yoked  to  its  trifling 
destinies  ;  this  god  is  exiled  into  a  world  of 
worms.  The  immensity  of  Nature  is  disclosed  to 
his  activity,  but  he  must  not  conceive  more  than 
two  ideas  at  one  and  the  same  time.  His  eyes 
carry  him  upward  to  the  luminous  goal  of  divi¬ 
nity,  but  he  himself  has  to  crawl  np  slowly  and 
painfully  through  ages.  To  exhaust  one  enjoy¬ 
ment,  he  has  to  renounce  every  other ;  two  un¬ 
limited  desires  are  too  great  for  his  small  heart. 
Every  new  joy  is  acquired  at  the  expense  of  the 
former  ones.  The  present  moment  is  the  grave 
of  its  predecessor.  An  hour  of  wooing  love  is  a 
lost  beat  of  the  pulse  of  friendship. 

Whithersoever  I  turn  my  eyes,  Raphael,  how 
limited  is  man  !  How  great  the  distance  between 
his  pretensions  and  their  fulfillment!  Oh,  envy 
his  beneficent  sleep  !  Awake  him  not !  He  was 
happy,  until  he  commenced  to  inquire  whither  he 
had  to  go,  and  whence  he  had  come.  Reason  is 
like  a  torch  in  a  dungeon.  The  prisoner  knew 
nothing  of  the  light,  but  a  dream  of  liberty  ap¬ 
peared  over  him,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  through 
a  dark  night,  leaving  it  still  darker.  Our  philoso¬ 
phy  is  like  the  fatal  curiosity  of  (Edipus,  who  did 
not  cease  his  inquiries  until  the  horrible  oracle 
had  been  deciphered  : 

“Would  thou  never  knewest  who  thou  art!” 

Does  thy  wisdom  replace  to  me  what  it  has 
taken  from  me?  If  thou  hadst  not  the  key  of 
heaven,  why  didst  thou  snatch  the  earth  from 
me?  If  thou  knewest  beforehand  that  the  road 
to  wisdom  leads  through  the  terrible  abyss  of 
doubt,  why  didst  thou  stake  thy  Julius’  rest  on 
this  doubtful  turn  ? 

“If  the  good 
Which  I  propose  to  do, 

Ou  something  evil  closely  borders,  I’d  rather 
Not  do  the  good.” 

Thou  hast  pulled  down  an  inhabited  cabin,  and 
hast  erected  a  magnificent,  but  desolate  palace  in 
its  place. 

Raphael,  I  demand  my  soul  of  thee.  I  am  not 
happy.  My  courage  is  gone.  I  despair  of  mj 
own  strength.  Write  me  soon  !  Thy  saving  hand 
is  alone  able  to  pour  balm  on  my  burning  wound. 


RAPHAEL  TO  JULIUS. 

A  happiness  like  ours,  without  interruption, 
would  be  too  much  bliss  for  mortal  lot.  This 
thought  has  haunted  me,  even  when  we  were  en¬ 
joying  our  friendship  to  the  utmost.  What  then 
embittered  my  bliss,  was  useful  preparation  to 
bear  my  present  condition  with  more  ease.  Har¬ 
dened  in  the  severe  school  of  resignation,  I  have 
become  still  more  susceptible  to  the  comfort  of 
regarding  our  separation  as  an  easy  sacrifice,  in 
order  to  deserve  from  fate  the  joys  of  our  future 
re-union.  Heretofore  thou  hast  never  known  the 
bitterness  of  privation  ;  now  thou  suflferest  for  the 
first  time. 

Nevertheless  it  may  be  a  blessing  for  thee  that 
I  should  have  been  snatched  from  thy  side  just 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


325 


row.  Thou  hast  to  endure  a  sickness  from  which 
thou  canst  only  recover  by  thy  own  efforts,  in  or¬ 
der  to  be  safe  from  relapses.  The  more  forsaken 
thou  feelest,  the  more  thou  wilt  endeavor  to  use 
the  healing-  energies  of  thy  own  nature;  the  less 
thou  art  relieved  by  deceitful  palliatives,  the  more 
surely  thou  wilt  succeed  in  effecting  a  radical  re¬ 
moval  of  the  disorder. 

I  am  not  sorry  to  have  roused  thee  from  thy 
sweet  dream,  although  thy  present  condition  is  a 
painful  one.  All  I  have  done  is  to  accelerate  a 
crisis  which  such  souls  as  thine  have  to  go 
through  sooner  or  later.  The  period  of  life  at 
which  this  critical  change  takes  place,  is  of  the 
utmost  importance.  There  are  situations  where 
it  is  terrible  to  despair  of  truth  and  virtue.  Woe 
to  him  who  has  to  struggle  with  the  subtilties  of 
sophistical  reason,  when  passions  assail  him.  I 
have  learned  most  thoroughly  what  this  means ; 
in  order  to  spare  thee  my  own  bitter  experience, 
nothing  was  left  me  except  to  neutralize  the  in¬ 
evitable  disorder  by  a  process  of  inoculation. 

What  more  favorable  period  for  this  proceeding 
could  I  have  chosen,  my  J ulius  ?  Thou  stoodst 
before  me  in  the  full  vigor  of  youth  ;  body  and 
mind  in  the  most  beautiful  bloom  ;  unoppressed 
by  care  ;  unfettered  bj7  passion  ;  free,  and  strong 
enough  to  fight  the  great  battle,  the  gain  of  which 
is  the  sublime  peace  of  conviction.  Truth  and 
error  have  not  yet  been  subjects  of  practical  in¬ 
terest  to  thee.  Thy  enjoyments  and  thy  virtues 
have  been  independent  of  either.  Thou  needest 
no  frightful  phantoms  to  drag  thee  out  of  the 
abyss  of  low  excesses.  Thy  sympathy  for  nobler 
joys  had  inspired  thee  with  disgust  for  the  former. 
Thou  wast  good  by  instinct,  by  virtue  of  an  un¬ 
polluted  moral  gracefulness.  I  had  nothing  to 
fear  for  thy  morality,  if  a  structure,  upon  which  it 
was  not  founded,  should  tumble  to  pieces.  Nor 
do  thy  apprehensions  frighten  me,  whatever  thy 
melancholy  mood  may  insinuate  to  the  contrary. 
I  know  thee  better,  Julius! 

Ingrate  !  Thou  scornest  reason,  forgetful  of 
the  joys  which  it  has  already  afforded  thee.  Even 
if  thou  hadst  been  able  to  evade  the  dangers  of 
skepticism  during  thy  whole  life,  it  was  my  duty 
not  to  keep  from  thee  enjoyments  of  which  thou 
wast  both  capable  and  worthy.  The  position 
which  thou  heldst,  was  beneath  thee.  The  road 
on  which  thou  art  ascending,  offers  thee  a  com¬ 
pensation  for  all  that  I  have  robbed  thee  of.  I 
recollect  with  what  rapture  thou  blessedst  the 
moment  when  the  scales  fell  from  thy  eyes.  The 
warmth  with  which  thou  seizedst  the  truth,  may 
have  led  thy  devouring  fancy  to  the  brink  of  pre¬ 
cipices  from  which  thou  startest  back  in  affright. 

I  shall  have  to  follow  the  course  of  thy  investi¬ 
gations  in  order  to  discover  the  sources  of  thy 
complaints.  Thou  hast  been  in  the  habit  of 
writing  down  the  results  of  thy  meditations.  Send 
me  this  paper  ;  I  shall  reply  to  it. 


JULIUS  TO  RAPHAEL. 

This  morning,  in  searching  my  papers,  I  found 
a  mislaid  composition  which  I  had  written  in  those 


blissful  hours  of  my  proud  enthusiasm.  Raphael, 
how  differently  do  I  find  all  this  now!  It  is  the 
wooden  scaffolding  of  the  stage  without  the  lights. 
M37  heart  was  in  search  of  a  philosophy,  and  a 
deceitful  fancy  substituted  illusions.  The  warmest 
philosophy  I  mistook  for  the  true  one. 

I  inquire  into  the  laws  of  spirits — soar  up  to 
the  infinite,  but  I  forget  to  furnish  the  proof  of 
their  existence.  A  bold  attack  of  materialism 
upsets  my  creations. 

Peruse  this  fragment,  Raphael.  Would  thou 
couldst  rekindle  the  extinguished  spark  of  my 
enthusiasm,  reconcile  me  with  my  genius — but  my 
pride  has  sunk  so  low  that  even  Raphael’s  appro¬ 
bation  will  hardly  be  able  to  raise  it  again. 


THEOSOPHY  OF  JULIUS. 

THE  UNIVERSE  AND  THE  THINKING  BEING. 

The  universe  is  God’s  thought  expressed.  After 
this  ideal  picture  had  become  a  reality,  and  the 
birth  of  the  world  had  rendered  visible  the  plan  of 
its  Creator — pardon  me  this  human  simile — it  has 
become  the  mission  of  all  thinking  beings,  to 
retrace  the  first  design  in  the  existing  whole,  to 
seek  the  rules  of  this  mechanism,  the  unity  of  this 
combination,  the  laws  of  phenomena,  and  to  trace 
the  work  back- again  to  its  first  outlines.  Thus  I 
recognize  but  one  phenomenon  in  Nature,  the 
thinking  being.  The  great  combination  which  we 
call  Universe,  excites  my  interest  only  in  so  far  as 
it  is  designed  to  furnish  symbolic  representations 
of  the  varied  manifestations  of  this  being.  Every 
thing  within  and  without  me  is  the  hieroglyphical 
expression  of  a  power  analogous  to  my  own  being. 
The  laws  of  Nature  are  figures  which  a  thinking 
being  combines  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  itself 
intelligible  to  other  thinking  beings,  the  alphabet 
by  means  of  which  all  spirits  hold  intercourse  with 
the  most  perfect  One.  Harmony,  truth,  order, 
beauty,  excellence,  cause  me  joy  because  they 
identify  me  with  the  action  «f  Him  who  invented 
and  possesses  these  states  of  the  soul;  because  they 
indicate  the  presence  of  a  rationally  sentient  being, 
and  cause  me  to  suspect  a  relationship  between 
this  being  and  myself.  A  new  experience  in  this 
empire  of  truth,  the  law  of  gravitation,  the  circu¬ 
lation  of  the  blood,  the  natural  system  of  Linnaeus, 
originally  appeal  to  my  consciousness  in  the  same 
manner  as  an  antique  dug  up  in  Herculaneum — - 
both  are  the  reflex  of  a  spirit,  constitute  a  new 
species  of  acquaintance  with  a  being  similar  to 
me.  I  converse  with  the  Infinite  through  the  in¬ 
strumentality  of  Nature,  through  universal  his¬ 
tory — I  read  the  artist’s  soul  in  his  Apollo. 

Wouldst  thou  be  convinced,  Raphael,  investi¬ 
gate  backward.  Every  state  of  the  human  soul 
is  designated  by  some  parable  in  creation ;  not 
only  artists  and  poets,  but  even  the  most  abstract 
thinkers  have  drawn  from  this  magazine.  Quick¬ 
ness  of  action  we  designate  by  the  term  fire  ;  time  is 
a  rapidly  coursing  stream  ;  eternity  is  represented 
by  a  circle  ;  a  secret  is  shrouded  in  midnight,  and 
truth  resides  in  the  sun.  I  am  even  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  future  destiny  of  the  spirit-man  is 
prognosticated  by  the  dark  oracle  of  physical 


326 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LETTERS. 


creation.  Every  successive  spring,  when  the  young 
shoots  are  starting  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  soil, 
enlightens  me  concerning  the  uncertain  riddle  of 
death,  and  refutes  my  anxiety  of  sleeping  forever 
in  my  grave.  The  swallow  which  we  find  con¬ 
gealed  in  winter,  and  revivified  in  spring  ;  the  dead 
caterpillar,  which  soars  in  the  air  in  the  shape  of 
a  butterfly,  offer  us  striking  symbols  of  immor¬ 
tality. 

How  significant  every  thing  around  me  now  be¬ 
comes  !  The  whole  space  now  is  peopled  around 
me.  There  is  np  longer  a  desert  spot  in  Nature. 
Where  I  discover  a  body,  there  I  feel  the  presence 
of  a  spirit — where  I  see  motion,  there  I  divine  a 
thought.  / 

Where  no  dead  are  buried — where  there  is  no 
resurrection,  omnipotence  still  speaks  to  me 
through  its  works,  and  it  is  in  this  sense  that  J 
understand  the  doctrine  of  God’s  omnipresence. 

IDEA. 

All  spirits  are  attracted  by  perfection.  All — 
there  may  be  aberrations,  but  there  are  no  excep¬ 
tions — all  tend  to  a  condition,  where  they  may 
enjoy  the  free  and  highest  manifestation  of  their 
powers  ;  all  possess  the  common  instinct  to  ex¬ 
pand  their  activity,  to  attract,  assimilate,  or 
identify  with  themselves  every  thing  that  they 
have  recognized  as  good,  excellent,  lovely.  The 
perception  and  contemplation  of  the  beautiful,  of 
the  true,  of  the  excellent,  imply  the  instantaneous 
appropriation  of  these  attributes.  At  the  very 
moment  when  we  imagine  them,  we  become  the 
owners  of  a  virtue,  the  authors  of  an  act,  the  dis¬ 
coverers  of  a  truth,  the  possessors  of  a  bliss.  We  | 
ourselves  become  the  object  that  has  been  felt 
and  perceived.  Do  not  confound  me  by  a  skepti¬ 
cal  smile,  Raphael ;  this  supposition  is  the  basis 
upon  which  I  found  all  my  subsequent  reasonings, 
and  we  must  agree  now,  if  I  am  to  keep  up  my 
courage  in  completing  my  structure. 

The  inner  sense  teaches  every  body  a  similar 
lesson.  For  example,  if  we  admire  an  act  of  gen¬ 
erosity,  of  bravery,  of  prudence,  does  not  a  secret 
consciousness  in  our  hearts  whisper  to  us  that  we 
are  capable  of  doing  the  same?  Does  not  the 
blush  which  such  a  story  calls  out  upon  our 
cheeks,  inform  us  that  our  modesty  trembles  at 
the  thought  of  being  thus  admired  ? — that  the 
praise  which  the  ennobling  of  our  being  must 
procure  for  us,  embarrasses  us  ?  Our  very  body 
identifies  itself  at  this  moment  with  the  gestures 
of  the  acting  man,  and  shows  most  manifestly 
that  our  soul  has  passed  into  a  similar  state.  If 
thou  hast  been  present,  Raphael,  during  the  re¬ 
cital  of  some  great  event  before  a  crowd,  didst 
thou  not  see  from  the  narrator’s  looks  how  he 
himself  expected  to  receive  the  incense  and  to 
drink  in  the  applause  which  was  offered  up  to  his 
hero  ?  When  thou  wast  this  narrator,  hast  thou 
never  surprised  thy  heart  in  this  happy  illusion  ? 
Tbou  knowest  from  experience,  Raphael,  how 
animatedly  I  can  dispute  with  my  soul’s  friend 
about  the  reading  of  a  beautiful  anecdote,  of  an 
excellent  poem,  and  my  heart  has  silently  con¬ 
fessed  that,  at  such  times,  it  envied  thee  the  laurel 
which  is  transferred  from  the  author  to  the 


reader.  A  quick  and  intense  sentiment  of  virtue 
is  generally  regarded  as  a  proof  of  the  possession 
of  virtue,,  as,  on  the  other  hand,  we  do  not  hesitate 
to  doubt  the  goodness  of  a  man  whose  head  is 
slow  and  dull  to  appreciate  moral  beauty. 

Do  not  raise  the  objection  that  the  quick  per¬ 
ception  of  a  perfection  is  very  frequently  allied 
with  the  opposite  defect;  that  even  a  villain  may 
sometimes  be  seized  with  a  fit  of  enthusiasm  for 
moral  excellence ;  that  even  the  feeble  may  some¬ 
times  burn  with  the  fire  of  Herculean  greatness. 
I  know,  for  instance,  that  our  admired  Haller, 
who  unmasked  so  manfully  the  valued  nothing  of 
vain  honor,  whose  philosophical  greatness  I  so 
highly  admired,  was  not  able  to  despise  the  still 
vainer  nothing  of  a  cross  which  was  an  insult  to 
his  greatness.  I  am  convinced  that,  at  the 
moment  when  they  conceive  their  ideal,  the  artist, 
the  philosopher,  and  the  poet,  are  really  the  great 
and  good  men  whose  images  they  portray;  but 
this  ennobling  of  the  mind  is  only  an  unnatural 
condition  with  many,  artificially  induced  by  a  more 
vigorous  flow  of  the  blood,  by  a  more  rapid  flight 
of  the  fancy,  but  for  this  very  reason,  evanescent 
like  every  other  charm,  and  abandoning  the  heart, 
in  a  state  of  increased  exhaustion,  to  the  despotic 
sway  of  low  passions.  I  say  in  a  state  of  in¬ 
creased  exhaustion,  for  it  is  the  general  experi¬ 
ence  that  a  return  to  evil  habits  plunges  the  evil¬ 
doer  more  deeply  into  crime  than  before  ;  that 
those  who  again  become  faithless  to  virtue,  free 
themselves,  in  the  arms  of  vice,  from  the  trouble¬ 
some  constraint  of  repentance. 

I  desire  to  show,  Raphael,  that  we  appropriate 
to  ourselves  the  condition  of  others,  the  moment 
i  we  feel  and  perceive  it ;  that  this  perfection 
becomes  our  own  during  the  time  that  a  clear  per¬ 
ception  of  it  is  awakened  in  our  minds  ;  that  our 
delight  in  beholding  truth,  beauty,  and  virtue, 
finally  resolves  itself  into  the  consciousness  of  our 
own  higher  culture,  both  of  heart  and  mind.  I 
think  that  I  have  succeeded  in  showing  this. 

We  have  ideas  of  the  wisdom  of  the  highest 
Being,  of  his  goodness,  his  justice,  but  no  idea  of 
his  omnipotence.  In  order  to  designate  his  om¬ 
nipotence,  we  resort  to  a  series  of  three  successive 
parts  or  states  of  being:  nothing,  his  will,  and 
something.  There  is  chaos  and  darkness  ;  God 
calls  :  light — and  there  is  light.  If  we  had  a  full 
and  complete  idea  of  his  active  omnipotence,  we 
should  be  beings  like  himself. 

Every  perfection  which  I  feel  and  perceive, 
becomes  my  own  ;  it  gives  me  joy  because  it  is  my 
own  ;  I  desire  it,  because  I  love  myself.  Perfec¬ 
tion  in  nature  is  no  property  of  matter,  but  of 
spirit.  All  spirits  are  happy  by  their  perfection. 
1  desire  the  happiness  of  all  spirits,  because  I 
love  myself.  The  happiness  which  I  imagine  to 
myself,  becomes  my  own  ;  hence  it  is  my  interest 
to  awaken  these  ideas,  to  multiply  and  exalt  them  ; 
hence  I  feel  an  interest  in  spreading  happiness  all 
around  me.  The  beauty,  the  excellence,  the  en¬ 
joyments,  which  I  produce  outside  of  me,  1  like¬ 
wise  produce  within ;  the  enjoyment  which  I 
slight  and  destroy,  I  slight  and  destroy  at  my  ex¬ 
pense.  I  desire  the  happiness  of  others  because 
I  desire  my  own.  Desire  for  the  happiness  of 
others  is  called  by  us  benevolence. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


327 


LOVE. 

Now,  dear  Raphael,  let  me  look  around.  The 
top  is  reached ;  the  mist  is  fallen ;  as  if  in  a 
blooming  landscape,  I  am  standing  in  the  midst 
of  immensity.  The  pure  light  of  the  sun  has. 
purified  all  my  ideas. 

Love,  the  most  beautiful  phenomenon  in  the 
world  of  rational  beings,  the  all-powerful  magnet 
in  the  world  of  spirits,  the  source  of  devotion  and 
of  the  sublimest  virtue,  love  is  nothing  but  the 
reflection  of  this  single  force,  an  attraction  of 
that  which  is  excellent,  based  upon  a  moment¬ 
ary  exchange  of  personality,  an  exchange  of  being. 

When  I  hope,  I  appropriate  something  ;  when 
I  love,  I  enrich  myself  by  that  which  I  love.  For¬ 
giveness  is  the  finding  again  of  a  property  that 
had  been  alienated  ;  hatred  of  man  a  prolonged 
suicide  ;  egotism  the  highest  poverty  of  a  created 
being. 

When  Raphael  tore  himself  from  my  last  em¬ 
brace,  my  soul  was  lacerated,  and  I  wept  over  the 
loss  of  my  more  beautiful  half.  On  that  blissful 
evening — thou  recollectest  it — when  our  souls 
came  in  fiery  contact  with  each  other  for  the  first 
time,  all  thy  great  sentiments  became  my  own. 
I  simply  enforced  my  external  claims  to  thy  ex¬ 
cellence,  prouder  to  love  thee  than  to  be  loved 
by  thee,  for  the  former  had  made  me  another 
Raphael. 

“Did  not  the  same  strong  mainspring  urge  and 
guide 

Our  hearts  to  meet  in  love’s  eternal  bond  ? 
Linked  to  thine  arm,  0  Raphael,  by  thy  side 
Might  I  aspire  to  reach  to  souls  beyond 
Our  earth,  and  bid  the  bright  ambition  go 
To  that  perfection  which  the  angels  know  ! 

“Happy — 0  happy — I  have  found  thee — I 
Have  out  of  millions  found  thee,  and  embraced  ; 
Thou,  out  of  millions,  mine! — Let  earth  and  sky 
Return  to  darkness,  and  the  antique  waste — 

To  chaos  shocked,  let  warring  atoms  be, 

Still  shall  each  heart  unto  the  other  flee  ! 

“  Do  I  not  find  wfithin  thy  radiant  eyes 
Fairer  reflections  of  all  joys  most  fair? 

In  thee  I  marvel  at  myself — the  dyes 
Of  lovely  earth  seem  lovelier  painted  there, 

And  in  the  bright  looks  of  the  friend  is  given 
A  beavenlier  mirror,  even  that  of  Heaven  ! 

*  Sadness  casts  off  its  load  and  gaily  goes 
From  the  intolerant  storm  to  rest  awhile 
In  love’s  true  heart,  sure  haven  of  repose ; 

Does  not  pain’s  veriest  transports  learn  to 
smile 

From  that  bright  eloquence  affection  gave 
To  friendly  looks  ? — there,  finds  not  pain  a  grave  ? 

“In  all  creation  did  I  stand  alone, 

Still  to  the  rocks  my  dreams  a  soul  should  find, 
Mine  arms  should  wreathe  themselves  around  the 
stone, 

My  grief  should  feel  a  listener  in  the  wind  ; 

My  joy — its  echo  in  the  caves  should  be  ! 

Fool,  if  ye  will — fool,  for  sweet  sympathy  1” 


There  is  no  love  between  souls  vibrating  ex¬ 
actly  alike,  but  there  is  between  souls  that  are 
harmonious.  With  pleasure  I  see  my  sentiments 
reflected  in  the  mirror  of  thy  own,  but  with  ar¬ 
dent  longing  I  devour  thy  higher  sentiments  which 
I  do  not  possess.  One  rule  governs  friendship 
and  love.  The  gentle  Desdemona  loves  her 
Othello  on  account  of  the  dangers  which  he  has 
undergone  ;  the  manly  Othello  loves  her  on  ac¬ 
count  of  the  tears  which  she  shed  for  him. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  we  feel  inclined 
to  press  to  our  bosom  every  flower,  every  distant 
star,  every  worm,  and  every  higher  spirit  of  whose 
existence  we  have  only  a  dim  presentiment ;  we 
feel  disposed  to  embrace  all  Nature  as  the  one 
whom  we  love.  Thou  comprehendest,  Raphael.  A 
man  who  has  succeeded  in  gathering  up  all  the 
beauty,  greatness,  excellence,  in  the  small  as  well 
as  the  great  things  of  Nature,  and  in  compre¬ 
hending  the  evolving  principle  of  this  endless 
variety,  is  much  nearer  to  the  Deity.  All  crea¬ 
tion  seems  to  be  received  into  his  personality.  If 
every  man  loved  all  men,  each  one  of  them  would 
possess  the  whole  world. 

I  fear  that  this  philosophy  is  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  our  age.  Many  of  our  thinkers  have 
made  it  their  business  to  laugh  this  heavenly 
instinct  out  of  the  human  soul,  to  efface  the  im¬ 
press  of  the  Deity,  and  to  extinguish  the  energy 
of  a  noble  enthusiasm,  in  the  cold  and  killing 
vapor  of  a  heartless  indifference.  Fettered  by 
the  consciousness  of  their  own  degradation,  they 
have  hit  upon  interest,  this  dangerous  enemy  of 
benevolence,  in  order  to  account  for  a  phenome¬ 
non  which  was  too  divine  for  their  contracted 
hearts.  They  have  spun  their  desolate  doctrine 
out  of  the  cobwebs  of  a  starving  egotism,  and 
have  made  their  own  small  measure  the  stand¬ 
ard  of  their  Creator,  like  degenerate  slaves  de¬ 
crying  freedom  amidst  the  clangor  of  their 
chains.  Swift,  who  pushed  his  derision  of  hu¬ 
man  folly  to  a  degree  where  it  became  an  infamy 
to  humanity,  and  who  first  inscribed  his  name 
upon  the  pillory  which  he  designed  for  the  whole 
human  race,  could  not  have  inflicted  as  fatal 
a  wound  on  human  nature  as  these  dangerous 
thinkers  who  adorn  egotism  with  all  the  brilliant 
sophisms  of  subtle  cunning  and  genius,  and  make 
it  the  soul  of  their  systems. 

Why  should  the  whole  race  be  held  account¬ 
able  if  a  few  members  only  despair  of  its  worth  ? 

I  confess  I  believe  in  the  reality  of  disinter¬ 
ested  love.  I  am  ruined  if  it  does  not  exist ;  I 
renounce  the  Deity,  immortality  and  virtue.  I 
have  no  proof  left  for  such  hopes,  if  I  cease  to 
believe  in  love.  A  spirit  that  loves  itsell,  is  a 
floating  atom  in  boundless  space. 

SACRIFICE. 

It  is  true,  love  has  produced  effects  that  seem 
to  be  contrary  to  its  nature. 

I  can  imagine  that  I  may  increase  my  own  bliss 
by  a  sacrifice  which  I  make  to  the  bliss  ot  others. 
But  is  this  still  possible,  if  this  sacrifice  involves 
the  loss  of  my  own  life?  History  furnishes  in¬ 
stances  of  such  sacrifices  ;  I  feel  most  keenly  that 
it  would  be  no  sacrifice  to  me  to  die  for  Raphael’s 
safety.  How  is  it  possible  that  we  should  regard 


328 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LETTERS. 


death  as  a  means  of  augmenting  the  sum  of  our 
enjoyments  ?  How  can  the  cessation  of  life  be 
made  to  agree  with  an  increased  development  of 
my  being  ? 

The  hypothesis  of  immortality  removes  this 
contradiction  ;  but  it  disfigures,  on  the  other  hand,1 
the  sublime  gracefulness  of  this  phenomenon.  The 
expectation  of  a  rewarding  future  excludes  love. 
There  must  be  a  virtue  which  is  sufficient  to  it¬ 
self  without  the  belief  of  immortality  ;  which,  even 
if  it  should  be  threatened  with  prospective  annihi¬ 
lation,  would  still  be  willing  to  make  the  same  sa¬ 
crifice. 

The  human  soul  is  indeed  ennobled  even  by 
sacrificing  present  advantages  to/eternal  inter¬ 
ests  ;  this  is  the  noblest  degree  of  egotism.  But 
egotism  and  love  separate  humanity  into  two  ex¬ 
ceedingly  dissimilar  species  whose  boundaries 
never  coalesce.  Egotism  makes  self  its  own 
centre ;  love  places  its  centre  outside  of  self, 
within  the  axis  of  the  eternal  whole.  Love  aims 
at  unity;  egotism  is  solitude.  Love  is  a  ruling 
fellow-citizen  in  a  flourishing  republic  ;  egotism 
is  a  despot  in  a  desolating  creation.  Egotism  is 
sowing  for  gratitude,  love  for  the  opposite.  Love 
gives,  egotism  only  lends,  whether  in  the  expecta¬ 
tion  of  immediate  enjoyment,  or  of  a  martyr’s 
crown,  in  the  future ;  it  is  the  same  before  the 
throne  of  judging  truth,  whether  the  interest  is 
due  in  this  or  in  the  future  life. 

Imagine  a  truth,  Raphael,  which  will  be  a  bless¬ 
ing  to  the  whole  human  race  for  centuries  to 
come ;  and  that  this  truth  dooms  its  worshiper 
to  death  ;  this  truth  can  only  have  afforded  de¬ 
monstrative  evidence,  can  only  be  believed,  if  he 
should  die.  Then  think  of  a  man  with  the  bright, 
far-reaching  eye  of  genius,  with  the  flaming  im¬ 
pulse  of  enthusiasm,  with  a  perfect  disposition  to 
love.  Let  the  complete  ideal  of  that  grand  re¬ 
sult  loom  up  in  his  soul,  let  him  see  in  the  ob¬ 
scure  future  all  those  whom  ne  is  to  make  happy 
by  his  work,  let  the  present  and  the  future  crowd 
upon  his  mind  in  one  focus,  and  then  answer  the 
question  :  Does  such  a  man  need  the  expectation 
of  a  future  life  ? 

The  sum  of  all  these  sensations  will  coalesce 
with  his  own  identity.  He  represents  the  human 
race  which  he  is  now  imagining.  It  is  a  body  in 
which  his  life,  forgotten  and  unnecessary,  is  float¬ 
ing  like  a  single  drop  of  blood  ;  how  readily  will 
he  spill  it  for  the  sake  of  his  health  ! 

GOD 

All  the  perfections  in  the  universe  are  united  in 
God.  God  and  Nature  are  two  quantities  that 
are  perfectly  equal  to  each  other. 

The  sum  of  harmonious  action  which  exists 
united  in  the  divine  substance,  is  individualized  in 
Nature,  the  reflex  of  this  substance,  in  innumer¬ 
able  degrees  and  quantities.  Nature,  if  I  may 
use  this  figure,  is  a  God  infinitely  divided. 

As  in  the  prismatic  crystal,  a  white  ray  is 
broken  into  seven  colored  rays,  so  has  the  divine 
I  been  parted,  as  it  were,  into  innumerable  sen¬ 
tient  substances.  As  the  seven  colored  rays 
would  again  coalesce  into  the  white  ray,  so  would 
the  union  of  all  these  sentient  substances  result 
u  the  reproduction  of  a  Divine  Being.  The  ex¬ 


isting  form  of  Nature  is  the  optical  spectrum,  and 
all  the  activities  of  the  spirits  are  only  an  endless 
chromatic  play  of  that  single  divine  ray.  If  it 
,  should  suit  omnipotence  to  break  the  prism,  the 
connecting  link  between  the  world  and  omnipo¬ 
tence  would  cease  to  be,  all  spirits  would  become 
absorbed  in  one  Infinite,  all  accords  would  com¬ 
bine  in  one  harmony,  all  rivers  would  flow  to¬ 
gether  in  one  ocean. 

The  attraction  of  elements  has  achieved  the  phy¬ 
sical  form  of  Nature.  The  attraction  of  spirits, 
multiplied  and  continued  to  infinity,  would  finally 
lead  to  the  cessation  of  that  separation  of  ele¬ 
ments,  and,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  produco 
God.  Such  an  attraction  is  love. 

Love,  then,  is  the  ladder  upon  which  we  ascend 
to  the  deity.  We  approach  this  goal  without 
pretending  to  do  so,  without  even  being  conscious 
of  it. 

“We  are  dead  groups  of  matter  when  we  hate; 

But  when  we  love  we  are  as  gods  ! — Unto 
The  gentle  fetters  yearning,  through  each  state 

And  shade  of  being  multiform,  and  through 
All  countless  spirits  (save  of  all  the  sire) — 
Moves,  breathes,  and  blends  the  one  divine  De¬ 
sire. 

“  Lo,  arm  in  arm,  through  every  upward  grade, 

From  the  rude  Mongol  to  the  Starry  Greek, 
Who  the  fine  link  between  the  mortal  made, 

And  Heaven’s  last  seraph — every  where  we  seek 
Union  and  bond — till  in  one  sea  sublime 
Of  Love  he  merged  all  measure  and  all  time  1 

“  Friendless  ruled  God  his  solitary  sky  ! 

He  felt  the  want,  and  therefore  souls  were 
made, 

The  blessed  mirrors  of  His  bliss  ! — His  Eye 

No  equal  in  His  loftiest  works  surveyed  : 

And  from  the  source  whence  souls  are  quickened 
—He 

Called  His  Companion  forth — Eternity  !” 

Love,  my  Raphael,  is  the  richly  rewarding  ar¬ 
canum  of  wisdom,  which  teaches  us  to  obtain  the 
pure  gold  from  the  unsightly  ore,  to  work  the 
eternal  out  of  the  perishable,  and  save  the  princi¬ 
ple  of  permanence  from  the  destructive  conflagra¬ 
tion  of  ages. 

What  is  the  sum-total  of  my  remarks  ? 

Let  us  comprehend  excellence,  and  it  will  be 
ours.  Let  us  become  familiar  with  the  sublime 
idea  of  unity,  and  we  shall  all  join  in  brotherly 
love.  Let  us  sow  beauty  and  joy,  and  we  shall 
reap  beauty  and  joy.  Let  us  think  lucidly,  and 
we  shall  love  intensely.  “  Be  perfect,  even  as  your 
Father  in  heaven  is  perfect,”  says  the  founder  of 
our  faith.  Feeble  man  trembled  at  this  com¬ 
mandment,  therefore  he  explained  it  by  adding : 
“  Love  one  another.” 

“  Bold  wisdom,  with  her  sunlit  eye, 

Retreats  when  love  comes  whispering  by — 
For  wisdom’s  weak  to  love  ! 

To  victor  stern  or  monarch  proud, 

Imperial  wisdom  never  bowed* 

The  knee  she  bows  to  love ! 

“  Who  through  the  steep  and  starry  sky 
Goes  onward  to  the  gods  on  high, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


329 


Before  thee,  hero-brave  ? 

Who  halves  for  thee  the  land  of  heaven  ; 
Who  shows  thy  heart,  Elysium,  given 
Through  the  flame-rended  grave? 

“  Below,  if  we  were  blind  to  love, 

Say,  should  we  soar  o’er  death,  above  ? 
Would  the  weak  soul,  did  love  forsake  her, 
E’er  gain  the  wing  to  seek  the  Maker? 

Love,  only  love,  can  guide  the  creature 
Up  to  the  Father-fount  of  Nature  ; 

What  were  the  soul  did  love  forsake  her  ? 
Love  guides  the  mortal  to  the  Maker  1” 

This  is  the  confession  of  faith  of  my  reason,  a 
hasty  sketch  of  inchoate  creation.  This  comes 
of  the  seed  which  thou  hast  planted  in  my  soul. 
Now  laugh,  rejoice,  or  blush  at  thy  disciple.  Just 
as  thou  pleasest,  but  this  philosophy  has  ennobled 
my  heart,  and  has  beautified  the  prospect  of  my 
life.  It  is  possible  that  the  whole  structure  of 
my  conclusions  may  have  been  the  “  baseless  fab¬ 
ric  of  a  vision.”  The  world  as  I  have  here  con¬ 
ceived  it,  exists  perhaps  really  nowhere,  except  in 
the  brain  of  thy  Julius;  after  the  lapse  of  thou¬ 
sands  of  thousands  of  years,  w'hen  wisdom  shall 
have  sharpened  and  enlightened  my  judgment,  I 
may  perhaps,  on  beholding  the  true  original,  tear 
my  own  childish  sketch  in  pieces  for  very  shame ; 
all  this  may  take  place,  I  am  prepared  for  it ; 
but,  in  that  case,  if  the  reality  should  not  even 
resemble  my  dream,  reality  will  afford  me  a  much 
more  ravishing  and  more  majestic  surprise. 
Could  my  own  ideas  be  more  beautiful  than  those 
of  the  eternal  Creator?  What?  Could  the 
Creator  permit  his  sublime  work  to  be  beneath 
the  expectations  of  a  mortal  judge?  It  is  the 
ordeal  of  his  great  perfection,  and  the  sweetest 
triumph  for  the  highest  intelligence  not  to  be  in¬ 
jured  by  the  wrong  conclusions  and  by  the  erro¬ 
neous  perceptions  of  the  creatures  whose  reason, 
in  spite  of  all  its  serpentine  sinuosities,  must 
finally  coincide  with  the  straight  line  of  eternal 
truth,  in  which  all  the  devious  meanderings  of 
the  human  understanding  have  finally  to  unite,  as 
in  their  common  haven.  Raphael,  what  a  sub¬ 
lime  idea  must  I  entertain  of  an  artist  who,  dis¬ 
figured  in  a  thousand  copies,  remains  ever  the 
same,  and  whom  not  even  the  desolating  hand  of 
a  bungler  can  rob  of  adoration. 

My  conception  may  possibly  be  faulty,  even 
entirely  spurious  ;  I  may  even  be  convinced  that 
it  is  so,  and  yet  the  results  which  I  have  depicted 
may  flow  from  it.  All  philosophers  agree  that 
all  our  knowledge  amounts  at  last  to  a  conven¬ 
tional  illusion,  with  which  the  most  rigid  truth 
may  consistently  exist  together.  Our  purest  con¬ 
ceptions  are  not  by  any  means  the  real  images  of 
objects,  but  only  their  necessarily  definite  and  co¬ 
existing  symbols.  Neither  God,  nor  the  human 
soul,  nor  the  world,  are  what  we  imagine  them  to 
be.  Our  ideas  of  these  objects  are  only  the  en¬ 
demic  forms  peculiar  to  them  upon  the  planet 
which  we  inhabit.  Our  brain  belongs  to  this  pla¬ 
net,  hence  likewise  the  idiomatic  forms  of  our 
ideas  which  lie  slumbering  in  the  brain.  But  the 
power  of  the  soul  is  sui  generis,  necessary,  and 
always  like  itself ;  arbitrary  changes  in  the  mate¬ 


rials  which  serve  as  a  vehicle  of  manifestation,  do 
not  alter  the  eternal  laws  according  to  which  the 
manifestation  takes  place,  as  long  as  these 
changes  do  not  contradict  each  other,  as  long  as 
the  symbol  continues  to  symbolize  the  same  thing. 
The  relations  which  the  thinking  mind  develops 
between  idiomatic  forms  and  the  objects  which 
they  are  supposed  to  designate,  should  have  been 
suggested  by,  and  be  exactly  harmonious  to,  the 
essence  of  these  objects.  Truth,  therefore,  is  not 
the  property  of  idiomatic  forms,  but  of  inferences  ; 
it  is  not  the  similarity  of  the  symbol  to  the  thing 
symbolized,  of  the  idea  to  the  object,  but  the  per¬ 
fect  accord  between  the  idea  and  the  law's  of  the 
thinking  faculty.  In  a  similar  manner,  the  doc¬ 
trine  of  quantities  employs  figures  which  exist 
nowhere  except  on  paper,  and  by  means  of  them 
discovers  that  which  exists  in  the  real  world. 
What  similarity  is  there  between  the  letters  A 
and  B,  the  signs  :  and  =,  -f-  and  — ,  and  the  re¬ 
sult  which  is  to  be  evolved?  Yet  the  comet 
which  had  been  announced  centuries  ago,  ascends 
above  the  distant  horizon,  the  expected  planet 
takes  its  place  in  front  of  the  sun.  Trusting  to 
the  infallibility  of  his  calculus,  the  world-dis- 
coverer  Columbus  launches  forth  upon  the  perilous 
ocean,  in  order  to  discover  the  unknown  hemi¬ 
sphere,  the  island  Atlantis,  which  is  to  fill  up  the 
gap  on  his  map.  He  found  this  island  which  only 
existed  on  his  paper,  and  his  calculus  was  found 
correct.  Would  it  have  been  less  so,  if  a  hostile 
storm  had  dashed  his  ships  to  pieces,  or  had 
driven  them  back  to  their  homes  ?  A  similar  cal¬ 
culus  is  made  by  human  reason,  when  it  measures 
the  supra-sensual  by  means  of  the  sensual,  and 
applies  the  mathematics  of  its  conclusions  to  the 
concealed  physics  of  the  supra-sensual.  But 
reason  has  yet  to  verify  its  calculus  by  a  last 
proof,  for  no  traveler  has  as  yet  returned  from 
yonder  country  to  relate  his  discoveries. 

Human  nature  has  its  own  limits  ;  each  indivi¬ 
dual  has  its  own.  As  regards  the  former  limita¬ 
tion,  we  w'ill  console  each  other ;  in  regard  to  the 
latter,  I  trust  that  Raphael  will  excuse  the  boy¬ 
hood  of  his  Julius.  I  am  destitute  of  ideas,  a 
stranger  to  many  branches  of  knowledge  which 
are  supposed  to  be  indispensable  in  investigations 
of  this  kind.  I  have  never  attended  lectures  on 
philosophy,  nor  have  I  read  many  philosophical 
works.  I  may  possibly  have  substituted  here  and 
there  my  own  fancies  for  the  more  rigid  conclu¬ 
sions  of  reason;  I  may  have  regarded  a  more 
buoyant  flow  of  the  blood,  the  intuitions  and 
wants  of  my  own  heart  for  safer  w'isdom  ;  but 
even  these  mistakes  shall  not  beguile  me  into  re¬ 
gretting  the  lost  moment.  It  is  actual  gain  to 
the  general  perfection,  it  wras  foreseen  by  the 
wise  Spirit  that  a  wandering  reason  would  people 
even  the  chaotic  land  of  dreams,  and  would  sow 
even  the  barren  field  of  dispute  and  contradic¬ 
tion.  Not  only  the  artist  deserves  our  respect 
who  polishes  the  rough  diamond,  but  also  he  whc 
invests  the  common  stones  with  an  appearance  of 
its  beauty.  A  polished  exterior  may  sometimes 
make  us  forget  the  massive  truth  of  the  sub¬ 
stance.  Is  not  every  exercise  of  the  thinking 
power,  every  acute  perception  of  the  understand¬ 
ing,  a  slight  advance  toward  its  perfection,  and 


I 


380 


PHILOSOPHICAL  LETTERS. 


every  perfection  necessarily  exists  as  part  of  the 
complete  universe.  The  reality  is  not  limited  to 
that  which  is  absolutely  necessary ;  it  likewise  com¬ 
prehends  that  which  is  relatively  necessary  ;  every 
offspring  of  the  brain,  every  product  of  the  under¬ 
standing,  enjoys  the  right  of  citizenship  in  this 
vast  empire  of  creation.  Every  activity  had  to 
be  provided  for  in  the  infinite  sketch  of  Nature, 
no  degree  of  enjoyment  must  be  wanting  toward 
the  universal  bliss.  The  great  Governor  of  his 
universe,  who  does  not  allow  a  splinter  to  fall 
down  unimproved  ;  who  does  not  leave  a  single 
corner  where  life  may  be  enjoyed,  without  it; 
who  with  the  poison  that  is  hostile  to  man,  sa¬ 
tiates  vipers  and  spiders  ;  who  copjures  up  vege¬ 
tation  from  the  domain  of  corruption;  who  im¬ 
proves  with  a  wise  economy  the  trifling  blossom 
of  pleasure  which  may  still  bud  in  the  mind  of 
the  maniac  ;  who  bends  vice  and  folly  as  means 
of  moral  excellence,  and  weaves  the  idea  of  a 
world-ruling  Rome  out  of  the  lust  of  Tarquinius 
Sextus  ;  should  not  this  ingenious  Governor  use 
error  as  an  instrument  for  the  accomplishment  of 
his  great  plans  ;  should  he  allow  this  vast  region 
in  the  soul  of  man  to  remain  waste  and  joyless  ? 
Every  skill  of  the  reason,  even  in  error,  augments 
its  skill  toward  the  conception  of  truth. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  let  me  add  my  own  web  to 
the  expansive  cobweb  of  human  wisdom.  The 
image  of  the  sun  is  seen  in  the  drops  of  the 
morning-dew  differently  from  what  it  is  in  the 
majestic  mirror  of  the  earth-encircling  ocean  ! 
Shame  upon  the  turbid  pool  that  never  receives 
and  never  reflects  this  image  !  Millions  of  beings 
imbibe  the  four  elements  of  Nature.  One  maga¬ 
zine  is  open  to  all ;  but  all  beings  mix  their 
fluids  differently,  return  them  in  different  propor¬ 
tions  and  combinations  into  the  bosom  of  Nature. 
This  beautiful  variety  shows  that  the  edifice  is 
owned  by  a  rich  master.  Out  of  four  elements 
all  spirits  draw  sustenance  :  their  own  Self,  Na¬ 
ture,  God,  and  the  Future.  All  spirits  combine 
them  in  million  fold  different  ways,  evolve  them 
as  differently:  but  there  is  one  truth  which,  like 
a  firm  axis,  pervades  all  religions  and  all  systems  : 
“  Approximate  the  God  whom  you  believe  in  1” 


RAPHAEL  TO  JULIUS. 

It  were  a  sad  thing,  Julius,  if  there  were  no 
means  left  to  tranquilize  thee  except  by  restor¬ 
ing  thy  faith  in  the  firstlings  of  thy  meditations. 
I  have  hailed  with  an  intense  pleasure  the  ideas 
which  I  saw  germinate  in  thy  mind.  They  are 
worthy  of  a  soul  like  thine ;  but  thou  shouldst 
not,  neither  couldst  thou  remain  standing  still 
here.  There  are  joys  for  every  age,  and  enjoy¬ 
ments  for  every  grade  of  spirits. 

Thou  must  have  found  it  difficult  to  part  with 
a  system  which  seemed  so  well  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  thy  heart.  No  other  system  will  ever 
become  so  deeply  rooted  in  thy  mind,  and  it 
might  be  sufficient  to  leave  thee  to  thyself,  in 
order  to  reconcile  thee  sooner  or  later  with  thy 
favorite  ideas.  Thou  wouldst  soon  perceive  the 
weak  points  in  opposite  systems,  and,  either  side 


being  equally  incapable  of  proof,  prefer  tint 
which  is  most  desirable,  or  thou  wouldst  perhaps 
find  new  arguments  in  order  to  save  the  essential 
features  of  thy  own  system,  even  though  some  of 
the  bolder  assertions  should  have  to  be  given  up. 

But  nothing  of  all  this  is  part  of  my  plan.  I 
wish  thee  to  attain  to  a  freedom  of  mind  where 
thou  wilt  not  be  any  longer  in  need  of  such  ex¬ 
pedients.  Assuredly  this  is  not  the  work  of  a 
moment.  The  ordinary  aim  of  the  earliest  educa¬ 
tion  is  the  subjugation  of  the  mind;  of  all  peda¬ 
gogical  tricks,  this  one  unfortunately  succeeds 
best.  Even  thou,  with  all  the  elasticity  of  thy 
character,  seemedst  destined,  above  a  thousand 
others,  to  submit  to  the  government  of  opinions, 
and  this  state  of  mental  minority  might  have 
lasted  the  longer,  the  less  thou  vast  sensible  of 
its  oppressive  weight.  Thy  head  and  heart  are 
most  closely  united.  The  doctrine  became  dear 
to  thee  on  account  of  the  teacher.  Soon  thou 
succeededst  in  discovering  an  interesting  feature 
in  it,  in  ennobling  it  agreeably  to  the  wants  of  thy 
heart,  and  in  quieting  thy  mind  with  a  spirit  of 
resignation  concerning  the  points  that  must 
startle  thee.  Thou  despisedst  assaults  upon  such 
opinions  as  the  villainous  revenge  of  a  slavish 
soul  against  the  rod  of  its  oppressor.  Thou 
boastedst  of  thy  fetters  which  thou  fanciedst 
thou  wert  bearing  from  free  choice. 

In  this  condition  I  found  thee,  and  it  was  a 
sad  sight  to  see  thee  so  often  deterred  by  pusil¬ 
lanimous  considerations  from  enjoying  the  bloom 
of  life,  and  manifesting  thy  noblest  energies.  The 
consistence  with  which  thou  actedst  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  thy  convictions,  and  the  strength  of 
soul  which  facilitated  to  thee  every  sacrifice,  were 
double  limitations  of  thy  activity  and  thy  joys. 
At  that  period  I  resolved  to  defeat  the  bungling 
efforts  which  had  been  made  to  force  a  spirit  like 
thine  into  the  mould  of  commonplace  minds. 
Every  thing  depended  upon  calling  thy  attention 
to  the  value  of  self-inquiry,  and  inspiring  thee 
with  confidence  in  thy  own  powers.  The  success 
of  thy  first  attempts  favored  my  intentions.  It 
is  true  thy  fancy  was  more  active  in  this  work 
than  thy  ingenuity.  Its  intuitions  replaced  to 
thee  the  loss  of  thy  dearest  convictions  more 
speedily  than  thou  couldst  have  expected  of  the 
snail’s  pace  of  a  cold-blooded  inquiry  which  pro¬ 
gresses  step  by  step  from  the  known  to  the  un¬ 
known.  It  was  this  inspiring  method  which  af¬ 
forded  thee  the  first  enjoyment  in  this  new  field 
of  activity,  and  I  took  good  care  not  to  disturb  a 
welcome  enthusiasm  which  promoted  the  develop¬ 
ment  of  thy  most  excellent  qualities.  Now  the 
scene  has  changed.  A  return  to  thy  childish  mi¬ 
nority  is  cut  off  for  ever.  Thy  journey  is  onward, 
and  thou  art  no  longer  in  need  of  lenient  treatment. 

Thou  shouldst  not  wonder  if  a  system  like 
thine  cannot  stand  the  test  of  severe  criticism. 
This  fate  has  been  shared  by  all  other  experi¬ 
ments  resembling  thy  own  in  boldness  and  com¬ 
prehensiveness.  Moreover,  it  was  quite  natural 
that  thy  philosophical  career  should  commence 
with  thee  individually,  as  it  has  with  the  human 
race  collectively.  From  time  immemorial  the 
universe  has  constituted  the  first  object  of  human 
inquiry.  Hypotheses  concerning  the  origin  of  the 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


331 


universe,  and  the  cohesion  of  its  parts,  had  occu¬ 
pied  the  greatest  thinkers  for  centuries,  when 
Socrates  called  the  philosophy  of  his  age  from 
heaven  down  to  earth.  But  the  boundaries  of 
living  wisdom  were  too  restricted  for  the  proud 
desire  of  knowledge  which  inflamed  his  followers. 
New  systems  were  formed  of  the  ruins  of  the  for¬ 
mer.  The  sagacity  of  subsequent  periods  roved 
through  the  boundless  field  of  possible  answers  to 
the  unceasingly  intruding  questions  concerning 
the  mysterious  interior  of  Nature,  which  it  was 
impossible  for  human  experience  to  unvail.  Some 
even  succeeded  in  imparting  to  the  results  of  their 
cogitations, an  appearance  of  precision,  complete¬ 
ness,  and  evidence.  By  resorting  to  a  variety  of 
tricks,  human  reason  seeks  to  avoid  the  shame 
of  not  being  able  to  transgress  the  boundaries  of 
human  nature  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  At 
one  time  one  imagines  that  new  truths  are  discov¬ 
ered  upon  analysing  an  idea  into  parts  out  of  which 
it  had  been  arbitrarily  compounded.  At  another 
time  some  unconsciously-mistaken  supposition  is 
made  the  basis  of  a  series  of  conclusions  whose 
gaps  are  cunningly  concealed,  and  the  fraudu¬ 
lently-obtained  inferences  are  gazed  at  as  sublime 
wisdom.  Again,  at  another  time  one-sided  ex¬ 
periences  are  accumulated  for  the  purpose  of  cor¬ 
roborating  an  hypothesis,  whereas  opposing  phe¬ 
nomena  are  overlooked  ;  or  else  the  meaning  of 
words  is  altered  agreeably  to  the  necessities  of  the 
logical  process.  These  are  not  merely  the  tricks 
of  which  the  philosophical  quack  avails  himself 
for  the  purpose  of  deceiving  his  public.  Even 
the  most  honest  and  candid  inquirer  frequently, 
though  unconsciously,  employs  similar  means,  in 
order  to  quench  his  thirst  for  knowledge,  as  soon 
as  he  steps  out  of  the  sphere  where  alone  his 
reason  may  rightfully  rejoice  at  the  results  of  its 
activity. 

Judging  by  what  thou  hast  heard  me  utter  on 
former  occasions,  these  statements  cannot  fail  to 
surprise  thee.  Nevertheless  they  are  not  the  re¬ 
sult  of  skeptical  caprice.  I  could  account  to  thee 
for  the  reasons  upon  which  these  statements  are 
founded  ;  but,  in  order  to  do  this,  I  should  have 
to  premise  a  rather  dry  inquiry  into  the  nature  of 
human  cognition,  and  fatigue  thee  with  reason¬ 
ings  and  opinions,  the  want  of  which  thou  mayst 
not  as  yet  have.experienced.  Thou  art  not  as  yet 
prepared  to  listen  with  interest  to  the  humiliat¬ 
ing  truths  concerning  the  boundaries  of  human 
knowledge.  First  experiment  with  the  system 
which  has  replaced  thy  own.  Examine  it  alike 
impartially  and  rigidly.  Apply  the  same  process 
to  other  systems  which  thou  mayst  have  become 
acquainted  with  more  recently;  if  not  one  of  them 
answers  thy  demands  entirely,  the  question  will 
obtrude  itself:  “  Were  these  demands  just  ?” 

“Poor  comfort,”  thou  mayst  reply.  “After  so 
many  brilliant  hopes,  is  resignation  my  only  pros¬ 
pect?  Was  it  worth  while,  in  such  a  case,  to 
invite  me  to  the  full  use  of  my  reason,  in  order  to 
restrict  it  within  limits  at  the  very  moment  when 
it  promised  to  bear  me  the  richest  fruit  ?  Had  I 
to  become  acquainted  with  a  higher  enjoyment 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  be  made  aware  of 
the  painful  consciousness  of  my  finiteness  ?” 

Nevertheless  it  is  this  feeling  of  depression 


which  I  should  like  to  free  thee  from.  My  arm  is 
to  remove  every  thing  that  might  hinder  the  full 
enjoyment  of  thy  existence,  and  to  vitalize  the 
germ  of  every  exalted  enthusiasm,  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  thy  soul's  nobility.  Thou  hast  waked  up 
from  the  slumber  into  which  the  yoke  of  other 
people’s  opinions  had  lulled  thee.  But  thou 
wouldst  never  fill  the  measure  of  greatness  for 
which  thou  art  destined,  if  thou  shouldst  squander 
thy  energies  in  endeavoring  to  reach  an  unattain¬ 
able  goal.  This  might  have  been  well  enough 
until  now  ;  it  was  a  natural  consequence  of  thy 
newly  acquired  liberty.  The  ideas  which  had 
Occupied  thee  most  at  first,  must  necessarily  im¬ 
part  the  first  direction  to  thy  mind’s  activity.  Thy 
own  experience  would  have  taught  thee  sooner  or 
later  whether  this  direction  was  the  most  fruitful. 
It  was  my  business  to  hasten  this  period,  if  pos¬ 
sible. 

It  is  a  common  prejudice  to  estimate  man’s 
greatness  by  the  materials  with  which  he  works, 
not  by  the  manner  in  which  he  works  them.  A 
higher  being  undoubtedly  honors  the  imprint  of 
perfection  even  in  the  least  sphere,  whereas  it 
looks  down  with  feelings  of  pity  upon  the  attempt 
to  survey  the  universe  with  the  eyes  of  an  ant. 
Among  the  ideas  which  thou  hast  expressed  in 
thy  composition,  the  one  which  I  can  concede 
least  of  all  is  the  supposition  that  it  is  man’s  des¬ 
tiny  to  acquire  an  intuitive  view  of  the  spirit  of 
the  Creator  by  the  contemplation  of  his  work.  I 
admit  that  I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  higher 
figure  for  the  activity  of  the  highest  Being,  than 
the  figure  of  art.  But  thou  appearest  to  have 
overlooked  an  important  difference.  The  universe 
is  no  pure  expression  of  an  ideal  like  the  perfect 
work  of  a  human  artist.  This  one  rules  despoti¬ 
cally  over  the  inanimate  matter  by  means  of 
which  he  embodies  his  ideas.  In  the  divine  work 
of  art  the  characteristic  nature  of  each  constituent 
element  is  carefully  preserved,  and  the  watchful 
attention  which  he  unceasingly  bestows  upon 
every  germ  of  energy,  even  in  the  smallest  crea¬ 
ture,  exalts  the  master  as  much  as  the  harmony 
of  the  boundless  whole.  Life  and  liberty,  in  their 
largest  possible  extent,  constitute  the  imprint  of 
Creation,  which  is  never  more  sublime  than  where 
its  ideal  seems  to  have  been  realized  least.  This 
higher  perfection  cannot  be  grasped  by  us  in  our 
present  finiteness.  We  survey  too  small  a  portion 
of  the  universe,  and  the  perception  of  the  larger 
number  of  discords  as  elements  of  harmony  is  as 
yet  an  inaccessible  task  to  our  minds.  Every 
succeeding  ascent  on  the  scale  of  progression,  fits 
us  more  thoroughly  for  this  higher  enjoyment  of 
art,  which,  however,  even  in  such  a  case,  is  only 
valuable  as  a  means,  in  so  far  as  it  inspires  us  with 
a  desire  to  imitate  the  Creator’s  method.  A  mere 
idle  gazing  at  others’  greatness  cannot  be  reckoned 
as  a  higher  quality.  The  man  of  a  higher  order 
of  goodness  is  neither  wanting  in  materials  for 
action,  nor  in  power  to  become  a  creator  within 
his  own  limited  sphere.  This,  too,  is  thy  calling, 
Julius.  If  thou  hast  once  recognized  it,  thou  wilt 
never  again  complain  of  the  burners  which  thy 
desire  of  knowledge  is  unable  to  leap  over. 

It  is  this  period  that  I  am  waiting  for,  in  order  to 
i  witness  a  perfect  reconciliation  between  thee  and 


832 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


me.  First  thou  must  become  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  extent  of  thy  powers  before  thou  canst 
appreciate  the  value  of  their  most  unbounded 
development.  Until  then,  make  me  the  object  of 
thy  wrath,  but  do  not  despair  of  thyself. 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS, 

LETTER  I. 

You  inform  me,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  criti¬ 
cisms  which  have  been  published  on  Don  Carlos 
have  not  satisfied  you,  and  are  or  opinion  that 
most  of  them  have  failed  to  do  justice  to  the  real 
point  of  view  of  the  author.  You  deem  it  even 
possible  to  save  certain  bold  passages  declared 
untenable  by  critics;  many  doubts  which  have 
been  expressed  against  them  seem  to  you,  if  not 
answered,  at  least  foreseen  and  considered  in  the 
body  of  the  play.  You  inform  me  that  in  many 
of  these  objections,  what  astonishes  you  most  is 
not  so  much  the  sagacity  of  the  critics  as  the  self- 
satisfaction  with  which  they  express  their  doubts, 
without  being  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  thought 
that  transgressions  which  strike  the  eye  of  the 
most  itmid,  must  have  been  visible  to  the  author, 
who  certainly  should  not  be  looked  upon  as  the 
least  informed  of  his  readers  ;  hence  it  appears  to 
you  that  it  is  not  so  much  the  matter  itself  as  the 
motives  which  induced  the  author  to  resort  to  his 
peculiar  manner  of  treating  it,  that  constitute  the 
legitimate  subject  of  criticism.  These  motives 
may  be  insufficient;  they  may  be  based  upon  a 
one-sided  mode  of  viewing  the  facts;  the  critic 
should  have  shown  this  insufficiency  and  one¬ 
sidedness,  if  he  is  desirous  of  being  estimated  as  a 
capable  judge  by  the  author  whose  judge  or  ad¬ 
viser  he  claims  to  be. 

What  matters  it  to  the  author,  however,  whether 
his  critic  was  competent  or  not ;  whether  he  was 
possessed  of  mucn  or  little  sagacity.  Let  the 
critic  settle  that  point  in  his  own  mind.  It  is  a 
bad  thing  for  the  author  and  his  work,  if  he  de¬ 
pended  for  its  effect  upon  the  divining  power  and 
equity  of  his  critics  ;  if  he  depended  for  its  im¬ 
pression,  upon  qualities  that  are  only  found  united 
in  few  heads.  It  is  one  of  the  most  defective  con¬ 
ditions  in  which  a  work  of  art  can  be  placed,  if  its 
interpretation  depends  upon  the  arbitrary  dispo¬ 
sition  of  the  spectator,  and  if  his  judgment  has  to 
be  enlightened  by  subsequent  explanations  from 
the  author.  If  you  meant  to  convey  the  idea  that 
my  work  occupies  this  very  position,  you  have 
said  something  very  unfavorable  of  it,  and  you  in¬ 
duce  me  to  examine  it  again  and  more  closely 
from  this  point  of  view.  It  seems,  therefore,  as 
though  we  ought  to  examine  whether  the  piece 
contains  every  thing  that  is  necessary  to  an  in¬ 
telligent  comprehension  of  the  plot,  and  whether 
every  thing  is  stated  in  such  clear  terms  that  the 
reader  can  have  no  difficulty  in  apprehending  the 
author’s  meaning.  Allow  me,  therefore,  my  friend, 
to  entertain  you  for  a  few  moments  with  this  sub¬ 
ject.  The  play  has  been  further  removed  from 
me ;  I  find  myself,  as  it  were,  holding  the  middle 


between  the  artist  and  the  spectator,  and  enabled 
by  this  position  to  unite  the  former’s  familiar  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  his  subject  with  the  candid  inde¬ 
pendence  of  the  latter. 

Tn  the  first  acts — it  is  of  importance  that  I 
should  premise  this  statement — I  may  have  ex¬ 
cited  other  expectations  than  I  have  fullfilled  in 
the  last.  St.  Real’s  novel,  and  perhaps  my  own 
statements  in  the  first  number  of  the  Thalia,  may 
have  placed  the  reader  upon  a  point  of  view  from 
which  the  piece  should  no  longer  be  judged. 

During  the  period  that  I  was  engaged  on  the 
piece,  and  which  was  lengthened  by  many  inter¬ 
ruptions,  many  changes  were  taking  place  within 
my  own  mind.  The  piece  had  necessarily  to  feel 
the  effects  of  these  changes,  which  a  variety  of 
events  caused  in  my  mode  of  thinking  and  feeling. 
That  which  had  chained  me  in  the  commencement 
of  the  work,  seemed  much  less  important  to  me 
as  I  proceeded,  and  still  less  so  at  the  conclusion. 
New  ideas  were  budding  in  my  mind,  and  super¬ 
seded  the  former ;  Carlos  himself  was  not  as  high 
in  my  favor  as  he  had  been,  perhaps  because  I 
had  gone  ahead  of  him  in  years,  and,  for  a  similar 
reason,  Marquis  Posa  had  taken  his  place.  Thus 
it  happened  that  my  heart  was  differently  attuned 
when  I  commenced  the  fourth  and  fifth  act.  The 
first  three  acts  were  in  the  hands  of  the  public; 
the  plan  of  the  whole  could  no  longer  be  dis¬ 
turbed  ;  I  should  have  been  obliged  either  to  sup¬ 
press  the  piece — and  my  readers  would  not  have 
been  satisfied  with  this  proceeding — or  else  I  had 
to  adapt  the  second  half  to  the  former  as  well  as 
I  was  able.  If  I  have  not  succeeded  in  this 
arrangement  to  my  perfect  satisfaction,  I  may 
console  myself  with  the  thought  that  more  skill¬ 
ful  hands  than  mine  would  not  have  done  much 
better.  The  main  fault  was  that  I  had  been  too 
long  in  completing  the  piece;  whereas  a  dramatic 
work  should  be  matured  in  one  summer.  The 
plan  likewise  was  vaster  than  was  suitable  for  the 
boundaries  and  rules  of  a  dramatic  work.  This 
plan  rendered  it  necessary  that  the  Marquis  Posa 
should  enjoy  the  most  unlimited  confidence  of  the 
King ;  the  arrangement  of  the  plot  allowed  me 
only  one  scene  to  bring  about  this  remarkable 
result. 

These  explanations  may  justify  me  in  the  eyes 
of  friendship,  but  not  in  those  of  art.  They  may, 
however,  serve  to  terminate  the  numerous  de¬ 
clamations  with  which  critics  have  assailed  me  from 
this  quarter. 


LETTER  Ii: 

The  character  of  Posa  has  been  criticized  as 
too  ideal ;  how  far  this  criticism  is  founded,  is 
best  seen,  if  this  man’s  characteristic  mode  of 
action  is  viewed  in  its  essential  light.  You  per¬ 
ceive  that  in  this  matter,  I  have  to  contend  with 
two  classes  of  judges.  To  those  who  banish  him 
altogether  from  the  class  of  natural  beings,  I  have 
to  show  how  far  he  is  still  connected  with  human 
nature,  how  far  his  opinions  and  acts  emanate  from 
human  instincts,  and  are  founded  upon  the  action 
and  reaction  of  external  circumstances  ;  those 
who  assign  to  him  the  name  of  a  divine  man,  need 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


333 


bnt  have  their  attention  called  to  a  few  weaknesses 
which  are  exceedingly  human.  However  far  the 
Marquis  is  elevated  above  the  ordinary  life  by  the 
sentiments  which  he  utters,  by  the  philosophy  that 
guides  him,  by  the  favorite  feelings  by  which  his 
soul  is  inspired,  these  facts,  so  far  as  they  imply 
simple  states  of  the  mind,  certainly  do  not  right¬ 
fully  banish  him  from  the  class  of  natural  beings. 
For  what  may  not  be  conceived  by  the  head  of  man  ? 
What  offspring  of  the  brain  may  not  enkindle  a 
passion  in  a  glowing  heart  ?  Nor  can  his  actions 
be  regarded  as  superhuman,  for  history  records 
examples  of  such  conduct ;  Posa’s  sacrifice  for 
his  friend  is  not  superior  to  the  heroic  death  of  a 
Curtius,  a  Ilegulus,  and  others.  If  there  is  any¬ 
thing  erroneous  or  impossible,  it  must  be  because 
his  sentiments  were  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  his 
age,  or  because  they  are  too  powerless  and  lifeless 
to  inspire  the  love  of  such  actions.  The  objections 
which  have  been  raised  against  the  naturalness  of 
Posa’s  character,  can  therefore  be  only  understood 
as  implying  the  assertion  that  during  Philip  the 
Second’s  reign  no  man  could  have  thought  as  the 
Marquis  Posa  does  ;  that  such  thoughts  are  not 
transformed  into  will  and  act  as  readily  as  is  the 
case  in  my  play,  and  that  an  ideal  enthusiasm  does 
not  act  with  such  consistent  firmness  of  purpose 
and  energy. 

The  objections  which  have  been  raised  against 
this  character  as  being  inconsistent  with  the  age 
where  it  makes  its  appearance,  seem  to  me  to  be 
rather  in  favor  of  than  against  it.  After  the 
example  of  all  great  minds  the  character  arises 
between  darkness  and  light  as  a  prominent,  iso¬ 
lated  phenomenon.  The  epoch  which  gives  rise  to 
this  character,  is  a  period  of  universal  ferment,  a 
struggle  between  prejudice  and  reason,  anarchy  of 
opinions,  dawning  of  the  truth, — such  a  period  has 
always  been  the  hour  when  great  men  were  born. 
The  ideas  of  liberty  and  human  dignity  which  a 
fortunate  accident  or  favorable  education  caused 
to  germinate  in  this  susceptible  and  highly  organ¬ 
ized  soul,  astonish  it  by  their  novelty,and  act  upon 
it  with  all  the  power  of  a  new  and  surprising  dis¬ 
covery  ;  even  the  mysterious  manner  in  which  they 
were  communicated,  must  enhance  the  force  of 
their  impression.  In  consequence  of  long  use 
they  have  not  yet  acquired  the  trivial  appearance 
which  blunts  their  impression  on  the  present  gene¬ 
ration  ;  their  great  characteristics  have  not  as  yet 
been  effaced  by  the  twaddle  of  schools,  and  the 
wit  of  society.  In  these  ideas  Posa’s  soul  breathes 
as  in  a  new  and  beautiful  region  which  acts  upon 
it  with  dazzling  light  and  transports  it  into  a 
beautiful  dream.  The  opposite  misery  of  servitude 
and  superstition  attaches  his  soul  more  and  more 
firmly  to  this  favorite  world  ;  are  not  the  most 
beautiful  dreams  of  freedom  experienced  in  a  dun¬ 
geon  ?  Tell  me,  my  friend,  where  could  the  most 
beautiful  ideal,  of  a  republic,  of  universal  toleration 
and  liberty  of  conscience,  have  been  conceived 
more  fitly  and  more  naturally  than  in  the  proxim¬ 
ity  of  Philip  the  Second  and  his  Inquisition  ? 

All  the  maxims  and  favorite  inclinations  of  the 
Marquis  revolve  around  republican  virtue.  This 
is  even  shown  by  his  self-sacrificing  devotion  to 
his  friend,  for  the  capability  of  sacrifice  is  the 
Bum  total  of  all  republican  virtue. 


During  the  period  when  he  made  his  appear¬ 
ance,  human  rights  and  liberty  of  conscience  were 
debated  more  animatedly  than  ever.  The  previous 
reformation  had  first  circulated  these  ideas,  and 
the  disturbances  in  Flanders  kept  them  afloat. 
His  social  independence,  his  position  as  a  Knight 
of  Malta,  afforded  him  the  happy  leisure  of  brood¬ 
ing  over  this  speculative  enthusiasm  until  it  had 
completely  matured. 

It  is,  therefore,  evident  that  the  age  and  the 
country  where  the  Marquis  commenced  his  career, 
and  the  external  conditions  in  which  he  wa3 
placed,  are  not  the  reasons  why  he  should  not 
have  been  capable  of  this  philosophy,  why  he 
should  not  have  been  devoted  to  it  with  enthusi¬ 
astic  attachment. 

If  history  furnishes  a  number  of  examples  that 
all  terrestrial  interests  can  be  sacrificed  to 
opinions  ;  if  the  most  baseless  illusion  has  power 
to  inflame  the  minds  of  men  to  a  degree  which 
renders  them  capable  of  every  sacrifice;  it  would 
be  indeed  singular  if  this  power  were  to  be  denied 
to  truth.  It  seems  to  me  that  at  a  period  when 
men  risked  their  property  and  life  for  dogmas 
which  of  themselves  were  not  calculated  to  kindle 
enthusiasm,  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  is 
willing  to  risk  similar  sacrifices  for  the  sublimest 
of  all  ideas,  cannot  seem  extraordinary,  unless  we 
believe  that  truth  is  less  capable  of  touching  the 
heart  than  an  illusion.  The  Marquis,  moreover, 
is  announced  as  a  hero.  In  his  early  youth  he  had 
given,  with  his  sword,  proofs  of  the  bravery  which 
he  is  to  display  hereafter  in  a  nobler  battle.  I 
should  think  that  inspiring  truths,  and  a  soul¬ 
stirring  philosophy,  must  produce  different  results 
in  the  soul  of  a  hero  from  what  they  do  in  the 
brain  of  a  pedant,  or  in  the  frigid  and  >vorn-out 
heart  of  an  effeminate  worshiper  of  worldly  plea¬ 
sure. 

Yon  inform  me  that  it  is  especially  two  of  the 
Marquis’s  acts  which  have  given  offense  :  his  con¬ 
duct  toward  the  King  in  the  tenth  scene  of  the 
third  act,  and  his  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  his 
friend.  But  it  is  possible  that  the  candor  with 
which  he  expresses  his  sentiments  to  the  King,  is 
less  to  be  credited  to  his  courage  than  to  his 
exact  knowledge  of  the  King’s  character  ;  the 
objection  would  of  course  cease,  if  the  danger  is 
first  removed.  We  will  return  to  this  subject, 
when  I  shall  entertain  you  about  Philip  the  Sec¬ 
ond  ;  for  the  present,  all  I  had  to  account  for  was 
Posa’s  willingness  to  die  for  the  prince,  on  which 
subject  I  shall  suggest  a  few  ideas  in  my  next 
letter. 


LETTER  III. 

Some  time  ago  you  professed  to  have  found  in 
Don  Carlos  the  proof  that  passionate  friendship 
might  be  made  just  as  good  a  subject  for  tragedy 
as  passionate  love,  and  you  seemed  amazed  at  my 
reply  that  I  intended  to  draw  the  picture  of  such 
a  friendship  on  some  future  occasion.  Do  you, 
like  most  of  my  readers,  assume  that  it  is  passionate 
friendship  which  J  intended  to  portray  by  the 
relation  existing  between  Carlos  and  the  Marquis 
Posa  ?  Is  it  from  this  point  of  view  that  you  have 


334 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


heretofore  considered  these  two  characters,  and, 
perhaps,  the  whole  drama  ?  What  would  you  say, 
my  friend,  if  I  should  inform  you  that  you  have 
interpreted  this  friendship  in  a  light  which  was 
not  intended  ?  that  the  whole  context  of  the 
scenes  shows  that  this  was  not,  and  could  not  have 
been  the  object  of  Posa’s  friendship  to  Carlos  ? 
that  the  character  of  the  Marquis,  as  it  results 
from  the  sum-total  of  his  acts,  is  not  compatible 
with  such  a  friendship,  and  that  his  most  beauti¬ 
ful  acts,  which  are  generally  ascribed  to  this 
friendship,  furnish  the  best  proof  of  the  contrary? 

The  first  announcement  of  the  relation  existing 
between  these  two  young  men,  might  have  led  the 
reader  astray  ;  but  the  error  might  easily  have 
been  discovered  by  examining  with  some  attention 
the  contrast  in  the  conduct  of  these  friends.  The 
poet,  in  making  the  youthful  friendship  of  these 
two  persons  his  starting-point,  has  not  weakened 
his  higher  plot;  on  the  contrary,  this  was  the  very 
best  mode  of  preparing  the  great  interests  of  the 
play.  The  relation  of  friendship  in  which  both 
are  made  to  appear,  was  a  reminiscence  of  their 
academical  career.  Harmony  of  feeling,  the  same 
love  for  the  great  and  the  beautiful,  alike  enthusi¬ 
asm  for  truth,  liberty,  and  virtue,  had  united 
them  during  that  period.  A  character  like  that 
of  Posa,  which  takes  such  developments  as  are 
indicated  in  the  play,  must  have  commenced  early 
to  realize  his  intense  love-power  in  act ;  a  be¬ 
nevolence  Which  was  to  extend  over  humanity, 
had  to  begin  with  a  more  restricted  relation. 
This  creating  and  fiery  spirit  had  to  have,  at  an 
early  period,  a  subject  upon  which  it  might  act. 
Could  a  more  beautiful  subject  offer  than  a  deli¬ 
cately  and  intensely  feeling  prince,  who,  of  his  own 
accord,  responded  to  Posa’s  friendship  ?  But 
even  at  this  early  stage,  the  seriousness  of  his 
character  is  visible  in  a  few  traits  ;  even  here 
Posa  is  the  colder  and  later  friend,  and  his  heart, 
which  is  even  now  too  comprehensive  to  concen¬ 
trate  itself  upon  a  single  being,  has  to  be  con¬ 
quered  by  means  of  a  severe  sacrifice. 

“  So  I  vowed, 

Since  I  might  never  cope  with  thee  in  power, 
That  I  would  love  thee  with  excess  of  love. 

Then  with  a  thousand  shows  of  tenderness 
And  warm  affection  I  besieged  thy  heart, 

Which  cold  and  friendly  still  repulsed  them  all. 

You  might  despise  me,  crush  my  heart, 
but  never 

Alter  my  love.  Three  times  didst  thou  repulse 
The  Prince,  and  thrice  he  came  to  thee  again, 

To  beg  thy  love,  and  force  on  thee  his  own. 

My  royal  blood  streamed  ’neath  the  piti¬ 
less  lash  ; 

This  price  I  paid  for  what  might  seem  a  foolish 
passion, 

For  my  Roderigo’s  friendship.” 

Here  a  few  hints  are  given  which  show  how 
little  the  Marquis’s  attachment  to  the  Prince  is 
founded  upon  personal  accord.  Even  at  the  com¬ 
mencement  of  their  intercourse,  Posa  thinks  of 
his  friend  as  a  king’s  son,  and  this  idea  intrudes 
between  him  and  his  supplicating  friend.  Carlos 
opens  to  him  his  arms ;  the  young  citizen  of  the 


world  kneels  before  him.  The  sentiment  of 
liberty  and  human  dignity  had  matured  in  his 
soul  before  he  became  the  friend  of  Carlos  ;  this 
branch  was  grafted  upon  the  more  vigorous  trunk 
at  a  later  period.  Even  at  the  moment  when  his 
pride  is  conquered  by  the  great  sacrifice  of  his 
friend,  he  is  still  mindful  of  the  Prince.  ‘‘I  will 
pay  thee,”  he  says,  “  when  thou  art  king.”  Is  it 
possible  that  friendship  which  is  essentially  based 
upon  equality ,  should  have  existed  in  so  young  a 
heart,  in  spite  of  this  vivid  and  ever-present  con¬ 
sciousness  that  their  conditions  were  unequal? 
Even  at  that  period  it  was  not  so  much  love  as  gra¬ 
titude,  not  so  much  friendship  as  pity,  which  gained 
the  Marquis  to  the  Prince.  The  feelings,  intuitions, 
dreams,  resolutions,  which  crowded  upon  each 
other  in  this  boyish  soul  in  dark  confusion,  had  to 
be  communicated  to  another  soul  where  they  might 
be  held  and  examined,  and  Carlos  was  the  only 
one  who  was  capable  of  sharing  these  thoughts  and 
emotions,  and  experiencing  them  likewise.  A  mind 
like  Posa’s  must  have  endeavored  at  an  early  age 
to  enjoy  his  superiority,  and  the  gentle  and  affec¬ 
tionate  Carlos  attached  himself  to  the  former  with 
so  much  submissiveness  and  docility.  In  this  beau¬ 
tiful  mirror  Posa  saw  himself  and  rejoiced  at  his 
image.  Thus  it  was  that  this  academical  friendship 
was  formed. 

But  now  they  are  separated,  and  things  assume 
a  different  aspect.  Carlos  goes  to  his  father’s 
court,  and  Posa  launches  into  society.  The 
former,  spoiled  by  his  early  attachment  to  the 
noblest  and  most  enthusiastic  of  all  young  men, 
finds  but  little  at  the  court  of  a  despot  that 
satisfies  his  heart.  All  his  surroundings  are  bar¬ 
ren  and  void.  Alone  amidst  a  crowd  of  courtiers, 
oppressed  by  his  present  relations,  he  refreshes  his 
heart  by  the  sweet  reminiscences  of  the  past.  In 
him  these  early  impressions  continue  warm  and 
living,  and  his  heart,  formed  for  benevolence,  is 
devoured  by  illusions  which  are  never  realized. 
In  this  way  he  gradually  sinks  into  a  state  of  idle 
reverie ,  inactive  contemplation.  In  this  unceas¬ 
ing  struggle  with  his  situation,  his  strength  wears 
put ;  the  unfriendly  meetings  of  a  father  who  is  so 
dissimilar  to  him,  spread  a  gloomy  melancholy 
over  his  being,  gnawing  like  a  worm  at  every 
blossom  of  the  mind,  or  like  a  chilling  blast  ex¬ 
tinguishing  his  enthusiasm.  Oppressed,  without 
energy,  idle,  brooding,  exhausted  by  severe  and 
fruitless  struggles,  driven  from  one  startling  ex¬ 
treme  to  another  as  by  an  intimidating  conscience, 
no  longer  capable  of  an  independent  and  sponta¬ 
neous  effort,  he  experiences  his  first  love.  In  this 
condition  he  is  unable  to  resist  it ;  his  former  ideas 
which  alone  might  have  counterbalanced  its  as¬ 
saults,  have  wandered  away  from  his  soul  ;  love 
rules  him  with  a  despotic  power;  he  sinks  into  a 
condition  of  voluptuous  pain.  All  his  energies 
are  now  centred  in  one  object.  An  unceasing  de¬ 
sire  keeps  his  soul  captive  within  itself.  How 
could  it  have  poured  itself  forth  into  the  universe  ? 
Unable  to  gratify  this  desire;  still  less  unable  to 
conquer  it  by  his  inner  strength,  he  dwindles  away, 
half  living,  half  dead,  a  visible  prey  to  a  consuming 
fire ;  no  diversion  for  the  burning  pain  of  his 
bosom,  no  sympathetic  heart  to  which  he  might 
communicate  it. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


335 


“Not  one  have  T,  not  one, 

In  the  wide  circuit  of  this  earth,  not  one, 

Far  as  the  sceptre  of  my  sire  extends, 

Far  as  his  navies  bear  the  flag  of  Spain, 

There  is  no  spot,  none,  none,  where  I  dare  yield 
An  outlet  to  my  tears,  save  only  this.” 

Helplessness  and  poverty  of  the  heart  now  lead 
him  back  to  the  point  whence  the  abundance  of 
his  heart  had  caused  him  to  start.  He  feels  the 
want  of  sympathy  so  much  more  intensely,  be¬ 
cause  he  is  alone  and  unhappy.  In  this  condition 
he  is  found  by  his  returning  friend. 

This  one  has  met  with  a  different  fate.  Cast 
upon  the  broad  universe,  with  his  senses  wide 
open,  endowed  with  the  strength  of  youth,  with 
the  impulse  of  genius,  with  a  warm,  feeling  heart, 
he  observes  man  as  he  acts  in  small  and  in  great 
things  ;  he  finds  opportunities  of  testing  the  ideal 
which  he  has  brought  with  him  from  the  University 
by  the  active  powers  of  the  race.  Whatever  he 
hears  and  sees  is  devoured  by  him  with  a  keen 
enthusiasm,  is  felt,  thought,  and  used  with  refer¬ 
ence  to  this  ideal.  Man  is  seen  by  him  in  various 
aspects ;  he  sees  him  in  different  climes,  consti¬ 
tutions,  degrees  of  culture,  and  happiness.  By 
this  means  a  more  universal  and  elevated  idea  of 
man  in  the  abstract  gradually  arises  in  his  mind, 
which  supersedes  every  petty,  and  contracted 
view  of  man’s  nature.  Posa  seems  to  soar  above 
his  own  personality,  as  it  were ;  in  the  free  and 
open  space  of  heaven  his  soul  expands  into  larger 
proportions.  Remarkable  men  whom  he  meets 
on  his  travels,  divert  his  attention  ;  they  inspire 
him  with  respect  and  love.  In  the  place  of  an 
individual  he  now  deals  with  the  race ;  a  passing 
emotion  of  his  youthful  heart  now  increases  to  an 
unbounded  philanthropy.  The  idle  enthusiast  has 
been  converted  into  an  active  man.  The  dreams 
and  the  obscure  and  undeveloped  intuitions  of 
his  soul  have  assumed  the  form  of  clear  and  defi¬ 
nite  perceptions,  have  caused  idle  projects  to  ul¬ 
timate  in  acts  ;  a  vague  longing  for  activity  has 
been  directed  to  honorable  and  useful  objects. 
He  studies  the  spirit  of  the  nations,  weighs  their 
strength  and  means,  examines  their  constitutions  ; 
in  his  intercourse  with  kindred  spirits  his  ideas 
acquire  shape  and  expansion  ;  tried  men  of  the 
world,  like  William  of  Orange,  Coligny,  and 
others,  divest  them  of  their  romantic  character 
and  gradually  mould  them  for  the  actual  uses  of 
life. 

Enriched  with  a  thousand  new  and  fruitful 
ideas  ;  filled  with  aspiring  energies,  with  creating 
instincts,  with  bold  and  comprehensive  projects  ; 
his  mind  stirring  and  active;  his  heart  inspired 
with  the  idea  of  human  power  and  dignity ;  burn¬ 
ing  for  the  happiness  of  the  race,  with  which  he 
had  become  identified  through  his  intimacy  with 
so  many  individuals,  he  now  returns  from  the 
harvest-field,  glowing  with  a  longing  desire  for  a 
scene  of  action  where  he  may  realize  these  ideal 
hopes  and  aspirations,  and  find  employment  for 
the  treasures  he  has  been  gathering.*  His  mind 

*  In  his  subsequent  conversations  with  the  King  these 
favorite  ideas  are  embodied.  One  stroke  of  your  pen,  he 


dwells  upon  the  condition  of  Flanders.  Here  he 
finds  every  thing  ripe  for  a  revolution.  Ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  spirit,  the  powers  and  resources 
of  this  people,  which  he  weighs  against  the  power 
of  its  oppressor,  he  already  regards  the  great  un¬ 
dertaking  as  accomplished.  His  ideal  of  repub¬ 
lican  freedom  cannot  find  a  more  favorable  mo¬ 
ment  or  a  more  susceptible  soil. 

“  So  many  rich  and  prosperous  provinces  ! 

A  people  great  and  vigorous,  and  forsooth  ! 
Kind-hearted.  To  be  father  to  this  people, 
That,  thought  I,  that  must  be  divine.” 

The  more  wretched  he  finds  this  people,  the 
more  his  heart  presses  him,  and  the  more  he  has¬ 
tens  to  see  his  ideal  realized.  At  this  stage,  and 
not  before,  he  is  reminded  of  the  friend  with  whom 
he  parted  in  Alcala,  where  he  left  him  inspired 
with  glowing  feelings  for  humanity.  He  thinks 
of  him  as  the  saviour  of  an  oppressed  people,  as 
the  instrument  of  his  high  plans.  Full  of  unut¬ 
terable  love  for  him,  because  he  considers  him 
identified  with  the  favorite  business  of  his  heart, 
he  hastens  to  Madrid,  into  his  friend’s  arms,  ex¬ 
pecting  to  find  the  seed  of  humanity  and  heroic 
virtue,  which  he  had  scattered  in  his  soul  at  a 
former  period,  fully  ripe  for  the  harvest,  and  to 
embrace  in  him  the  deliverer  of  the  Netherlands, 
the  future  creator  of  his  imaginary  republic. 

More  passionately  than  ever,  with  a  feverish 
vehemence,  the  young  friend  rushes  to  meet  him. 

“  I  press  thee  to  my  bosom,  and  I  feel 
Thy  throbbing  heart  beat  wildly  ’gainst  mine  own. 
And  now  all’s  well  again.  I  hang 
Upon  my  Roderigo’s  neck.” 

This  reception  is  characterized  by  the  most  in¬ 
tense  cordiality  ;  but  how  does  Posa  meet  it  ? 
Does  he,  who  left  his  friend  in  the  full  bloom  of 
youth,  and  now  sees  him  a  walking  skeleton, 
dwell  upon  this  mournful  change?  Does  he 
waste  his  time  in  anxious  inquiries  into  its  causes? 
Does  he  descend  to  the  more  trifling  affairs  of  his 
friend  ?  He  responds  to  this  unwelcome  recep¬ 
tion  with  consternation  and  earnest  regret. 

“  Not  thus  I  looked  to  find  Don  Philip’s  son. 

No  more  I  see 

The  youth  of  lion  heart,  to  whom  I  come 
The  envoy  of  a  brave  and  suffering  people. 

For  now  I  stand  not  here  as  Roderigo, 

Not  as  the  playmate  of  the  stripling  Carlos, 

But  as  the  deputy  of  all  mankind, 

I  clasp  thee  thus  : — ’tis  Flanders  that  clings  here 
Arouud  thy  neck  ****.” 

informs  the  King,  might  renew  the  earth.  Let  thought 
be  free. 

“  Look  round  on  all  the  glorious  face  of  Nature, 

On  freedom  it  is  founded — see  how  rich 
Through  freedom  it  has  grown. 

*  Restore 

The  prostrate  dignity  of  human  nature, 

And  let  the  subject  be  what  once  he  was, — 

The  end  and  object  of  the  monarch’s  care, 

Bound  by  no  duty  save  a  brother’s  love.” 


336 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


Involuntarily  his  ruling  idea  escapes  him  in  the 
first  moments  of  their  longed-for  meeting,  where 
friends  generally  have  so  many  small  matters 
to  talk  about ;  and  Carlos  has  to  present  the 
most  vivid  picture  of  his  sad  situation,  and  has  to 
call  up  the  remotest  scenes  of  his  childhood, 
in  order  to  overcome  the  favorite  idea  of  his 
friend,  and  to  excite  the  latter’s  sympathy  with 
his  own  sad  condition.  Posa  is  terribly  disap¬ 
pointed  in  the  hopes  with  which  he  met  his  friend. 
He  had  expected  to  find  a  heroic  character  who 
was  thirsting  for  deeds  for  which  he  now  intended 
to  show  him  a  theatre.  lie  expected  to  find  that 
wealth  of  sublime  philanthropy;  he  relied  upon 
the  vow  which  they  had  taken,  pi  the  days  of 
their  enthusiasm,  upon  the  host ;  and  instead  of 
all  this  he  discovers  a  passion  in  Carlos’  soul  for 
the  wife  of  his  own  father. 

“  He  thou  seest  here,  no  longer  is  that  Carlos, 
Who  took  his  leave  of  thee  in  Alcala, 

Who,  in  the  fervor  of  a  youthful  heart, 

Resolved,  at  some  no  distant  time  to  wake 
The  golden  age  in  Spain  !  Oh,  the  conceit, 
Though  but  a  child’s,  was  yet  divinely  fair ! 

Those  dreams  are  past !” 

A  hopeless  passion,  which  consumes  his  energies 
and  even  exposes  his  life  to  risk.  How  wrould  a 
solicitous  friend  of  the  Prince,  who  had  been 
nothing  more  than  a  friend,  have  acted  under 
these  circumstances  ?  And  how  does  Posa  act, 
this  citizen  of  the  world?  Posa,  the  Prince’s 
friend  and  confidant,  would  have  trembled  too 
much  for  his  friend’s  safety,  than  to  dare  to  aid 
him  in  obtaining  a  dangerous  interview  with  the 
Queen.  It  would  have  been  the  friend’s  duty  to 
think  of  quenching  this  passion,  not  of  gratifying 
it.  Posa,  the  advocate  of  the  destinies  of  Flan¬ 
ders  acts  differently.  He  knows  of  nothing  more 
important  than  to  end,  as  soon  as  possible,  even 
at  some  risk,  this  hopeless  condition  which  ab¬ 
sorbs  the  active  strength  of  his  friend.  As  long 
as  his  friend  languishes  in  ungratified  desires,  he 
cannot  feel  the  misery  of  others  ;  as  long  as  his 
strength  is  pressed  down  by  melancholy,  he  can¬ 
not  elevate  his  mind  to  heroic  resolutions.  Flan¬ 
ders  cannot  hope  for  any  thing  of  the  unhappy, 
but  may -perhaps  hope  something  of  the  happy 
Carlos.  He  hastens  to  gratify  his  friend’s  most 
ardent  desire,  and  himself  leads  him  to  the 
Queen’s  feet.  This  is  not  all.  Finding  the 
Prince’s  heart  no  longer  capable  of  conceiving 
heroic  resolutions  out  of  its  own  fullness,  he 
deems  it  expedient  to  kindle  the  extinguished 
heroism  by  a  borrowed  flame,  and  to  use  for  this 
purpose  the  only  passion  which  is  still  burning  in 
the  Prince’s  heart.  It  is  upon  this  passion  that 
he  now  seeks  to  graft  the  new  ideas  to  which  he 
desires  to  secure  the  ascendency  in  the  Prince’s 
soul.  A  glance  into  the  Queen’s  own  heart  con¬ 
vinces  him  that  he  may  expect  every  thing  from 
her  co-operation.  All  he  cares  to  borrow  of  this 
passion  is  its  first  fire.  After  it  has  helped  to 
kindle  this  new  enthusiasm  in  his  friend’s  soul, 
the  passion  will  have  become  superfluous,  and 
will — he  depends  upon  this  result  with  perfect 
certainty — consume  itself  by  its  own  fire.  This 


very  obstacle,  which  seemed  to  oppose  his  great 
plans,  his  friend’s  unfortunate  passion  is  now  con¬ 
verted  into  an  instrument  for  his  higher  and  more 
important  ends,  and  the  fate  of  Flanders  has  to 
appeal  to  his  friend’s  heart  by  the  voice  of  love. 

“  In  a  flame 

So  hopeless  I  discerned  hope’s  golden  beam, 

I  wished  to  lead  him  to  the  excellent — 

To  exalt  him  to  the  highest  point  of  beauty. 

The  proudly  royal  fruit  which  often  ripens 
So  slowly,  after  ages  have  elapsed, 

I  hoped  to  hasten  by  the  genial  rays 
Of  love’s  most  wondrous  power,  to  see  his  vir¬ 
tue’s  strength 

Unfold  its  fullness  by  this  magic  sun.” 

From  the  hands  of  the  Queen,  Carlos  now  re¬ 
ceives  the  letters  brought  to  him  by  Posa  from 
Flanders.  The  Queen  rekindles  his  fugitive  ge¬ 
nius. 

This  subordination  of  friendship  to  the  more 
important  interests  of  political  liberty,  is  still 
more  visible  during  the  interview  in  the  convent. 
A  project  which  the  Prince  had  formed  against 
the  King,  has  failed  ;  this  project,  and  a  discovery 
which  he  fancies  he  has  made  in  favor  of  his  pas¬ 
sion,  plunge  him  into  it  more  deeply  than  ever. 
Posa  thinks  he  perceives  an  admixture  of  sen¬ 
suality  in  this  passion.  Nothing  could  be  less 
compatible  with  his  higher  plans.  All  the  hopes 
for  his  Netherlands  which  he  had  based  upon 
Carlos’  love  for  the  Queen,  would  be  crushed,  if 
this  love  descended  from  its  lofty  height.  The 
indignation  which  this  disappointment  kindles  in 
his  breast,  causes  the  following  outburst  of  feel¬ 
ing  : 

“  Oh,  I  feel 

From  what  it  is  that  I  must  wean  myself. 

Once  it  was  otherwise  !  Yes,  once  thy  soul 
Was  bounteous,  rich,  and  warm,  and  there  waa 
room 

For  a  whole  world  in  thy  expanded  heart. 

Those  feelings  are  extinct,  all  swallowed  up 
In  one  poor,  petty,  selfish  passion.  Now 
Thy  heart  is  withered,  dead  !  No  tears  hast  thou 
For  the  unhappy  fate  of  wretched  Flanders — 

No,  not  another  tear.  0  Carlos,  see 
How  poor,  how  beggarly  thou  hast  become, 

Since  all  thy  love  has  centred  in  thyself  1” 

Afraid  lest  a  similar  relapse  should  take  place, 
Posa  thinks  he  will  have  to  take  violent  measures. 
As  long  as  Carlos  remains  near  the  Queen,  he  is 
lost  to  Flanders.  His  presence  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands  may  give  a  different  turn  to  the  condition 
of  things  ;  he  therefore  does  not  hesitate  an  in¬ 
stant  to  move  him  to  take  this  step. 

“He  must  prove  faithless  to  the  King,  and  fly 
With  secrecy  to  Brussels,  where  the  Flemings 
Wait  him  with  open  arms.  The  Netherlands 
Will  rise  at  his  command.  Our  glorious  cause, 
From  the  King’s  son  will  gather  matchless 
strength.” 

Would  the  friend  of  Carlos  have  been  able  to 
prevail  upon  himself  to  play  such  a  desperate 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


337 


part  with  his  friend’s  good  name,  or  even  life? 
Posa,  who  took  a  deeper  interest  in  the  deliver¬ 
ance  of  a  suppressed  people  than  in  the  more 
trifling  business  of  a  friend,  and  who  had  enlisted 
in  the  cause  of  humanity,  had  to  act  just  so,  and 
not  otherwise.  Every  step  which  he  takes  in  the 
course  of  the  play,  betrays  a  daring  boldness, 
which  a  heroic  aim  is  alone  capable  of  inspiring. 
Friendship  is  often  timid,  and  always  solicitous. 
Has  any  thing  occurred  so  far  that  evinces  in  the 
character  of  the  Marquis  a  single  trace  of  this 
anxious  care  for  one  human  being?  of  this  exclu¬ 
sive  inclination,  in  which  the  peculiar  character 
of  this  passionate  friendship  exists?  In  what 
point  is  not  his  sympathy  for  the  Prince  subordi¬ 
nate  to  his  higher  interest  for  humanity?  With 
consistent  firmness,  the  Marquis  pursues  his 
course  as  a  reformer,  and  the  events  that  are  tak¬ 
ing  place  around  him  are  only  important  to  him 
in  so  for  as  they  are  connected  with  his  higher 
aim. 


LETTER  IY. 

This  avowal  might  cause  him  the  loss  of  a 
goodly  number  of  his  admirers  ;  but  he  may  com¬ 
fort  himself  with  the  few  new  admirers  whom 
it  brings  to  him  ;  moreover  a  character  like  that 
of  Posa  could  never  expect  to  enjoy  universal 
popularity.  An  exalted  and  active  benevolence 
toward  mankind  does  not  by  any  means  exclude  a 
tender  interest  in  the  joys  and  sufferings  of  a 
single  being.  His  friendship  for  Carlos  is  not 
prejudiced  by  his  higher  sympathy  for  the  human 
race.  Even  if  destiny  had  not  called  Carlos  to  a 
throne,  he  would  have  been  distinguished  by  his 
friend,  above  all  others,  with  a  peculiar  tender¬ 
ness  and  solicitude  ;  Posa  would  have  borne  him 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  as  Hamlet  did  his  Horatio. 
It  is  supposed  that  benevolence  decreases  in  in¬ 
tensity  in  proportion  as  its  objects  multiply;  but 
this  observation  cannot  be  applied  to  the  Marquis. 
He  beholds  the  object  of  his  love  with  the  eyes  of 
an  enthusiast ;  it  stands  before  his  soul  encircled 
with  glory  like  the  image  of  one  whom  his  heart 
adores.  Since  Carlos  is  to  be  the  realizer  of  this 
ideal  happiness  of  the  human  race,  Posa,  in  his 
own  mind,  identifies  the  former  with  it,  until 
finally  his  philanthropy  and  his  friendship  for 
Carlos  become  indissolubly  united  in  one  feeling. 
In  Carlos  he  sees  the  ardently-loved  humanity, 
his  friend  is  the  focal  image  of  that  complex 
unity  ;  this  image  acts  upon  him  through  one  per¬ 
sonality  to  whom  he  devotes  all  the  enthusiasm 
and  all  the  energies  of  his  soul. 

“  My  heart  to  one — 

To  that  one  object  given,  embraced  the  world  ! 

1  have  created  in  my  Carlos’  soul 

A  paradise  for  millions  !” 

These,  lines  express  love  for  one  being  without 
any  decrease  of  love  for  mankind ;  a  careful  re¬ 
gard  for  friendship,  without  the  selfish  exclu¬ 
siveness  of  this  passion.  Here  we  have  a  general, 
comprehensive  philanthropy  pressed  into  a  single 
burning  ray. 

Could  that  which  has  elevated  the  character  of 
Vol.  II.— 22 


the  plot,  have  diminished  our  interest  in  the  play? 
Should  this  picture  of  friendship  move  us  less  by 
its  loveliness  and  beauty,  because  it  has  gained  in 
extent?  Why  should  the  friend  of  Carlos  have 
less  claims  upon  our  tears  and  our  admiration  be¬ 
cause  he  unites  the  vastest  sphere  of  benevolence 
with  its  most  limited  manifestation,  and  softens 
the  divine  character  of  universal  love  by  its  most 
human  application? 

The  ninth  scene  of  the  third  act  opens  an  en¬ 
tirely  new  sphere  of  action  for  this  character. 


LETTER  Y. 

His  passion  for  the  Queen  has  finally  brought 
the  Prince  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  The  proofs  of 
his  guilt  are  in  his  father’s  hands  ;  his  indiscreet 
impetuosity  has  beguiled  him  into  exposing  his 
most  dangerous  weaknesses  to  the  lurking  suspi¬ 
cion  of  his  enemies  ;  he  is  in  momentary  danger 
of  falling  a  victim  to  his  frantic  love,  to  paternal 
jealousy,  to  priestly  hatred,  to  the  vindictiveness 
of  an  offended  enemy,  and  a  rejected  courtezan. 
His  external  position  is  in  need  of  the  most  ur¬ 
gent  help ;  still  more  so  the  state  of  his  heart, 
which  threatens  to  defeat  all  the  expecta¬ 
tions  and  projects  that  the  Marquis  had  formed. 
The  Prince  has  to  be  delivered  of  this  danger, 
has  to  be  torn  away  from  this  withering  passion, 
if  the  Marquis’s  plsfns  for  the  deliverance  of  Flan¬ 
ders  are  to  be  realized.  It  is  the  Marquis  whom 
we  expect  to  accomplish  both  these  results,  and 
who  excites  in  us  the  hope  that  he  will  do  so. 

Rut  by  the  same  channel  which  threatens 
danger  to  the  Prince,  a  change  has  been  induced 
in  the  King’s  soul,  which  now,  for  the  first  time, 
experiences  the  necessity  of  communication.  The 
pain  of  jealousy  has  transferred  him  from  the  arti¬ 
ficial  condition  of  royalty  to  the  primitive  state 
of  man,  has  made  him  feel  the  emptiness  and 
artificial  character  of  his  despotic  greatness,  and 
has  caused  desires  to  arise  in  his  heart  which 
neither  p.ower  nor  majesty  can  gratify. 

“  King,  nought  but  king  ! 

And  king  again  !  No  better  answer  than 
Mere  hollow  echo  !  When  I  strike  this/ock 
For  water,  to  assuage  my  burning  thirst. 

It  gives  me  molten  gold.” 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  a  monarch  like  Philip 
the  Second,  no  other  course  of  events  than 
the  one  which  is  here  marked  out,  could  have 
produced  such  a  state  of  despondency  ;  such  a 
state  had  to  be  produced  in  order  to  prepare 
,  the  subsequent  scenes  and  render  an  approxima¬ 
tion  of  the  Marquis  to  the  King’s  person  pos¬ 
sible.  The  father  and  son  have  been  led  upon 
entirely  different  ways  to  the  point  where  the  poet 
requires  to  see  them  ;  upon  entirely  different  ways- 
both  were  drawn  to  the  Marquis  Posa,  in  whom 
the  interest  of  the  play  which  had  hitherto  been 
divided  is  now  centred.  The  whole  part  of  the 
Marquis  depended  upon  Carlos’ passion  for  the 
Queen  and  its  inevitable  consequences  as  soon  as 
the  King  knew  of  it ;  for  this  reason  it  was  ne¬ 
cessary  that  the  play  should  have  been  opened  with 


338 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


this  passion.  For  a  time  it  had  to  place  the 
Marquis  in  the  shade,  who  had  to  content  him¬ 
self  with  an  inferior  position,  because  it  was  from 
this  very  passion  that  he  was  to  derive  all  his 
material  for  future  action.  Hence  it  became  ne¬ 
cessary  to  keep  this  passion  before  the  eyes  of 
the  spectator  as  the  main  interest  in  the  drama, 
and  merely  to  allude,  by  remote  indications,  to 
the  subject  which  was  to  become  a  prominent 
feature  of  the  play  at  a  subsequent  period.  As 
scon  as  the  edifice  is  completed,  the  scaffolding 
is  taken  down.  The  history  of  Carlos’  passion 
serving  as  a  preliminary  or  introductory  circum¬ 
stance,  it  had  to  retreat  to  the  background  and 
make  way  for  the  great  events  which  now  were 
to  occupy  the  attention  of  the  public. 

The  secret  motives  of  the  Marquis,  which  are 
nothing  less  than  the  deliverance  of  Flanders  and 
the  future  fate  of  the  nation, — under  cover  of  his 
friendship  these  motives  had  only  been  suspected, 
— now  became  prominent  features  of  the  play,  ab¬ 
sorbing  all  the  interest  of  the  spectator.  From 
what  has  taken  place  it  is  perfectly  evident  that 
Carlos  was  regarded  by  his  friend  as  an  indis¬ 
pensable  instrument  which  alone  could  help  him 
to  reach  an  object  so  passionately  and  perse- 
veringly  sought,  and  which  was  on  this  account, 
cherished  with  the  same  enthusiasm  as  the  object 
itself.  The  most  intensely  personal  sympathy 
could  not  have  produced  a  more  solicitious  inter¬ 
rest  in  the  woe  or  weal  of  his  friend,  a  more 
tender  regard  for  this  instrument  of  his  love  than 
flowed  from  this  more  universal  motive  of  the 
public  good.  The  friendship  which  Carlos  feels 
for  him,  affords  him  an  opportunity  to  enjoy  his 
ideal  most  fully.  This  friendship  becomes  a  point 
of  union  for  all  his  desires  and  actions.  As  yet 
he  knows  of  no  better  or  shorter  road  to  the 
realization  of  his  ideal  good  than  the  one  which 
Carlos’  friendship  has  opened  for  him.  He  never 
dreamed  of  seeking  it  through  another  channel  ; 
least  of  all  of  making  the  King  himself  the  in¬ 
strument  of  his  plans.  When  invited  before  the 
king,  he  manifests  the  most  perfect  indifference. 

“  Does  he  want  me  ?  What  me  ?  Impossible  ! 
You  must  mistake  the  name.  What  can  he  want 
With  me  ? 

•  / 

He  does  not  long  remain  in  this  state  of  idle 
and  puerile  amazement.  A  mind  accustomed 
like  Posa’s  to  turn  every  circumstance  to  ac¬ 
count,  to  fashion  even'  a  mere  chance  as  a  means 
to  his  end,  to  adapt  every  event  to  his  ruling 
love,  is  not  long  at  a  loss  how  to  profit  by  the 
present  moment.  The  least  portion  of  time  is  to  him 
a  capital  which  has  to  bring  him  a  usurious  interest. 
He  has  not  as  yet  found  a  clear  and  coherent 
plan  ;  it  occurs  to  him  as  an  obscure  thought,  a 
passing  impression  that  something  may  perhaps  op¬ 
portunely  turn  up  during  his  intercourse  with  the 
King  which  may  be  of  service  to  his  undertaking. 
He  is  now  to  appear  before  him  who  rules  the 
destinies  of  millions.  The  moment,  says  he  to 
himself,  which  only  comes  once  should  be  well-im¬ 
proved.  If  I  could  only  cast  one  spark  of  truth 
into  the  soul  of  this  man  who  has  never  yet  heard 
the  truth  !  Who  knows  for  what  important  pur¬ 


poses  Providence  may  use  it?  All  he  expects  to 
accomplish  by  means  of  this  interview,  is  to  im¬ 
prove  this  accidental  circumstance  in  the  best 
manner  that  his  genius  may  be  able  to  think  of. 
In  this  state  of  mind  he  awaits  the  King’s  arrival. 


LETTER  YI. 

If  you  desire  it,  I  shall  furnish  you  on  some 
other  occasion,  my  explanations  regarding  the 
tone  which  the  Marquis  adopts  toward  the  King 
at  the  very  commencement ;  I  shall  likewise  ex- 
plain  his  general  conduct  in  this  scene,  and  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  received  by  the  King. 
For  the  present  I  shall  content  myself  with  dwell¬ 
ing  upon  points  that  are  more  immediately  con¬ 
nected  with  the  Marquis’s  own  character. 

All  that  the  Marquis,  according  to  the  opinion 
he  entertained  of  the  King,  could  expect  to  ob¬ 
tain  from  this  monarch,  was,  a  somewhat  humili¬ 
ating  expression  of  surprise  that  the  high  idea 
which  the  King  entertained  of  himself,  and  the 
low  opinion  he  had  of  men,  might  possibly  be 
amenable  to  exceptions  ;  after  that,  the  embarrass¬ 
ment  which  a  small  mind  naturally  and  inevitably 
experiences  in  the  presence  of  a  great  one.  This 
effect  might  be  attended  with  beneficial  results, 
even  if  it  were  not  any  thing  more  than  to 
shake  for  a  moment  the  prejudices  of  this  man, 
and  make  him  feel  that,  beyond  the  narrow  circle 
of  his  present  thoughts,  movements  he  had  never 
dreamed  of,  might  still  occur.  This  single  sound 
might  leave  a  long  echo  in  his  life,  and  the  im¬ 
pression  must  be  the  more  durable  the  more  unex¬ 
ampled  it  was. 

But  Posa  had  judged  the  King  too  super¬ 
ficially;  or,  even  if  he  had  known  him,  he  was  too 
little  aware  of  this  man’s  present  state  of  mind  to 
consider  its  full  bearing  upon  the  King’s  conduct. 
This  state  of  mind  was  exceedingly  favorable  to 
Posa’s  statements  and  secured  for  them  a  recep¬ 
tion  which  he  could  not  have  expected.  The 
unexpected  discovery  of  the  King’s  favorable  dis¬ 
position  animates  his  discourse,  and  imparts  an 
unexpectedly  new  turn  to  the' play.  Emboldened 
by  a  success  which  surpassed  all  his  expectations, 
fired  by  a  few  symptoms  of  humanity  which  he 
discovered  in  the  King,  he  is  beguiled  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  by  the  extravagant  notion  of  connecting  his 
ruling  ideal  of  the  happiness  of  Flanders  directly 
with  the  King’s  own  person  and  realizing  it  by 
the  King  himself.  This  conception  enkindles  a 
warmth  in  his  nature,  which  shows  the  whole  depth 
of  his  soul,  reveals  all  the  aspirations  of  his  fancy, 
all  the  results  of  his  silent  thoughts,  and  shows 
most  manifestly  to  what  an  extent  he  is  ruled  by 
his  ideal  projects.  In  his  mental  excitement  he 
shows  the  motives  which  have  prompted  his  con¬ 
duct  hitherto ;  he  now  behaves  like  every  enthu¬ 
siast  who  is  carried  away  by  his  ruling  idea.  He 
knows  no  bounds ;  in  the  fire  of  his  enthusiasm 
he  exalts  the  King  who  listens  to  him  in  utter 
astonishment,  and  he  forgets  himself  so  far  as  to 
base  upon  the  King’s  conduct  hopes  which  will 
cause  him  to  blush  the  very  next  moment.  Carlos 
now  is  out  of  his  mind.  What  a  circuitous  route 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


339 


if  he  were  to  wait  for  this  one  !  The  King  offers 
him  a  much  nearer  and  readier  realization.  Why 
should  the  happiness  of  mankind  be  postponed 
until  the  son  takes  the  reins  of  power  ? 

Would  the  bosom  friend  of  Carlos  have  for¬ 
gotten  himself  thus  far?  Would  any  other  than 
the  ruling  passion  have  carried  the  Marquis  away 
to  such  extremes  of  boldness?  Every  thing  is 
explained  the  moment  his  friendship  is  made  sub¬ 
ordinate  to  his  ruling  passion.  In  such  a  case  it 
becomes  quite  natural  that  at  the  very  next  oppor¬ 
tunity  friendship  should  reclaim  its  rights,  and 
should  not  hesitate  to  exchange  its  means  and 
instruments. 

The  zeal  and  candor  with  which  Posa  explained 
to  the  King  his  favorite  ideas  that  had  so  far  been 
a  secret  between  Carlos  and  himself,  and  the 
illusion  that  the  King  might  perhaps  understand 
and  realize  them,  constituted  an  act  of  faithless¬ 
ness,  of  which  Posa  made  himself  guilty  toward 
Carlos.  Posa,  a  citizen  of  the  world,  might  act 
so,  and  he  alone  could  be  forgiven  for  observing 
such  conduct ;  but  such  conduct  on  the  part  of 
Carlos  would  have  been  as  condemnable  as  it 
would  on  the  other  hand  have  been  incomprehen¬ 
sible. 

It  is  true  this  delusion  was  not  to  last  longer 
than  a  few  short  moments.  It  is  readily  forgiven 
as  the  product  of  a  first  surprise  of  passion  ;  but 
if  he  had  continued  to  have  faith  in  his  delusion 
in  a  state  of  thoughtful  soberness,  he  wt>uld  then 
have  descended  in  our  estimation  to  the  position 
of  a  mere  dreamer.  That  such  a  delusion  had 
actually  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  is  clear 
from  a  few  passages  where  he  laughs  at  it,  or  seeks 
to  clear  himself  of  it  in  a  serious  manner.  “  Sup¬ 
pose,”  he  says  to  the  Queen,  “  I  entertained  the 
notion  of  placing  my  reliance  upon  the  throne  ?” 

“  QUEEN. 

No,  Marquis  !  no  !  not  even  in  jest  could  I 
Suspect  you  of  so  wild  a  scheme  as  this — 

No  visionary  you  ! — to  undertake 
What  you  can  ne’er  accomplish. 

MARQUIS. 

But  that  seems 

To  be  the  very  point  at  issue.” 

Carlos  himself  has  penetrated  his  friend’s  soul 
to  a  sufficient  depth  to  cause  him  to  suspect  that 
such  a  resolution  is  not  incompatible  with  the 
Marquis’s  judgment  and  ideas  ;  Carlos’  own  utter¬ 
ances  on  this  occasion  justify  the  author’s  point 
of  view.  Still  believing  that  the  Marquis  has 
sacrificed  him,  he  thus  addresses  the  former : 

“  Thou  thyself,  wilt  now 
Fulfill  the  joyous  course  I  should  have  run. 

Thou  wilt  bestow  on  Spain  those  golden  days 
She  might  have  hoped  in  vain  to  win  from  me. 

I’m  lost,  for  ever  lost — thou  saw’st  it  clearly. 

This  fatal  love  has  scattered— and  for  ever, 

All  the  bright  early  blossoms  of  my  mind. 

To  all  thy  great  exalted  hopes,  I’m  dead. 

Chance  led  thee  to  the  King — or  Providence — 

It  cost  thee  but  my  secret — and  at  once 


He  was  thine  own — thou  may’st  become  his 
angel ! 

But  I  am  lost,  though  Spain,  perhaps,  may 
flourish.” 

And  in  another  passage,  he  uses  the  following 
words  to  the  Count  Lerma,  with  a  view  of  excus¬ 
ing  his  friend’s  supposed  faithlessness  : 

“  He  loved  me — loved  me  greatly  :  I  was  dear, 

As  his  own  soul  is  to  him.  That  I  know — 

Of  that  I’ve  had  a  thousand  proofs.  But  should 
The  happiness  of  millions  yield  to  one? 

Must  not  his  country  dearer  to  him  prove 
Than  Carlos  ?  One  friend  only  is  too  few 
For  his  capacious  heart.  And  not  enough 
Is  Carlos’  happiness  to  engross  his  love. 

He  offers  me  a  sacrifice  to  virtue.” 


LETTER  YII. 

Posa  felt  how  much  he  had  taken  from  his 
friend  Carlos  by  confiding  to  the  King  a  statement 
of  his  favorite  aspirations,  and  making  an  attempt 
upon  his  heart.  It  was  because  he  felt  that  these 
aspirations  constituted  the  real  bond  of  friend¬ 
ship  between  him  and  Carlos,  that  he  must  have 
become  conscious  of  having  violated  this  friend¬ 
ship  the  moment  he  profaned  his  aspirations  by 
divulging  them  to  the  King’s  ears.  Carlos  was 
not  aware,  but  Posa  knew  full  well,  that  this  phi¬ 
losophy,  and  these  projects,  constituted  the  sacred 
palladium  of  their  friendship ,  and  the  important 
title  under  which  Carlos  possessed  his  heart.  Pre¬ 
cisely  because  he  knew  this,  and  believed  in  his 
inmost  soul  that  Carlos  must  be  cognizant  of  it, 
how  could  he  dare  to  admit  to  Carlos  that  this 
palladium  had  been  desecrated  by  his  friend? 
To  admit  to  Carlos  what  had  taken  place  between 
himself  and  the  King,  would  have  been  equivalent, 
in  his  own  mind,  to  an  announcement  that  there 
was  a  time  when  Carlos  ceased  to  be  any  thing  to 
him.  If  Carlos’  future  dignity,  if  his  character 
as  the  son  of  a  king  had  no  part  /in  this  friend¬ 
ship  ;  if  this  friendship  was  no  more  than  a  personal 
sympathy,  it  might  have  been"  offended,  but  could 
never  have  been  betrayed,  or  torn  asunder  by 
Posa’s  familiarity  with  the  King;  this  accidental 
circumstance  could  not  have  altered  the  essential 
character  of  his  friendship.  It  was  from  feelings 
of  delicacy  and  compassion  that  the  philanthro¬ 
pist  Posa  concealed  from  the  future  monarch  the 
expectations  which  he  based  upon  the  present 
ruler;  but  Posa,  in  the  capacity  of  Carlos’  friend, 
could  not  have  committed  a  greater  crime  against 
Carlos,  than  by  keeping  him  uninformed  of  the 
King’s  strange  confidence. 

It  is  true,  Posa  assigns  to  himself,  and  after¬ 
ward  to  his  friend,  different  reasons  for  this  reserve, 
which  is  the  source  of  all  subsequent  confusion. 
Fourth  act,  sixth  scene  : 

“  In  me  the  King  has  placed  his  confidence, 

His  holiest  trust  reposed,  as  in  a  casket, 

And  this  reliance  calls  for  gratitude. 

How  can  disclosure  serve  thee,  when  my  silence 


340 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


Brings  thee  no  harm — serves  thee,  perhaps  ?  Ah  ! 
why 

Paint  to  the  traveler  the  impending  storm  ?” 

And  in  the  third  scene  of  the  fifth  act : 

“  But  by  mistaken  delicacy  led, 

And  blinded  by  the  vain  desire  to  end 
My  enterprise  alone,  I  kept  concealed 
From  friendship’s  ear  my  hazardous  design.” 

Any  one  who  has  cast  a  few  glances  only  into 
the  human  heart,  must  see  that  the  Marquis,  who 
does  not  admit  to  himself  the  true  cause  of  his 
conduct,  only  seeks  to  deceive  himself  with  these 
reasons,  which  are  far  too  trivial  to  justify  such  an 
important  step.  The  state  in  which  his  mind  then 
was,  is  much  more  clearly  revealed  by  another  pas¬ 
sage,  where  it  is  distinctly  seen  that  he  must  have 
had  moments  when  he  deliberated  with  himself 
whether  he  had  not  better  sacrifice  his  friend.  He 
says  to  the  Queen  : 

“  I  had  designed  a  new,  a  glorious  morn, 

To  waken  in  these  kingdoms  :  for  to  me 
Philip  had  opened  all  his  inmost  heart — 

Called  me  his  son — bestowed  his  seals  upon  me — 
And  Alva  was  no  more  his  counselor,”  etc. 

“  I  now  give  up 

The  King  for  ever.  What  were  I  to  the  King? 
In  such  cold  soil  no  rose  of  mine  could  bloom  ; 

In  my  great  friend  must  Europe’s  fortune  ripen  ; 
Spain  I  bequeath  to  him,  still  bathed  in  blood, 
From  Philip's  iron  hand.  But  woe  to  him, 

Woe  to  us  both,  if  I  have  chosen  wrong! 

Have  misinterpreted  the  sign  of  Providence, 
Who  placed  me  on  this  throne,  not  him  !” 

These  lines  show  that  he  has  made  a  choice, 
and,  in  order  to  make  a  choice,  he  must  have 
deemed  the  opposite  possible.  From  all  these 
passages  it  is  clear  that  the  interest  of  friendship 
is  subordinate  to  higher  plans  which  determine  its 
direction.  No  one  in  the  whole  play  has  judged 
this  relation  between  the  two  friends  more  cor¬ 
rectly  than  Philip  himself,  of  whom  this  might 
first  be  expected.  Through  the  mouth  of  this 
connoisseur  of  human  nature  I  have  pronounced 
my  apology  and  my  own  opinion  of  the  hero  of 
this  drama ;  let  me  conclude  this  inquiry  with 
Philip’s  own  words  : 

11  And  for  whom  gave  he  his  life? 

For  no  one  but  a  boy ?  no,  never! 

By  friendship’s  cheerless  flicker  this  Posa’s  heart 
Is  not  warmed  to  its  centre  ;  it  beat 
For  all  mankind;  his  passion  was 
The  world  and  future  generations  ” 


LETTER  Till. 

But,  you  may  ask,  why  this  inquiry  ?  What 
matters  it,  by  what  circumstance  the  bond  of 
friendship  between  these  two  natures  was  tied, 
whether  by  an  involuntary  movement  of  the  heart, 


by  harmony  of  character,  a  mutual  personal  de¬ 
pendence  upon  each  other,  by  external  relations 
or  a  free  choice,  the  effect  remains  the  same,  and 
the  conduct  of  the  play  is  not  modified  thereby. 
Why  then  take  all  this  trouble  to  draw  the  reader 
out  of  a  state  of  illusion  which  was  perhaps  dearer 
to  him  than  the  truth  itself?  What  would  become 
of  the  charm  of  most  moral  phenomena,  if  we  had 
to  look  down  into  the  heart  in  every  case,  and 
witness  their  gradual  unfolding?  It  is  sufficient  for 
us  that  every  thing  for  which  the  Marquis  has  an 
affection,  is  united  in  the  Prince,  is  represented  by, 
or  at  any  rate,  can  only  be  realized  by  means  of 
the  Prince  ;  that  he  finally  identifies  in  an  irre¬ 
vocable  manner  this  accidental,  conditional  inter¬ 
est  for  his  friend  with  the  very  being  of  the  latter, 
and  that  all  his  feelings  for  his  friend  culminate  in 
a  personal  affection.  In  such  a  case  we  enjoy  the 
pure  beauty  of  this  picture  of  friendship  simply  as 
a  moral  fact,  no  matter  into  how  many  parts  the 
philosopher  undertakes  to  analyze  it. 

But  suppose  the  correction  of  this  error  should 
be  a  matter  of  importance  to  the  whole  drama? 
If  the  ultimate  aim  of  the  Marquis  lies  beyond 
the  Prince  ;  if  the  Prince  is  of  importance  to  him 
only  as  an  instrument  to  a  higher  end  ;  if  Posa’s 
friendship  only  serves  him  as  a  means  to  gratify 
another  impulse  than  this  friendship,  the  limits  of 
the  play  should  not  have  been  bounded  by  the 
narrow  proportions  of  a  personal  sympathy,  and 
the  ultimate  object  of  the  play  should  at  least 
have  coincided  with  the  Marquis’s  own  project. 
The  fate  of  a  country,  the  happiness  of  mankind 
for  generations  to  come,  at  which  all  the  efforts  of 
the  Marquis  are  aiming,  cannot  constitute  a  mere 
episode  in  an  act  which  lias  for  its  object  the  re¬ 
sult  of  a  love-affair .  If  we  have  misapprehended 
the  meaning  of  Posa’s  friendship,  I  fear  that  the 
ultimate  object  of  the  drama  has  likewise  been 
misapprehended.  Let  me  show  you  this  friend¬ 
ship  from  this  new  point  of  view  ;  it  may  perhaps 
reconcile  you  with  many  apparent  inconsistencies 
which  have  shocked  you  heretofore. 

What  then  becomes  of  the  pretended  unity  of 
the  piece,  if  love  is  not  to  be  it,  and  if  friendship 
never  could  be  ?  The  former  is  the  subject  of  the 
first’  three  acts,  the  latter  that  of  the  two  last ; 
but  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  occupies  the 
whole  play.  Friendship  sacrifices  itself,  and  love 
is  sacrificed,  but  neither  is  sacrificed  to  the  other. 
There  must  then  be  a  third  power  different  from 
either  friendship  or  love,  for  which  both  impulses 
have  worked,  and  to  which  both  are  sacrificed; 
if  the  play  has  a  unity,  where  should  it  be  found, 
if  not  in  this  third  influence  ? 

Recall  to  your  mind  a  certain  conversation 
which  we  carried  on  some  time  a  go  with  consider¬ 
able  vivacity,  about  a  favorite  subject  of  our 
decade,  the  spreading  of  a  purer  and  gentler  hu¬ 
manity,  the  highest  possible  liberty  of  the  indivi¬ 
dual  accompanied  by  the  most  flourishing  condi¬ 
tion  of  the  country,  in  one  word,  the  most  perfect 
development  of  humanity  which  the  powers  of 
man  make  it  possible  to  attain  ;  recall  to  your 
memory  this  delicious  dream  of  our  fancy,  where 
the  heart  delights  to  revel.  We  concluded  our 
conversation  with  the  romantic  desire  that  chance, 
which  has  undoubtedly  achieved  greater  wonders, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


841 


might  be  pleased,  within  the  next  ten  years,  to 
inspire  the  first-born  son  of  some  ruler  on  this  or 
the  other  continent  with  our  thoughts,  with  our 
dreams  and  convictions,  quickened  by  the  same 
intensity  of  enthusiasm  and  good  will.  What 
seemed  mere  play  in  our  conversation,  might,  I 
should  think,  become  sober  earnest  and  truth  in 
a  drama.  What  may  not  the  fancy  conceive,  or 
what  is  it  not  lawful  for  a  poet  to  imagine?  Our 
conversation  had  been  forgotten  when  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  Prince  of  Spain  ;  and  soon  I 
discovered  that  this  young  man  might  be  the 
Prince  in  whom  our  ideal  might  become  embo¬ 
died.  As  soon  as  the  thought  was  conceived,  I 
commenced  to  give  it  shape.  The  circumstances 
favored  my  plan  ;  the  love  of  liberty  struggling 
with  despotism,  the  fetters  of  stupidity  broken, 
hoary  prejudices  shaken,  a  nation  reclaiming  its 
human  rights,  republican  virtue  practiced  in  life, 
clearer  notions  circulating  among  the  people,  the 
minds  in  a  state  of  fermentation,  the  hearts  in¬ 
spired  with  noble  sympathies  for  the  public  good, 
and,  to  complete  the  happy  constellation,  a  noble- 
minded  youth  near  the  throne  grown  up  amid 
oppression  and  suffering,  to  a  state  of  unsullied 
though  isolated  manhood.  We  concluded  that  a 
Prince,  who  was  to  embody  in  himself  all  our  ideal 
perfections,  must  have  learned  unhappiness. 

*  “  Be 

A  man  upon  King  Philip’s  throne! 

You  too  have  suffered — ” 

He  could  not  come  from  the  bosom  of  sensuality 
and  fortune  ;  art  must  not  yet  have  falsified  his 
character,  he  must  not  yet  have  been  stained  by 
the  vices  of  his  age.  But  how  was  a  Prince  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  the  son  of  Philip  the  Sec¬ 
ond,  a  pupil  of  monks,  whose  hardly  ripening 
reason  was  guarded  by  such  rigid  keepers,  to  climb 
up  to  this  liberal  philosophy  ?  This  too  was  pro¬ 
vided  for.  l^ate  gave  him  a  friend,  a  friend  in 
those  critical  years  when  the  blossoms  of  the 
mind  become  uufolded,  when  ideal  perfections  are 
conceived  and  the  heart  is  purified  ;  a  spiritual, 
sensitive  youth  whose  education — why  should  I 
not  indulge  this  supposition? — had  been  watched 
over  by  a  happy  star,  whose  career  had  been  sig¬ 
nalized  by  remarkable  good  fortune,  and  who  had 
been  prepared  for  his  beautiful  mission  by  some 
hidden  sage  of  his  century.  It  is  of  friendship 
that  this  bright  philosophy  is  born,  which  the 
Prince  is  to  carry  out  upon  the  throne.  It  is  in¬ 
vested  with  all  the  charms  of  youth,  with  all  the 
gracefulness  of  poesy;  it  is  deposited  in  his  heart 
with  rays  of  light  and  warmth,  it  constitutes  the 
first  blossoms  of  his  being,  his  first  love.  The 
Marquis  is  deeply  concerned  to  preserve  this 
youthful  freshness  of  the  mind,  to  perpetuate  in 
it  his  philosophy  as  an  object  of  passionate  ado¬ 
ration,  without  which  he  would  never  be  able  to 
conquer  the  difficulties  that  he  will  meet  in  carry¬ 
ing  out  the  behests  of  his  inspiring  philanthropy. 
“Tell  him,”  he  charges  the  Queen, — 

“Tell  him,  in  manhood,  he  must  still  revere 
The  d  reams  of  early  youth,  nor  ope- the  heart 
Of  Heaven’s  all-tender  flower,  to  canker-worms 


Of  boasted  reason, — nor  be  led  astray, 

When,  by  the  wisdom  of  the  dust,  he  hears 
Enthusiasm,  heavenly-born,  blasphemed. 

I  have  already  told  him — .” 

Between  the  two  friends  the  project  ripens  of 
producing  the  happiest  state  which  it  is  possible 
for  human  society  to  attain ;  it  is  the  conflict  be¬ 
tween  this  enthusiastic  project  and  personal  pas¬ 
sion,  which  constitutes  the  subject  of  the  present 
drama.  The  problem  was  to  depict  a  Prince  who 
was  to  realize  the  highest  possible  ideal  of  civil 
society  during  his  reign,  not  to  first  educate  this 
Prince  for  such  an  object ;  this  had  to  have  been 
done  long  before,  it  could  not  well  have  been 
made  the  subject  of  a  play ;  still  less  could  he  have 
been  shown  engaged  in  the  work  of  realizing  the 
ideal,  for  this  would  have  been  transgressing  the 
narrow  bounds  of  a  tragedy.  The  question  was 
simply  to  show  this  Prince,  to  develop  in  him,  as 
•a  ruling  power,  the  state  of  the  soul  upon  which 
such  an  effect  is  to  depend,  and  to  raise  the  sub¬ 
jective  possibility  of  such  a  state  to  a  high  degree 
of  probability,  unconcerned  whether  and  when  for¬ 
tune  and  chance  will  realize  it. 


LETTER  IX. 

Let  me  be  more  explicit  in  regard  to  my  last 
statements. 

The  young  man  of  whom  this  extraordinary 
effect  had  to  be  expected,  had  to  have  conquered 
the  passions  that  might  have  proved  dangerous 
obstacles  to  such  an  undertaking ;  like  yonder 
Roman,  he  had  to  hold  his  hand  over  burning  coal 
in  order  to  convince  us  that  he  was  capable  of 
conquering  pain ;  he  had  to  pass  through  a  fiery 
ordeal,  and  come  out  proof  against  pain.  It  is 
only  after  we  have  seen  him  struggle  successfully 
against  internal  obstacles,  that  we  may  expect  of 
him  a  triumph  over  the  external  obstacles  which 
may  obstruct  his  path  as  a  reformer ;  it  is  only 
after  we  have  seen  him  successfully  resist  the 
temptation  of  sensuality  in  spite  of  the  fire  of 
youth,  that  we  may  safely  rely  upon  his  victorious 
firmness  in  the  ripe  age  of  manhood.  What  pas¬ 
sion  could  have  produced  this  effect  more  certainly 
than  the  most  powerful  of  all  passions — love  ? 

All  the  passions  of  which  any  evil  results  might 
be  dreaded  for  the  great  end  for  which  I  have  re¬ 
served  him,  have  been  banished  from  his  heart,  or 
have  never  lived  in  it;  except  the  passion  love. 
Living  in  the  midst  of  a  depraved  and  immoral 
court,  he  has  preserved  the  purity  of  his  first  in¬ 
nocence  :  it  is  neither  by  his  love,  nor  by  the 
power  of  principles  that  he  has  been  preserved 
from  pollution,  but  by  his  moral  instinct. 

“  Lust’s  poisoned  shaft  was  .spent  on  this  pure 
breast, 

Long  ere  Elizabeth  inspired  this  love." 

Toward  the  Princess  ‘Eboli,  whom  both  passion 
and  design  caused  so  often  to  forget  herself  in  his 
presence,  he  shows  an  innocence  which  borders  on 
silliness.  How  many  of  my  readers  would  have 


342 


LETTERS  O N  DON  CARLOS. 


understood  the  Princess  much  more  quickly  ?  It 
was  my  intention  to  show  a  purity  in  his  disposi¬ 
tion  which  no  seductive  arts  could  influence. 
The  kiss  which  he  gave  to  the  Princess,  was,  ac¬ 
cording  to  his  own  statement,  the  first  kiss  he  ever 
gave,  and  this  certainly  was  a  virtuous  kiss.  But 
it  was  my  desire  to  show  him  superior  to  a  more 
cunning  seduction ;  hence  the  episode  with  the 
Princess  Eboli,  whose  seductive  arts  are  defeated 
by  his  purer  love.  It  is  against  this  love  alone 
thit  he  has  to  struggle,  and  virtue  will  possess 
him  entirely  after  he  shall  have  succeeded  in  con¬ 
quering  this  passion  ;  this  subject  makes  up  part 
of  the  plot.  You  now  perceive  why  the  Prince’s 
character  has  been  delineated  asT  have  seen  fit 
to  do  in  the  play ;  why  I  have  permitted  this 
beautiful  nature  to  be  disturbed  by  so  much  vehe¬ 
mence  and  such  an  inflammable  disposition,  as 
limpid  water  is  rendered  turbid  by  violent  motion. 
He  had  to  possess  a  gentle  and  benevolent  heart, 
enthusiasm  for  greatness  and  moral  beauty,  deli¬ 
cacy,  courage,  firmness,  disinterested  generosity; 
he  had  to  display  beautiful  and  bright  intuitions 
and  capacities,  but  it  was  not  my  intention  to 
endow  him  with  wisdom.  The  great  man  had  to 
be  slumbering  in  his  nature,  but  his  ardent  tem¬ 
perament  had  as  yet  to  prevent  him  from  being 
great  now.  Whatever  constitutes  an  exalted 
ruler,  whatever  may  justify  the  expectations  of 
his  friend,  and  the  hopes  of  an  expecting  world, 
whatever  is  required  to  enable  him  to  realize  his 
ideal  of  a  future  monarchy,  had  to  be  found  united 
in  this  character,  but  without  any  perfect  develop¬ 
ment,  without  being  perfectly  purified  of  the  vehe¬ 
mence  of  passion,  without  beiug  transformed  into 
pure  gold.  It  was  my  object  to  bring  him  nearer 
to  that  perfection  in  which  he  is  yet  deficient.  If 
the  character  of  the  prince  had  been  more  perfect, 
I  might  have  been  spared  the  trouble  of  writing 
the  play.  You  now  see  why  it  was  necessary  to 
allow  such  a  vast  range  to  the  characters  of 
Philip  and  his  compeers  ;  it  would  have  been  an 
inexcusable  fault,  if  these  characters  had.  simply 
been  used  as  tools  for  the  involution  and  evolu¬ 
tion  of  a  love-affair  ;  it  must  especially  have  become 
clear  to  you  why  spiritual ,  political ,  and  domestic 
despotism  was  permitted  such  a  vast  field.  Inas¬ 
much  as  I  had  designed  in  my  play  to  show  the 
gradual  preparation  of  the  author  of  human 
happiness,  it  was  expedient  to  contrast  with  him 
the  author  of  miser;/,  and,  by  presenting  a  coni- 
plete  and  horjpd  picture  of  despotism,  to  place  its 
charming  opposite  in  a  much  more  beautiful  light. 
We  behold  the  despot  on  his  gloomy  throne,  we 
see  him  starving  in  the  midst  of  his  treasures,  we 
hear  him  say  that  he  feels  alone  in  the  midst  of 
his  subjects,  that  the  furies  of  suspicion  disturb 
his  sleep,  that  his  creatures  offer  him  molten 
gold  in  the  place  of  a  refreshing  beverage.  We 
follow  him  iu  his  solitary  chamber,  where  we  be¬ 
hold  the  ruler  of  a  continent  as  he  prays  for  the 
gift  of  a  human  being,  and,  after  his  prayer  has 
been  granted,  destroys  again  with  frantic  rage  the 
present  of  which  he  was  no  longer  worthy.  We 
see  him  minister,  without  knowing  it,  to  the  basest 
passions  of  his  slaves  ;  we  see  how  dexterously 
they  tsvist  the  cords  by  which  they  guide,  like  a 
mere  boy,  the  despot  who  imagines  he  is  the  sole 


author  of  his  actions.  He,  at  whose  nod  distant 
continents  tremble,  is  seen  giving  a  debasing  ac¬ 
count  before  an  imperious  priest,  and  doing  severe 
penance  for  a  trifling  transgression.  We  see  him 
struggle  against  Nature  and  humanity,  which  he 
is  unable  entirely  to  overcome,  although  he  is  too 
proud  to  recognize  its  power,  and  too  feeble  to 
resist  its  sway  ;  robbed  of  all  the  enjoyments  of 
human  nature,  but  persecuted  by  its  weaknesses 
and  terrors  ;  severed  from  his  kind,  in  order  to  ex¬ 
cite  our  pity  as  a  monstrous  compound  of  creature 
and  creator.  We  despise  this  greatness,  but  we 
mourn  over  his  perverse  understanding,  for  be¬ 
neath  all  this  distortion,  we  still  perceive  human 
traits  which  make  him  one  of  us,  and  are  the  cause 
of  the  misery  that  he  is  suffering.  The  more,  how¬ 
ever,  we  are  repelled  by  the  frightful  picture  of 
the  despot,  the  more  powerfully  we  are  attracted 
by  the  enchanting  image  of  gentle  humanity  which 
we  see  so  angelically  unfolded  in  Carlos’,  his 
friend’s,  and  the  Queen’s  characters. 

Now,  my  friend,  review  the  play  once  more 
from  this  new  point  of  view.  What  has  seemed 
to  you  an  unnecessary  crowding  of  the  complica¬ 
tions  of  passion,  may  seem  to  you  less  so  now ; 
the  elements  of  the  play  may  seem  to  you  to  coa¬ 
lesce  more  naturally  in  this  new  unity  about  which 
we  have  become  agreed.  I  might  continue  the 
thread  which  I  have  taken  up,  but  I  will  content 
mvself  with  having  indicated  in  a  few  outlines,  the 
points  concerning  which  the  piece  itself  furnishes 
the  clearest  and  fullest  information.  It  may  be 
that,  in  order  to  fully  appreciate  the  leading  idea 
of  the  play,  it  may  be  necessary  to  study  the  piece 
with  more  attention  than  is  generally  bestowed 
upon  the  perusal  of  this  class  of  compositions  ;  but 
the  object  which  the  artist  has  sought  to  reach, 
should  have  been  accomplished  at  the  end  of  the 
play.  What  constitutes  the  end  of  a  tragedy, 
should  have  formed  the  body  of  the  plot,  and  now 
let  us  see  how  Carlos  takes  leave  of  us  and  of  his 
queen. 

“  I  have 

Laid  in  a  long  and  heavy  dream, 

I’ve  loved — Now  I  am  sober. 

Forget 

The  past.  I  now  have  learned  to  know 
That  there  are  goods  more  priceless  than  thy  love. 
Here  are  your  letters,  destroy  all  mine  to  you ! 
Fear  not  my  passion  now,  for  all  is  ended ; 

A  purer  flame  has  purified  my  heart. 

I  will  erect  a  tomb-stone  for  my  friend, 

Such  as  no  kingly  sepulchre  can  boast. 

A  paradise  shall  blossom  o’er  his  ashes.” 

“ QUEEN. 

Thus  do  I  like  to  see  you ! 

This  was  the  exalted  meaning  of  his  death.” 


LETTER  X. 

I  neither  belong  to  the  order  of  illuminati  nor 
to  that  of  free-masons,  but  if  these  two  orders 
have  the  same  moral  end,  and,  if  this  moral  end.  is 
the  most  important  for  human  society,  it  must  be 
very  nearly  allied  to  that  which  the  Marquis  Posa 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


343 


had  proposed  to  himself.  What  these  two  orders 
seek  to  accomplish  by  the  secret  union  of  a  number 
of  active  members  scattered  throughout  society, 
the  Marquis  undertakes  to  achieve  in  a  more  com¬ 
plete  and  shorter  manner  by  a  single  subject ;  that 
is  to  say,  by  means  of  a  Prince  who  is  the  legiti¬ 
mate  heir  to  the  most  powerful  throne  in  the 
world,  and  by  this  elevated  position  is  enabled  to 
carry  out  such  a  work.  He  seeks  to  impress  this 
Prince  with  the  ideas  and  sentiments  from  which 
this  beneficent  effect  must  follow  as  a  necessary 
consequence.  Many  of  my  readers  may  find  this 
subject  too  abstract  and  serious  for  a  drama;  in¬ 
deed,  if  they  expected  nothing  more  than  the 
picture  of  a  passion,  I  must  have  disappointed 
them;  but  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  an  attempt 
might  be  worthily  made  of  “  transferring  truths 
which  must  appear  most  sacred  to  any  one  who 
takes  an  interest  in  his  fellowmen,  and  which 
have  hitherto  been  the  exclusive  property  of  sci¬ 
ence,  to  the  domain  of  the  fine  arts,  to  animate 
them  with  light  and  warmth,  and  to  exhibit  them 
as  living  impulses  in  the  heart  of  man,  engaged  in 
a  vigorous  conflict  with  the  passions.”  If  the 
genius  of  tragedy  has  punished  me  for  this  trans¬ 
gression  of  his  boundaries,  a  few  not  unimportant 
ideas,  which  have  been  scattered  through  the  play, 
are  not,  on  that  account,  lost  to  the  honest  finder 
who  may  perhaps  be  agreeably  surprised  to  find 
observations  which  he  may  remember  having  read 
in  Montesquieu,  applied  and  confirmed  in  a  tra¬ 
gedy. 


LETTER  XI. 

Before  I  take  final  leave  of  our  friend  Posa,  let 
me  say  a  few  additional  words  concerning  his 
mysterious  conduct  toward  the  prince  and  con¬ 
cerning  his  death. 

He  who  entertained  such  high  notions  of  free¬ 
dom,  and  had  this  word  continually  in  his  mouth, 
has  been  reproached  by  many  with  the  despotic 
manner  which  he  arrogated  to  himself  toward  his 
friend  :  he  has  been  accused  of  guiding  the  latter 
blindly  like  a  child,  and  thus  leading  him  to  the 
brink  of  the  precipice.  How  can  it  be  excused, 
you  say,  that  the  Marquis,  instead  of  revealing  to 
to  him  at  once  the  relation  which  is  now  existing 
between  the  Marquis  and  the  King ;  instead  of 
concerting  with  Carlos  the  necessary  measures  in 
a  sensible  manner,  and  preventing,  by  an  open 
communication  of  his  own  projects,  all  the  hasty 
steps  to  which  the  Prince  might  be,  and  afterward 
really  is  drawn  by  ignorance,  distrust,  fear,  and 
indiscreet  zeal,  how  can  Posa,  instead  of  taking 
this  innocent  and  natural  course,  be  excused  for 
running  an  extreme  risk,  for  awaiting  these  con¬ 
sequences  which  might  have  been  so  easily  avoided, 
and  afterward,  when  these  consequences  have 
actually  Lappened,  seeking  to  remedy  them  by  a 
mec^ure  which  may  result  as  unfavorably  as  it 
seems  brutal  and  unnatural,  to  wit,  by  the  arrest 
of  the  Prince  ?  He  knew  his  friend’s  docile  heart. 
Quite  recently  we  had  had  a  proof  of  the  power 
which  Posa  exercised  over  it.  Two  words  might 
have  rendered  this  harsh  measure  unnecessary. 


Why  does  he  resort  to  intrigue  whereas  a  straight 
course  would  have  enabled  him  to  reach  his  end 
more  speedily  and  safely? 

Since  this  violent  and  mistaken  conduct  of  the 
Marquis  has  led  to  all  the  subsequent  scenes,  and 
more  particularly  to  his  death,  it  has  been  inferred 
with  rather  undue  haste,  that  the  poet  had  been 
induced  by  this  insignificant  advantage,  to  do  vio¬ 
lence  to  the  internal  truth  of  this  character,  and 
to  force  the  natural  development  of  the  plot  into 
an  unnatural  channel.  This  being  undoubtedly 
the  shortest  and  most  convenient  method  of  ac¬ 
counting  for  the  strange  conduct  of  the  knight, 
it  was  no  longer  deemed  necessary  to  look  for  a 
more  direct  explanation  in  the  total  workings  of 
his  character  ;  it  would  be  asking  too  much  of  a 
critic  to  suppress  his  verdict  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  it  may  not  be  favorable  to  the  au¬ 
thor.  But  I  fancied,  nevertheless  that  I  had  ob¬ 
tained  some  claim  to  this  equitable  treatment, 
because  I  have  more  than  once  sacrificed  in  the 
play  mere  brilliancy  of  dramatic  effect  to  truth. 

It  is  undeniable  that  the  character  of  the 
Marquis  Posa  would  have  gained  in  beauty  and 
purity,  if  he  had  acted  in  a  more  straight-forward 
manner,  and  had  remained  elevated  above  the  ig¬ 
noble  resources  of  intrigue.  I  own  that  this 
character  appealed  powerfully  to  my  sympathies, 
but  truth  appealed  more  mightily.  I  believe  if  to 
be  true  “that  love  for  some  real  object ,  and  love 
for  an  ideal  must  be  as  unequal  in  their  effects  as 
they  differ  in  their  essence  ;  that  the  most  disin¬ 
terested,  the  purest  and  noblest  man  frequently  in¬ 
clines,  from  enthusiastic  devotion  to  Ids  notion 
of  virtue  and  to  the  happiness  he  intends  to  real¬ 
ize,  to  act  as  arbitrarily  toward  individuals  as  the 
most  selfish  despot,  for  the  reason  that  both  direct 
their  efforts  toward  a  subject  which  resides  within , 
notwithout  them,  and  that  a  person  who  fashions  his 
actions  in  accordance  with  an  internal,  imaginary 
model,  embarrasses  the  freedom  of  others  as  much  as 
the  one  whose  chief  aim  is  his  own  self”  True  moral 
greatness  frequently  leads  to  violations  of  other 
persons’  liberty  as  much  as  egotism  and  the  love 
of  rule,  for  the  reason  that  such  greatness  con¬ 
siders  the  act  itself,  and  not  a  person,  as  its  main 
object.  It  is  because  it  is  continually  aiming 
at  'the  whole  that  the  lesser  interest  of  the  indi¬ 
vidual  is  but  too  readily  overlooked  within  the 
limits  of  this  vast  horizon.  Virtue  performs  great 
deeds  for  the  sake  of  the  law,  enthusiasm  for  the 
sake  of  the  ideal,  and  love  for  the  sake  of  its 
object.  Among  the  first  class  we  expect  to  find 
lawyers,  judges,  kings  ;  among  the  second  class 
heroes ,  but  our  friend  only  among  the  third  class. 
We  worship  the  first,  admire  the  second,  love  the 
third.  Carlos  has  found  reason  to  regret  having 
chosen  a  great  man  for  his  bosom  friend. 

“  What  is  the  Queen  to  thee?  Say,  dost  thou  love 
her  ? 

Could  thy  exalted  virtue  ever  consult 
The  petty  interests  of  my  wretched  passion  ? 

Well,  there’s  nothing  to  condemn  it,  if  not 
My  own  mad  blindness.  Oh,  I  should  have  known 
That  thou  art  no  less  great  than  tender-hearted. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Marquis  leads  him  to  act 


344 


LETTERS  ON  DON  CARLOS. 


without  noise,  without  companions,  in  silent 
greatness.  Quietly  as  Providence  takes  care  of 
a  sleeping  person,  he  desires  to  untie  the  knot  of 
his  friend’s  fate,  he  wants  to  save  him  after  the 
fashion  of  a  God;  and  by  this  means  he  ruins 
him.  In  looking  up  too  high  at  his  ideal  of  vir¬ 
tue,  and  not  stooping  sufficiently  to  watch  his 
friend,  he  ruins  both  him  and  himself.  Carlos 
perishes  because  his  friend  is  not  content  with 
saving  him  in  an  ordinary  manner. 

This  arrangement,  it  seems  to  me,  coincides 
with  a  rather  remarkable  experience  in  the  moral 
sphere,  which  every  body  must  have  noticed  who 
has  taken  some  pains  to  look  around  or  to  watch 
the  course  of  his  own  sentiments*.  It  is  this  : 
that  the  moral  motives  which  are  suggested  by 
some  imaginary  ideal  of  excellence,  are  not  spon¬ 
taneously  rooted  in  the  human  heart,  and,  because 
they  have  been  grafted  upon  it  by  artificial  means, 
do  not  always  produce  beneficial  results,  but  are 
frequently  exposed  to  injurious  abuses  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  changes  so  naturally  arising  from  the 
movements  of  human  nature.  It  is  by  practical 
laws,  not  by  the  artificial  abstractions  of  the 
theoretical  reason,  that  man  should  be  guided  in 
his  moral  acts.  Every  system  of  ideal  morality 
being  nothing  more  than  an  idea  which,  like  all 
other  ideas,  partakes  of  the  limited  point  of  view 
of  its  author,  and,  in  its  application,  is  incapable 
of  the  universal  acceptation  in  which  it  had  been 
conceived  by  the  author’s  mind  :  such  a  system 
must  become  an  exceedingly  dangerous  instru¬ 
ment  in  the  hands  of  an  enthusiast,  were  it  for  no 
other  reasons  than  those  which  we  have  just  now 
stated  ;  but  still  more  dangerous  on  account  of 
its  readily  perfected  alliance  with  passions  which 
are  more  or  less  found  in  every  human  heart:  I 
mean  love  of  rule,  vanity,  and  pride,  which  take 
possession  of,  and  become  indissolubly  united  with 
the  moral  ideal.  To  select  only  a  single  example 
among  many,  mention  the  author  of  a  sect  or 
fraternity  who,  in  spite  of  the  purest  motives  and 
noblest  sentiments,  has  remained  perfectly  free 
from  an  arbitrary  disposition  in  his  arrangements, 
from  violence  toward  the  liberty  of  others,  from 
the  spirit  of  mysteriousness  and  love  of  dominion? 
Who,  in  carrying  out  a  moral  object  essentially 
free  from  all  impure  admixture,  in  agreement  with 
the  ideal  purity  in  which  his  reason  had  conceived 
it,  has  not  been  imperceptibly  led  to  encroach-, 
ments  upon  other  people’s  liberty,  to  the  violation 
of  rights  which  had  always  been  sacred  to  him, 
and  to  the  exercise  of  the  most  arbitrary  despot¬ 
ism,  without,  moreover,  altering  his  intentions,  or 
sullying  the  high  character  of  his  motives?  I 
account  for  this  phenomenon  by  the  want  of  finite 
reason  to  shorten  its  course,  to  simplify  its  busi¬ 
ness,  and  to  substitute  general  principles  in  the 
place  of  individualities  that  distract  and  confound 
it;  by  the  general  disposition  of  the  human  heart 
to  rule,  or  by  the  universal  desire  to  push  every 
thing  out  of  the  way  that  might  be  an  obstacle  to 
the  free  play  of  our  powers.  On  this  account  I 
selected  a  man  of  benevolent  character  soaring 
far  above  every  selfish  desire,  I  endowed  him  with 
the  highest  respect  for  the  rights  of  others.  I 
made  it  his  object  to  realize  the  enjoyment  of 
universal  liberty,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have 


gone  contrary  to  universal  experience,  in  allowing 
him  to  assume  the  manners  of  despotism  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  was  engaged  in  securing 
his  great  ideal.  It  was  part  of  my  plan  to  allow 
him  to  fall  into  the  snares  which  beset  every  one 
who  is  engaged  in  similar  pursuits.  How  easy  it 
would  have  been  for  me  to  lead  him  safely  through 
these  temptations,  and  to  procure  for  the  reader 
who  had  learned  to  love  him,  the  unalloyed  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  all  the  other  great  qualities  of  Posa’s 
character,  if  I  had  not  deemed  it  a  greate:  gain 
to  remain  true  to  human  nature,  and  to  confirm 
by  his  example  an  experience  which  we  can  never 
heed  with  too  much  earnest  attention.  I  allude 
to  the  experience  that  it  is  not  without  danger 
that  in  moral  things  we  swerve  from  the  practical 
tact  of  the  heart  in  order  to  soar  to  general  ab¬ 
stractions  ;  that  it  is  far  safer  for  man  to  confide 
himself  to  the  inspirations  of  his  heart,  or  to  the 
actual  and  individual  feeling  of  right  and  wrong, 
than  to  the  dangerous  direction  of  universal  theo¬ 
ries  of  the  reason,  which  are  the  product  of  arti¬ 
ficial  speculation — for  nothing  that  is  not  natural 
can  lead  to  good. 


LETTER  XII. 

It  now  remains  to  say  a  few  words  concerning 
the  sacrifice  he  made  of  his  life. 

He  has  been  censured  for  precipitating  himself 
into  the  jaws  of  death,  when  he  might  have  saved 
his  life.  Not  every  thing  was  lost.  Why  might 
he  not  have  escaped  as  easily  as  his  friend?  Was 
he  watched  more  closely  than  the  latter?  Did 
not  his  friendship  for  Carlos  impose  upon  him  the 
duty  of  preserving  himself  for  his  friend  ?  Might 
not  his  life  have  been  of  more  service  to  Carlos 
than  his  death  would  probably  be,  even  if  every 
thing  had  turned  out  as  he  expected?  Might  he 
not — ah,  indeed,  what  might  not  have  been  done 
by  the  calm  spectator,  and  how  much  more  wisely 
and  discreetly  might  he  have  taken  care  of  his 
life!  What  a  pity  that  the  Marquis  should  nei¬ 
ther  have  possessed  the  happy  coolness  nor  the 
leisure  required  for  a  rational  survey  of  the  conse¬ 
quences  !  But,  it  may  be  said,  the  artificial  and 
even  ingenuous  means  to  which  he  had  recourse 
in  order  to  insure  his  death,  cOuld  not  possibly 
have  occurred  to  him  at  once,  without  some  re¬ 
flection  ;  why  did  he  not  employ  the  time  he  con¬ 
sumed  in  contriving  his  death,  in  thinking  of  some 
suitable  plan  of  saving  his  life,  or  in  seizing  that 
which  he  had  immediately  at  hand,  and  which  the 
most  shortsighted  reader  must  have  thought  of. 
If  he  did  not  mean  to  die  for  the  purpose  of  dying, 
or,  as  one  of  my  critics  expresses  himself,  if 
he  did  not  court  death  in  order  to  obtain  the 
crown  of  martyrdom ,  we  can  scarcely  comprehend 
how  the  means  which  he  contrived  to  achieve  his 
destruction,  can  have  suggested  themselves  to  his 
mind  more  readily  than  the  much  more  natural 
means  of  saving  his  life.  This  criticism  is  very 
plausible,  and,  for  this  reason,  deserves  a  more 
than  passing  reply. 

In  the  first  place  this  objection  is  based  upon 
the  erroneous  supposition  which  has  been  refuted 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


345 


In  my  previous  letters,  that  the  Marquis  died  only  I 
for  his  friend ;  this  could  not  possibly  be  the 
case,  if,  as  I  have  shown,  he  did  not  live  for 
him ,  and  if  this  friendship  had  an  entirely  different 
aim  from  what  has  been  supposed.  He  cannot 
have  died  for  the  purpose  of  saving  the  Prince; 
it  is  very  possible  that,  in  order  to  accomplish 
this  purpose,  he  may  have  thought  of  other  and 

less  violent  means  than  his  own  death -  “  he 

dies,  in  order  to  do  and  to  give  for  his  ideal,  which 
he  had  deposited  in  the  Prince’s  soul,  every  thing 
that  it  is  possible  for  any  man  to  do  or  to  give  for 
that  which  is  dearest  to  him  ;  in  order  to  show  to 
him  in  the  most  effectual  manner  within  his  reach, 
how  intensely  he  believes  in  the  truth  and  beauty 
of  his  project,  and  how  important  the  accomplish¬ 
ment  thereof  is  to  him he  dies  for  his  project  in 
the  same  spirit  as  other  great  men  have  died  for  a 
truth  which  they  desired  to  see  followed  and  re¬ 
cognized  by  many ;  in  order  to  show  by  his  exam¬ 
ple  that  this  truth  was  worthy  of  every  sacrifice. 
When  the  lawgiver  of  Sparta  saw  his  work  ac¬ 
complished,  and  the  Delphian  oracle  had  declared 
that  Sparta  would  flourish  as  long  as  the  Spartans 
should  respect  his  laws,  he  convoked  the  people 
and  demanded  of  them  that  they  should  bind 
themselves  by  an  oath  not  to  alter  the  new  con¬ 
stitution  until  he  should  have  returned  from  a 
journey  which  he  was  on  the  point  of  undertaking. 
As  soon  as  this  promise  had  been  solemnly  made, 
Lycurgus  left  the  territory  of  Sparta,  ceased  to 
partake  of  food,  and  his  return  was  expected  in 
vain.  Previous  to  his  death  he  ordered  his  ashes 
to  be  thrown  into  the  sea,  so  that  not  an  atom  of 
his  frame  might  be  sent  back  to  his  native  land, 
and  his  fellow-citizens  might  even  be  deprived  of 
the  shadow  of  an  excuse  to  make  a  change.  Could 
Lycurgus  have  seriously  believed  to  bind  the  Spar¬ 
tan  people  by  this  ruse,  and  to  protect  his  laws 
from  all  innovations?  Can  it  be  supposed  that  a 
man  whose  life  was  so  important  to  his  native 
land,  should  have  sacrificed  it  for  such  a  romantic 
whim  ?  But  his  self-sacrifice  becomes  invested 
with  greatness  and  dignity,  if  we  suppose  that  he 
gave  up  his  life  in  order  to  make  an  indelible  im¬ 
pression  upon  the  hearts  of  his  Spartans  by  the 
extraordinary  manner  of  his  death,  and  in  order 
to  spread  around  his  work  a  halo  of  sacredness  by 
exciting  feelings  of  tenderness  and  admiration  for 
its  author. 

Secondly ;  it  is  easily  seen  that  the  question,  in 
this  case,  is  not  how  necessary ,  how  natural,  and 
how  useful  this  expedient  was  in  reality ,  but  how 
far  it  appeared  so  to  him  who  had  to  contrive  it, 
and  with  how  much  ease  or  difficulty  the  con¬ 
trivance  was  effected.  It  is  not  so  much  the  con¬ 
dition  of  things  as  the  moral  condition  of  the  per¬ 
son  upon  whom  they  act,  that  we  have  to  consi¬ 
der.  If  the  Marquis  is  familiar  with  the  ideas 
which  lead  him  to  his  heroic  resolution,  if  they 
occur  to  him  quickly,  spontaneously,  his  resolu¬ 
tion  is  at  once  cleared  of  all  appearance  of  affec¬ 
tation  ;  if  these  ideas  occupy  the  foreground  in 
his  soul,  and  if  the  thoughts  which  might  have 
suggested  a  milder  development,  are  pressed  into 
the  background  bj^  the  former,  his  resolution  be¬ 
comes  necessary ;  if  the  sentiments  which  would 
combat  this  resolution  in  any  other  person,  have 


little  influence  over  him,  the  execution  of  his  re¬ 
solution  cannot  appear  difficult  to  him.  This 
point  requires  a  close  examination. 

First. — Under  what  circumstances  does  he  take 
this  resolution  ?  In  the  most  torturing  situa¬ 
tion,  in  which  any  man  has  ever  been  placed, 
where  his  soul  is  assaulted  by  terror,  doubt, 
indignation  against  himself,  pain  and  despair. 
Terror: — he  sees  his  friend  on  the  point  ol  re¬ 
vealing  to  a  woman  with  whose  mortal  enmity 
against  the  latter  he  is  fully  acquainted,  a  secret 
upon  which  the  preservation  of  the  friend’s  life 
depends.  Doubt — he  knows  not  whether  the  se¬ 
cret  has  been  divulged  or  not.  If  the  Princess 
is  acquainted  with  it,  he  has  to  act  toward  her  as 
a  co-conspirator  ;  if  she  does  not  yet  know  it,  a 
single  syllable  may  make  him  a  traitor,  the  mur¬ 
derer  of  his  friend.  Indignation  against  himself 
■ — he  alone,  by  his  unfortunate  silence,  has  drag¬ 
ged  the  Prince  into  this  haste.  Pain  and  despair 
— he  sees  that  his  friend  is  lost,  and  with  his 
friend  he  loses  all  the  hopes  which  he  had  based 
upon  him. 

“  Forsaken  by  thy  only  friend — ’twas  then — 

Thou  sought’st  the  arms  of  Princess  Eboli — 

A  demon’s  arms  !  ’Twas  she  betrayed  thee,  Carlos  1 
I  saw  thee  fly  to  her — a  dire  foreboding  *  *  *  * 
Struck  on  my  heart — I  followed  thee,  too  late  ! 
Already  wert  thou  prostrate  at  her  feet, 

The  dread  avowal  had  escaped  thy  lips — 

No  way  was  left  to  save  thee.” 

At  this  moment  when  his  soul  is  assailed  by  so 
many  different  emotions,  he  is  to  improvise  the 
means  of  saving  his  friend;  what  means  can  he 
think  of?  He  has  lost  his  clearness  of  judgment, 
and  no  longer  sees  the  thread  which  a  calm  reason 
alone  is  capable  of  conducting.  He  is  no  longer 
master  of  his  own  thoughts  ;  he  is  therefore  in 
the  powrer  of  such  ideas  as  are  most  lucid  and 
most  familiar  to  his  mind. 

What  is  the  character  of  these  ideas?  Who 
does  not  infer  from  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  as 
we  see  it  unrolled  before  our  eyes,  that  his  fancy 
is  filled  with  images  of  romantic  greatness,  that 
the  heroes  of  Plutarch  are  living  in  his  soul,  and 
that  of  two  expedients  the  heroic  one  first  occurs 
to  it?  Did  not  his  interview  with  the  King  show 
us  what  and  how  much  this  man  is  capable  of 
risking  for  that  which  seems  to  him  true,  beauti¬ 
ful,  and  excellent?— What  is  more  natural  than 
that  the  indignation  which  he  now  experiences 
against  himself,  should  prompt  him  to  first  hit 
upon  such  means  of  safety  as  involve,  personal 
sacrifice ;  that  he  believes  it  due  to  justice  to 
effect  the  salvation  of  his  friend  at  his  oicn  ex¬ 
pense,  since  it  is  through  his  own  indiscretion 
that  this  friend’s  life  has  been  imperiled  !  Con¬ 
sider  moveover  that  he  hastens  as  much  as  pos¬ 
sible  to  free  himself  from  this  state  of  suffering, 
to  reconquer  the  free  enjoyment  of  his  nature, 
and  the  government  of  his  own  emotions.  You 
must  admit  that  a  mind  like  Posa’s  seeks  the 
means  of  safety  within,  not  without  itself ;  and., 
whereas,  the  prudent  man  would  have  thought  of 
first  examining  on  all  sides  the  situation  where  he 
found  himself  placed,  until  he  should  have  nis- 


346 


STUDY  OF  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 


covered  a  favorable  opening  :  the  heroic  enthu¬ 
siast  is  impelled,  by  the  natural  bent  of  his  char¬ 
acter,  to  shorten  the  road,  aud  to  regain  his  self- 
respect  by  some  extraordinary  deed,  by  some  in¬ 
stantaneous  exaltation  of  his  being.  These  views 
explain  to  us  the  resolution  of  the  Marquis  as  an 
heroic  palliative,  by  means  of  which  he  seeks  to 
escape  from  a  momentary  feeling  of  gloomy  de¬ 
spair ,  the  most  horrid  condition  in  which  such  a 
spirit  can  be  plunged.  Add  to  this  that  from  his 
boyhood,  from  the  very  day  when  Carlos  offered 
himself  voluntarily  as  his  substitute  for  the  inflic¬ 
tion  of  a  severe  penalty,  his  ^oul  was  tormented 
by  a  desire  to  render  this  generous  service  to  his 
friend,  that  it  was  oppressed  by  thisf  feeling  as  by 
the  load  of  an  unpaid  debt,  and  that  these  remi¬ 
niscences  must  have  greatly  strengthened  the  mo¬ 
tives  which  now  prompted  him  to  act.  That  Car¬ 
los’  early  devotion  must  have  been  hovering  be¬ 
fore  his  soul,  is  evident  from  a  passage,  where 
the  recollection  thereof  escapes  his  lips.  Car¬ 
los  urges  him  to  flee  before  the  consequences 
of  his  bold  step  overtake  him.  “Was  I  so  con¬ 
scientious,  Carlos,”  he  replies  to  him,  “  when  thou, 
a  mere  boy,  bledst  for  me?”  The  Queen,  carried 
away  by  her  grief,  accuses  him  of  having  harbored 
this  resolution  for  a  long  time  past. 

“  No !  no  !  you  rush 

Headlong  into  a  deed  you  deem  sublime. 

Do  not  deceive  yourself:  I  know  you  will ; 

Long  have  you  thirsted  for  it.” 

Finally  it  is  not  my  intention  to  purge  the  Mar¬ 
quis  of  fanaticism.  Fanaticism  and  enthusiasm 
are  so  closely  allied,  their  line  of  demarkation  is 
so  delicate,  that  it  is  easily  leaped  across  by  one 
in  a  state  of  passionate  excitement.  The  Marquis 
has  only  a  few  moments  to  make  his  choice.  The 
same  state  of  mind,  in  which  he  resolves  to  do 
the  deed,  is  the  same  in  which  he  executes  it.  He 
is  not  granted  the  privilege  of  surveying  his  reso¬ 
lution  once  more  in  another  state  of  mind,  before 
he  executes  it — who  knows  whether  he  might  not 
have  altered  it?  Such  a  change  of  mind,  for  in¬ 
stance,  has  occurred  on  his  leaving  the  Queen. 
“  Ah,”  he  exclaims,  “  life  is  beautiful !” — But  this 
discovery  was  made  too  late.  He  wraps  himself  up 
in  the  greatness  of  his  deed  in  order  not  to  expe- 
perience  any  regret  on  account  of  it. 


WHAT  MEANS,  AND  FOR  WHAT  PURPOSE  DO  WE 
STUDY  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 

AN  ACADEMICAL  INTRODUCTORY.* 

Gentlemen,  I  feel  honored  by,  and  rejoice  at  the 
duty  of  traversing  by  your  side  a  field  that  affords 
so  many  objects  of  instruction  to  the  thinking 
observer,  such  splendid  models  for  imitation  to 
the  active  politician,  such  important  revelations 
to  the  philosopher,  and  such  rich  sources  of  ex¬ 
alted  entertainment  to  every  body — I  mean  the 

*  With  this  Introductory  the  author  began  his  course 
of  historical  lectures  in  Jena.  It  was  first  published  in 
the  German  “Mercur”  in  November,  1789. 


vast  field  of  universa.  nistory.  The  sight  of  so 
many  young  men,  whom  a  noble  desire  of  know¬ 
ledge  gathers  around  me,  and  among  whom  more 
than  one  active  genius  is  already  ripening  for 
future  generations,  makes  my  duty  a  pleasure  to 
me,  but  likewise  impresses  me  most  fully  with  the 
stern  importance  of  my  task.  The-  greater  the 
gift  which  I  am  to  present  to  you — and  what 
greater  gift  can  man  give  toman  than  truth? — 
the  greater  care  shall  I  have  to  take  that  the 
value  of  this  gift  is  not  diminished  in  my  hands. 
The  more  genuinely  and  quickly  the  youthful 
mind  receives  ideas,  especially  during  the  happy 
years  of  incipient  manhood,  the  more  easily  your 
youl  hful  feelings  can  be  inflamed  :  the  more  sacred 
my  duty,  not  to  fritter  away  by  illusions  and 
sophistical  arguments  the  enthusiasm  which  it  is 
the  legitimate  right  of  truth  alone  to  enkindle. 

Fruitful  and  comprehensive  is  the  domain  of 
history ;  the  whole  moral  world  is  embraced  within 
its  boundaries.  History  accompanies  man  in  all 
situations,  follows  him  through  all  changes  of 
opinion,  observes  him  in  his  folly  and  wisdom,  in 
the  deterioration  as  well  as  the  elevation  of  his 
race,  and  gives  an  account  of  every  thing  that 
man  has  taken  from  or  added  to  himself.  There 
is  not  one  of  you  whom  history  may  not  teach  an 
important  lesson  ;  it  bears  in  some  measure  upon 
the  destinies  of  each  of  you;  but  there  is  one 
destiny  which  you  all  have  in  common ;  it  is  that 
which  was  assigned  to  each  of  you  at  his  birth,  the 
destiny  of  developing  himself  as  a  man  ;  and  it  is 
man  whom  history  addresses. 

Before  attempting  to  define  more  minutely  your 
expectations  concerning  this  subject,  and  to  indi¬ 
cate  the  relation  it  holds  to  the  special  object  of 
your  diversified  studies,  it  may  not  be  superfluous 
that  we  should  first  agree  about  the  nature  of  the 
object  which  you  seek  to  realize  by  your  studies. 
A  previous  settlement  of  this  point  which  seems 
to  me  of  sufficient  importance  to  constitute  the 
beginning  of  our  future  academical  connection, 
will  enable  me  to  at  once  direct  your  attention  to 
the  worthiest  aspect  of  universal  history. 

A  routine-student  follows  a  different  plan  in  the 
pursuit  of  science  from  that  which  constitutes  the 
privilege  of  the  philosophical  mind.  The  former, 
whose  sole  and  exclusive  object  it  is  to  fulfill  the 
conditions  that  will  fit  him  for  an  office  and  se¬ 
cure  his  participation  in  its  benefits,  and  whose 
mental  activity  has  no  higher  aim  than  the  im¬ 
provement  of  his  material  condition,  and  the 
gratification  of  a  petty  ambition  ;  such  a  one, 
upon  entering  the  university,  knows  of  no  more 
important  business  than  to  separate  the  sciences 
which  bear  more  immediately  upon  the  acquisition 
of  a  livelihood,  from  all  those  that  interest  the 
mind  only  as  a  mental  being.  It  would  seem  to 
him  as  though  he  were  robbing  his  future  vocation 
of  the  time  he  devotes  to  the  latter.  Such  rob¬ 
bery  he  would  consider  unpardonable.  He  will 
regulate  his  whole  industry  by  the  demands  which 
the  future  master  of  his  destiny  makes  upon  him, 
and  he  will  imagine  that  he  has  done  every  thing 
he  ought  to  do,  if  he  has  prepared  himself  to  meet 
this  judge.  After  he  has  finished  his  course,  and 
reached  the  goal  of  his  wishes,  he  dismisses  his 
scientific  pursuits  as  unnecessary.  His  greatest  el- 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


347 


fort  now  consists  in  displaying  the  treasures  he  has 
accumulated  in  his  memory,  and  maintaining  their 
value  at  par.  Every  new  discovery  or  addition  to 
his  bread-and-butter  science  disturbs  him,  because 
new  ideas  make  new  work,  or  render  his  past  labor 
useless  ;  every  important  innovation  frightens  him, 
for  it  breaks  in  upon  the  old  doctrines  which  he 
had  appropriated  to  himself  with  so  much  labor, 
and  exposes  him  to  the  danger  of  losing  the  work 
of  bis  former  years.  By  whom  have  reformers 
been  more  bitterly  denounced  than  by  routine- 
students  ?  By  whom  are  useful  revolutions  in  the 
domain  of  knowledge  more  bitterly  opposed  than 
by  this  class  ?  Every  light  which  is  kindled  by 
some  fortunate  genius,  no  matter  in  what  science, 
exposes  their  indigence;  they  fight  with  bitter¬ 
ness,  with  malice,  with  despair,  because  in  defend¬ 
ing  their  scholastic  systems,  they  are  contending 
for  their  very  existence.  Hence  no  more  irrecon¬ 
cilable  enemy,  no  more  envious  colleague,  no  more 
willing  accuser  of  heresy  than  a  routine-student. 
Ihie  less  he  is  internally  rewarded  by  his  know¬ 
ledge,  the  more  brilliant  rewards  he  seeks  outside 
of  himself:  the  work  of  day-laborers  and  the 
work  of  minds,  he  measures  by  the  same  standard, 
labor.  Hence,  nobody  complains  more  of  ingrati¬ 
tude  than  the  routine-student;  his  own  mental 
treasures  do  not  constitute  his  reward  ;  public 
acknowledgments,  honors,  offices  have  to  reward 
him  for  his  labor.  If  these  fail  him,  who  is  more 
unhappy  than  he  ?  He  has  lived,  watched,  la¬ 
bored  in  vain  ;  his  inquiries  after  truth  are  in 
vain,  if  truth  is  not  converted  into  gold,  news¬ 
paper  praise,  or  kingly  favor. 

Pitiable  man  who  seeks  and  reaches  no  higher 
end  with  the  noblest  instruments, — science  and 
art, — than  the  day-laborer  with  the  meanest;  who 
moves  in  the  empire  of  boundless  freedom  with 
the  soul  of  a  slave  !  Still  more  pitiable  the  young 
man  whose  naturally  beautiful  development  is  mis¬ 
directed  into  such  a  lamentable  channel  by  injurious 
teachings  and  examples :  who  is  beguiled  by  others 
into  gathering  materials  for  his  future  calling  with 
the  penurious  care  of  a  miser.  Very  soon  his  pro¬ 
fessional  knowledge  will  disgust  him  as  something 
fragmentary ;  desires  will  whisper  in  his  heart 
which  this  knowledge  will  be  unable  to  gratify ; 
his  genius  will  rebel  against  his  destiny.  What 
he  does  seems  to  him  fragmentary  ;  his  activity 
does  not  seem  to  have  an  object,  and  yet  this 
objectless  existence  is  to  him  intolerable.  The 
fatigue  and  the  petty  details  of  his  calling  press 
him  down,  because  he  cannot  oppose  them  with 
the  cheerful  courage  which  is  only  afforded  by  a 
lucid  intelligence,  by  a  lofty  aspiration  after  per¬ 
fection.  He  feels  like  one  cut  off  from,  snatched 
out  of,  the  universal  unity  of  things?,  because  he 
has  taken  no  pains  to  bring  his  mental  labor  in 
union  with  the  great  system  of  the  universe.  The 
lawyer  becomes  disgusted  with  law  as  soon  as  the 
dawn  of  a  higher  civilization  discloses  its  nudities, 
whereas  he  should  endeavor  to  become  the  foun¬ 
der  of  a  new  and  better  system,  and  to  remedy 
out  of  his  own  fullness  the  imperfections  of  the 
old.  The  physician  becomes  displeased  with  his 
profession  as  soon  as  important  errors  reveal  to 
him  the  insufficiency  of  his  art ;  the  theologian 


ceases  to  respect  his  science,  if  his  faith  in  the 
infallibility  of  his  dog  mas  begins  to  waver. 

How  differently  does  the  philosophical  mind 
worship  at  the  shrine  of  science !  With  the 
same  care  that  the  routine-student  seeks  to  sever 
his  science  from  all  others,  the  philosophical  stu¬ 
dent  endeavors  to  enlarge  its  domain,  and  to  re¬ 
store  its  union  with  the  other  sciences  ;  I  say, 
to  rest-ore;  for  it  is  the  pure  understanding  alone 
that  has  drawn  lines  of  demarkation  between  the 
sciences.  Where  the  routine-student  draws  such 
lines,  the  philosophical  inquirer  seeks  to  unite  the 
elements  of  knowledge.  At  an  early  period  he  has 
become  convinced  that  in  the  sphere  of  mind,  as 
in  the  sensual  range,  all  things  are  united,  and 
his  active  desire  for  agreement  and  unity  cannot 
be  content  with  fragmentary  knowledge.  All  his 
efforts  tend  to  perfect  his  own  ;  his  noble  impa¬ 
tience  will  not  rest  until  all  his  ideas  have  become 
co-ordinated  in  a  beautiful  whole,  until  he  occupies 
the  centre  of  his  art  and  science,  whence  he  mav 
survey  their  domain  with  an  eye  of  delight.  New 
discoveries  within  the  range  of  his  functions, 
which  crush  the  routine-student,  enchant  the 
philosophical  mind.  Perchance  they  fill  a  gap 
by  which  the  nascent  unity  of  his  knowledge  had 
been  interrupted  hitherto  ;  or,  may  be,  complete 
his  mental  fabric  by  adding  to  it  the  last  stone 
that  was  still  wanting.  But  even  if  this  fabric 
should  be  dashed  to  pieces  ;  if  his  scientific  struc¬ 
ture  should  be  completely  overturned  by  a  new 
series  of  ideas,  a  new  phenomenon,  a  newly-dis¬ 
covered  law  in  physical  nature,  he  has  loved  truth 
more  than  his  system,  and  with  pleasure  he  will 
exchange  the  old  and  defective  form  with  a  new 
and  more  perfect  one.  Yes,  if  no  blow  from  with¬ 
out  disorganize  his  fabric,  he  himself,  impelled  by 
an  ever-active  desire  for  improvement,  is  the  first 
to  take  his  system  to  pieces,  in  order  to  recon¬ 
struct  it  with  increased  beauty.  Through  ever 
new  and  more  beautiful  forms  of  thought,  the 
philosophical  mind  progresses  to  higher  degrees 
of  excellence,  whereas  the  routine-student  guards 
in  the  perpetual  prison-house  of  his  mind  the 
sterile  sameness  of  his  scholastic  acquirements. 

There  is  no  more  equitable  judge  of  the  merit 
of  others  than  the  philosophical  inquirer.  En¬ 
dowed  with  sufficient  ingenuity  and  genius  to 
profit  by  every  manifestation  of  power,  he  is  like¬ 
wise  sufficiently  equitable  to  honor  the  author  of 
the  least  important  discovery.  All  minds  work 
for  him  ;  all  minds  work  against  the  routine-stu¬ 
dent.  The  former  knows  how  to  appropriate  to 
his  own  use  whatever  is  done  and  thought  around 
him  ;  between  thinking  minds  there  is  an  intimate 
community  of  spiritual  good  ;  what  one  has  ac¬ 
quired  in  the  empire  of  truth,  he  has  acquired  for 
all.  The  routine-student  fences  himself  in  against 
his  neighbors,  whom  envy  prompts  him  to  deprive 
of  light  and  sun,  and  he  guards  with  a  careful 
anxiety  the  decaying  barrier  which  defends  him 
but  feebly  against  the  inroads  of  a  triumphant 
reason.  For  every  thing  that  the  routine-student 
undertakes,  he  has  to  borrow  incentives  and  en¬ 
couragement  from  without ;  the  philosophical  in¬ 
quirer  derives  his  incentive  and  reward  from  his 
subject,  from  his  industry.  With  how  much  more 


348 


STUDY  OF  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 


enthusiasm  does  he  begin  ;  with  how  much  more 
perseverance  will  he  continue  his  work  ;  with  how 
much  more  fire  and  energy  will  he  devote  himself 
to  his  labor  that  becomes  brighter  and  more  en¬ 
couraging  as  he  progresses  with  his  task  !  In  his 
creating  hand  even  trifles  become  great  things ; 
for  he  is  continually  aiming  at  greatness  to  which 
even  trifles  may  minister,  whereas  the  routine- 
student  regards  great  things  even  as  small.  The 
philosophical  inquirer  is  not  distinguished  by  that 
which  he  does,  but  by  the  manner  in  which  he 
attends  to,  and  accomplishes  his  work.  Wherever 
he  is  placed,  he  is  always  placed  in  the  centre  of 
the  whole  ;  how  far  soever  the  object  of  his  activity 
may  separate  him  from  his  co-laborers  in  the  do¬ 
main  of  science,  he  is  affiliated  with  them  by  har- 
monv  of  mind  :  he  meets  them  where  all  clear 

•/  7 

minds  do  meet. 

Shall  I  continue  these  delineations  still  further, 
or  may  I  hope  that  you  have  already  decided  which 
of  these  pictures  you  intend  to  adopt  as  your 
model  ?  It  will  depend  upon  this  decision  whether 
the  study  of  universal  history  will  be  a  profit  or  a 
burden  to  you.  I  shall  address  myself  exclusively 
to  the  philosophical  mind  ;  for  by  endeavoring  to 
benefit  the  routine-student,  I  might  cause  too  wide 
a  breach  between  science  and  its  high  aim,  thus 
purchasing  a  small  profit  at  too  high  a  p^ice. 

Having  come  to  an  understanding  with  you  re¬ 
garding  the  point  of  view  from  which  the  value  of 
science  should  be  determined,  I  may  now  attempt 
to  define  the  object  of  universal  history,  for  which 
purpose  we  have  met. 

The  discoveries  that  have  been  made  by  Euro¬ 
pean  navigators  upon  distant  oceans  and  along 
distant  coasts,  afford  us  a  spectacle  as  instructive 
as  it  is  entertaining.  They  show  us  tribes  occu¬ 
pying  the  most  varied  degrees  of  culture,  as  chil¬ 
dren  of  various  ages  are  grouped  around  a  full- 
grown  man,  and  remind  him  by  their  example  of 
what  he  has  been  and  from  what  point  he  has 
started  on  his  course.  A  wise  hand  seems  to  have 
reserved  these  rude  tribes  for  a  period  when  we 
would  have  become  sufficiently  advanced  in  civili¬ 
zation  to  make  a  useful  application  of  this  dis¬ 
covery  to  onrselves,  and  to  restore  the  lost  begin¬ 
nings  of  our  race  by  the  reflections  of  this  mirror. 
How  humiliating  and  gloomy  is  the  image  which 
these  tribes  present  to  us  of  our  infancy  !  and  yet 
it  is  not  the  first  degree  where  we  see  them.  At 
the  beginning,  man  was  a  much  lower  creature. 
These  tribes  already  constitute  political  bodies, 
peoples ;  it  was  only  by  extraordinary  exertions 
that  man  was  enabled  to  form  a  political  society. 

What  .do  travelers  relate  to  us  of  these  sav¬ 
ages?  Many  were  found  unacquainted  with  the 
most  indispensable  arts,  without  iron,  without 
a  plow,  some,  even,  without  fire.  Many  of 
them  still  disputed  with  wild  beasts  about 
food  and  shelter ;  among  many,  speech  had 
scarcely  ascended  from  the  sounds  of  animals  to 
intelligible  utterances.  Here  marriage  was  as  yet 
unknown  ;  yonder  a  knowledge  of  property  was 
wanting  ;  here  the  feeble  soul  was  unable  to  retain 
the  remembrance  of  an  experience  which  it  made 
day  alter  day  ;  thoughtlessly  the  savage  aban¬ 
doned  his  couch  to-day,  because  he  was  unable  to 
comprehend  that  he  would  have  to  sleep  again  to¬ 


morrow.  All  tribes  waged  war  against  each  other : 
and  the  flesh  of  the  vanquished  was  the  prize  of 
victory.  Among  others  who  were  already  familiar 
with  various  comforts  of  life,  and  who  had  already 
reached  a  higher  degree  of  culture,  slavery  and 
despotism  showed  their  horrible  traces.  Here  an 
African  despot  sold  his  subjects  into  bondage  for 
a  glass  of  brandy;  yonder  they  were  slaughtered 
upon  his  grave  in  order  to  serve  him  in  the  lower 
regions.  Here  pious  stupidity  lies  prostrate  be¬ 
fore  a  fetich,  vonder  before  some  horrid  monster. 
Man  depicts  himself  in  his  gods.  Yonder  he  is 
humiliated  as  much  by  bondage,  stupidity,  and 
superstition,  as  he  is  here  rendered  miserable  by 
the  opposite  extreme  of  lawless  freedom.  Ever 
prepared  for  attack  and  defense,  frightened  by 
every  noise,  the  savage  pricks  his  startled  ear  in 
the  wilderness  ;  whatever  is  new  is  hostile  to  him, 
and  woe  to  the  stranger  whom  a  storm  casts  away 
on  his  shore!  No  smoke  will  ascend  for  him 
from  the  hospitable  hearth  ;  no  shelter  will  re¬ 
fresh  his  exhausted  limbs  ;  and  even  in  countries 
where  man  has  elevated  himself  from  a  hostile 
solitude  to  social  life,  from  famine  to  affluence, 
from  fear  to  joy — how  monstrous  and  fantastic 
he  appears  to  our  eyes !  His  crude  taste  seeks 
mirth  in  stupefaction,  beauty  in  distortion,  glory 
in  extravagance ;  even  his  virtue  excites  in  us 
feelings  of  horror,  and  what  he  calls  his  happi¬ 
ness,  rouses  a  sensation  of  loathing  and  pity  in 
our  hearts. 

This  is  what  we  were.  Eighteen  hundred  years 
ago  Caesar  and  Tacitus  found  us  not  much  bet¬ 
ter. 

What  are  we  now  ?  Let  me  dwell  for  a  moment 
upon  the  age  where  we  live,  upon  the  present 
condition  of  the  world  in  which  we  live. 

Human  industry  has  cultivated  it,  and  has  con¬ 
quered  the  refractory  soil  by  perseverance  and 
skill.  Yonder,  man  has  won  land  from  the  sea ; 
here,  he  has  caused  rivers  to  flow  through  arid  re¬ 
gions.  Zones  and  seasons  have  been  mingled  by 
man’s  care,  and  the  delicate  vegetation  of  the 
East  has  been  acclimated  under  his  rougher  skv. 
As  he  transported  Europe  to  the  West  Indies 
and  the  South  Sea,  so  he  has  caused  Asia  to  arise 
in  Europe.  A  bright  sky  now  smiles  over  the 
forests  of  Germany,  which  the  strong  hand  of  man 
has  opened  to  the  sunbeam,  and  in  the  flood  of 
the  Rhine  the  grape-vines  of  Asia  are  mirrored. 
On  its  shores  we  behold  populous  cities,  through 
which  rove  merry  crowds,  stimulated  by  pleasure 
and  work.  Here  we  find  every  single  man  safe 
among  a  million  in  the  possession  of  his  property, 
whereas  formerly  a  single  neighbor  deprived  him 
of  his  rest.  The  equality  which  he  lost  by  the 
social  compact,  has  been  restored  to  him  by  wise 
laws.  From  the  blind  compulsion  of  chance  and 
necessity  he  has  sought  refuge  under  the  rule  of 
contracts,  and  he  has  given  up  the  freedom  of  a 
beast  of  prey,  in  order  to  save  the  nobler  freedom 
of  man.  His  cares  have  been  distributed  among 
many,  his  labors  have  been  divided.  Now  impe¬ 
rious  want  no  longer  drives  him  to  the  plow,  no 
enemy  calls  him  from  the  plow  to  the  battle¬ 
field  to  defend  his  country’s  penates.  With  the- 
arm  of  the  farmer  he  fills  his  barns,  with  the  wea-. 
pons  of  the  warrior  he  protects  his  territory.  The 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


349 


law  watches  over  his  property,  and  he  has  pre¬ 
served  the  inestimable  right  of  selecting  for  him¬ 
self  his  own  duty. 

How  many  creations  of  art,  how  many  wonders 
of‘ industry,  what  a  flood  of  light  in  all  the  re¬ 
gions  of  knowledge,  since  man  is  no  longer 
obliged  to  waste  his  energies  in  the  sad  defense 
of  himself;  since  it  has  been  left  to  his  own  free 
choice  to  come  to  terms  with  necessity,  from 
whose  rule  he  is  never  wholly  to  be  enfranchised  ; 
since  he  has  acquired  the  precious  privilege  to 
govern  his  own  capacities  and  to  follow  the  call 
of  his  genius.  What  activity,  since  the  multi¬ 
plied  wants  have  given  new  wings  to  the  genius 
of  invention,  and  have  opened  new  channels  for 
human  skill  !  The  barriers  of  hostile  egotism  are 
broken,  which  separated  states  and  nations.  All 
thinking  minds  are  now  united  by  a  cosmopolitan 
bond  of  friendship,  and  all  the  light  of  his  age 
may  now  illuminate  the  mind  of  a  modern  Galilai 
or  Erasmus. 

Since  the  laws  have  descended  toward  human 
weakness,  man  has  ascended  to  meet  the  laws.  As 
the  laws  became  less  stringent,  his  nature  was  cor¬ 
respondingly  softened  ;  the  abolition  of  barbarous 
penalties  has  been  gradually  followed  by  the  dimi¬ 
nution  of  barbarous  crimes.  A  great  step  toward 
a  nobler  civilization  is  made,  if  the  laws  become 
more  virtuous,  although  man  should  not  yet  be  so. 
Where  forced  duties  recede  from  him,  the  rule  of 
moral  custom  takes  their  place.  He  who  is  not 
intimidated  by  punishment  or  held  in  check  by 
conscience,  is  now  restrained  by  the  laws  of  pro¬ 
priety  and  honor. 

It  is  true,  many  barbarous  features  of  former 
ages  have  penetrated  into  our  own  ;  they  are  the 
offspring,  of  chance  and  violence,  which  should  not 
be  perpetuated  by  the  age  of  reason.  But  what 
useful  and  appropriate  applications  has  man’s  un¬ 
derstanding  made  of  the  barbaric  institutions  that 
have  been  handed  down  to  us  by  former  ages  ! 
How  innocuous  and  even  how  useful  have  laws 
and  customs  been  made  which  it  would  have  been 
as  yet  too  hazardous  to  abolish  !  It  is  upon  the 
barbarous  foundation  of  feudal  anarchy  that  Ger¬ 
many  erected  her  .system  of  political  and  ecclesi¬ 
astical  liberty.  The  shadow  o.f  the  Roman  Em¬ 
peror,  which  has  been  preserved  on  this  side  of 
the  Apennines,  is  far  more  useful  to  the  world  now 
than  his  prototype  was  to  ancient  Rome ;  for  it 
keeps  a  useful  political  system  together  by  the 
bonds  of  concord ;  the  ancient  system  pressed 
down  the  most  active  powers  of  humanity  under 
the  slavish  yoke  of  uniformity.  Even  our  reli¬ 
gion,  so  woefully  disfigured  by  the  faithless  hands 
that  have  transmitted  it  to  us,  who  does  not  re¬ 
cognize  the  ennobling  influence  that  a  more  en¬ 
lightened  and  more  elevated  philosophy  has  had 
upon  it?  Our  Leibnitz’s  and  Lockels  have  done 
as  much  for  Christian  dogmas  and  ethics  as  the 
pencil  of  a  Raphael  and  Correggio  has  done  for 
sacred  history. 

Finally:  Our  states,  how  intimately  are  they 
united  !  How  much  more  durably  is  their  harmo¬ 
nious  union  cemented  by  the  beneficent  restraints 
of  necessity  than  it  formerly  was  by  the  most 
solemn  compacts  !  Peace  is  now  guarded  by  an 
everlasting  readiness  for  war,  and  the  egotism  of 


one  state  makes  it  the  guardian  of  the  prosperity 
of  its  neighbor.  The  European  political  system 
seems  like  one  great  family,  whose  members  may 
be  enemies,  without,  I  trust,  being  permitted  to 
lacerate  each  other. 

What  a  contrast  of  pictures  !  Who  would  sus¬ 
pect  to  see  in  the  refined  European  of  the  eigh¬ 
teenth  century  nothing  but  a  more  advanced 
brother  of  the  modern  Indian  or  the  ancient  Celt? 
All  these  talents,  artistic  impulses,  contrivances  ; 
all  these  creations  of  the  reason  have  been  planted 
and  developed  in  man  in  the  space  of  a  few  thou¬ 
sand  years  ;  all  these  marvels  of  art,  these  gigan¬ 
tic  works  of  industry  have  been  evoked  by  his 
genius.  What  has  vitalized  the  slumbering  powers, 
what  has  realized  these  great  works?  What  con¬ 
ditions  has  man  passed  through  before  he  ascended 
from  one  extreme  to  the  other,  from  the  inhospit¬ 
able  inhabitant  of  a  cavern  to  the  sphere  of  a 
spiritual  thinker,  of  a  cultivated  man  of  society? 
Universal  history  will  answer  this  question. 

The  same  immeasurable  inequalities  are  ex¬ 
hibited  by  the  same  people,  inhabiting  the  same 
region,  if  viewed  in  different  periods.  No  less 
striking  is  the  difference  exhibited  by  the  same 
race  in  different  countries.  AVhat  a  variety  of 
customs,  constitutions  and  manners !  What 
striking  contrasts  of  darkness  and  light,  of  anarchy 
and  order,  of  happiness  and  misery  are  exhibited 
by  the  human  race  in  the  single  continent  of  Eu¬ 
rope  !  Free  on  the  Thames,  and  indebted  for  this 
freedom  to  himself!  here  unconquerable  between 
his  Alps,  yonder  unconquered  between  his  art’fi- 
cial  rivers  and  marshes  !  On  the  Vistula  miser¬ 
able  and  without  vig^r  in  consequence  of  his  dis¬ 
cord  ;  and  equally  miserable  and  without  vigor 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Pyrenees  in  consequence 
of  his  idleness.  Opulent  and  prosperous  in  Am¬ 
sterdam  without  agriculture;  indigent  and  un¬ 
happy  in  the  unimproved  Paradise  of  the  Ebro. 
Here  two  distant  nations  separated  by  an  ocean, 
made  neighbors  by  want,  industry,  and  political 
bonds  ;  yonder  the  inhabitants  on  two  sides  of  a 
river  immeasurably  separated  by  different  litur¬ 
gies!  What  has  led  Spain’s  power  across  the 
Atlantic  ocean  into  the  heart  of  America,  without 
causing  it  to  leap  across  the  Tago  and  the  Gua- 
diana?  AVhat  has  preserved  so  many  thrones  in 
Italy,  and  Germany;  and  in  France,  has  caused 
them  all  to  disappear  except  one?  Universal 
history  solves  this  question. 

The  privilege  which  we  enjoy  of  meeting  here 
at  this  moment,  possessing  the  present  degree  of 
national  culture,  with  our  present  language,  cus¬ 
toms,  political  advantages,  and  liberty  of  con¬ 
science,  is  perhaps  the  result  of  all  the  previous 
events  in  the  history  of  the  world  :  at  any  rate, 
universal  history  would  have  to  be  taxed  to  ac¬ 
count  for  this  single  circumstance.  In  order  that 
we  might  meet  here  as  Christians,  this  religion, 
whose  advent  had  to  be  prepared  by  innumerable 
revolutions,  had  to  issue  from  Judaism  ;  it  had  to 
find  the  Roman  empire  precisely  as  it  was  found, 
which  would  enable  Christianity  to  extend  its  vic¬ 
torious  career  over  the  world,  and  finally  to  ascend 
the  throne  of  the  Caesars.  Our  rude  ancestors  in 
the  Thuringian  forests  had  to  succumb  to  the 
power  of  the  Franks,  who  imposed  their  faith  upon 


350 


STUDY  OF  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 


the  former.  By  his  growing  riches,  by  the  ignor¬ 
ance  of  the  people,  and  by  the  weakness  of  their 
rulers,  the  clergy  had  to  be  favored  in  their  at¬ 
tempts  to  abuse  their  authority,  and  to  convert 
their  silent  power  over  the  consciences  into  a  po¬ 
litical  sword.  Through  a  Gregory  and  Innocent 
the  pontifical  hierarchy  had  to  empty  all  its  horrors 
upon  the  human  race,  in  order  that  an  intrepid 
Augustinian  monk  might  be  induced,  by  the  uni¬ 
versal  depravity  and  the  crying  scandal  of  spiritual 
despotism,  to  raise  the  standard  of  revolution,  and 
to  snatch  one-half  of  Europe  from  the  clutches  of 
the  pope.  If  we  were  to  meet  here  as  protestant 
Christians,  the  arms  of  our  princes  had  to  compel 
Charles  V.  to  sign  a  religious  peac^ ;  a  Gustavus 
Adolphus  had  to  avenge  the  rupture  of  this  com¬ 
pact,  which  had  to  be  consolidated  anew  and  for 
centuries  by  another  peace.  Cities  had  to  rise  in 
Italy  and  Germany,  had  to  open  their  gates  to 
industry,  break  the  chains  of  serfdom,  snatch  the 
judicial  power  out  of  the  hands  of  ignorant 
tyrants,  and  cause  themselves  to  be  respected  by 
a  warlike  hansa.  If  industry  and  trade  were  to 
flourish,  if  abundance  was  to  invite  the  arts  of 
peace  and  pleasure,  if  the  state  was  to  honor  the 
useful  husbandman,  and  if  the  basis  of  the  per¬ 
manent  happiness  of  the  world  was  to  be  laid  by 
the  creation  of  the  beneficent  middle  class,  the 
originator  of  our  civilization.  The  German  em¬ 
perors  had  to  become  weakened  by  unceasing 
struggles  with  the  popes,  with  their  own  vassals, 
with  jealous  neighbors  ;  Europe  had  to  bury  its 
dangerous  excess  of  population  in  the  tombs  of 
Asia,  and  the  rebellious  insolence  of  a  feudal 
nobility  had  to  be  wiped  out  by  the  bloody  con¬ 
flicts  of  the  club-law,  by  expeditions  to  the  holy 
sepulchre  and  to  Rome;  if  the  chaotic  confusion 
was  to  be  cleared  up,  and  the  contending  political 
powers  were  to  rest  in  the  blissful  equilibrium  of 
which  our  present  leisure  constitutes  the  reward. 
If  our  minds  were  to  be  freed  from  the  ignorance 
in  which  they  had  been  held  captive  by  spiritual 
and  political  despotism,  the  germ  of  erudition  that 
had  been  stifled  for  ages,  must  again  break  forth 
among  her  most  furious  antagonists,  and  an  A1 
Mamun  had  to  restore  to  science  the  loss  which 
an  Omar  had  inflicted  upon  it.  The  unspeak¬ 
able  wretchedness  of  barbarism  had  to  drive  our 
ancestors  from  the  bloody  judgments  of  God  to 
human  tribunals  ;  devastating  epidemics  had  to 
lead  the  erring  healing  art  back  again  to  the  con¬ 
templation  of  natural  laws  ;  monkish  idleness  had 
to  prepare  a  distant  compensation  for  its  evil 
results,  and  the  profane  industry  of  the  cloister 
had  to  preserve  the  scattered  debris  of  the  Augus- 
tinian  age  until  the  art  of  printing  should  flash 
upon  the  world.  Inspired  by  Grecian  and  Roman 
models,  the  debased  spirit  of  northern  barbarians 
had  again  to  ascend  to  higher  and  purer  spheres, 
and  erudition  had  to  conclude  an  alliance  with 
the  muses  and  graces,  if  it  was  to  find  an  avenue 
to  the  human  heart,  and  deserve  the  name  of  a 
civilizer  of  the  human  race.  Would  Greece  have 
given  birth  to  a  Thucydides,  to  a  Plato,  an  Aris¬ 
totle  ;  would  Rome  have  produced  a  Horace,  a 
Cicero,  a  Virgil,  a  Livius,  if  these  two  states  had 
not  reached  the  height  of  political  power  to  which 
they  really  ascended  ?  In  one  word,  if  their  whole 


history  had  not  previously  taken  place?  How 
many  inventions,  discoveries,  political  and  ecclesi¬ 
astical  revolutions  had  to  coincide,  in  order  that 
the  spread  of  these  new  and  delicate  germs  of 
science  and  art  might  be  secured  ?  How  many 
wars  had  to  be  waged,  how  many  alliances  had  to 
be  concluded,  torn  asunder,  and  re-concluded,  in 
order  that  the  principle  of  peace  might  become  the 
leading  political  maxim  of  Europe,  which  alone 
enables  citizens  as  well  as  states  to  watch  over 
their  best  interests,  and  to  unite  their  energies  for 
the  accomplishment  of  noble  ends. 

Even  in  the  daily  business  of  life  we  cannot 
avoid  becoming  the  debtors  of  past  centuries ; 
the  most  unequal  periods  in  the  life  of  humanity 
are  found  to  contribute  to  our  culture,  as  the  most 
distant  continents  contribute  to  our  refinement. 
The  clothes  that  we  are  wearing,  the  condiments 
with  which  we  season  our  food,  the  gold  that  we 
pay  for  them,  a  number  of  our  most  active  reme¬ 
dial  agents,  which  may  likewise  be  used  as  so 
many  means  of  destruction — do  they  not  remind 
us  of  a  Columbus  who  discovered  America,  of  a 
Vasco  de  Gama  who  sailed  round  the  southern 
point  of  the  African  continent? 

We  see  then  that  a  long  chain  of  events  can  be 
traced  from  the  present  moment  to  the  com¬ 
mencement  of  the  human  race,  which  seem  to  bear 
upon  each  other  as  cause  and  effect.  Only  the 
Infinite  Spirit  can  survey  it  wholly  and  com¬ 
pletely  ;  man  moves  within  narrower  limits. 

I.  Many  of  these  events  have  not  occurred  in 
the  presence  of  witnesses  or  have  not  been  re¬ 
corded  by  permanent  signs.  Among  these  events 
we  have  to  number  all  those  that  occurred  pre¬ 
vious  to  the  existence  of  the  human  race,  or  to 
the  invention  of  signs.  The  source  of  all  history 
is  tradition,  and  the  organ  of  tradition  is  speech. 
The  whole  epoch  preceding  the  use  of  speech, 
however  pregnant  with  consequences  it  may  have 
been  to  the  world,  is  lost  to  universal  history. 

II.  Even  after  speech  had  been  discovered,  and' 
it  had  become  possible  to  express  and  communi¬ 
cate  to  others  the  things  which  had  taken  place, 
yet  these  communications  were  carried  on  in  the 
beginning  by  means  of  the  uncertain  and  change¬ 
able  channel  of  tradition.  From  mouth  to  mouth 
such  events  were  perpetuated  through  a  long  line 
of  generations,  a  system  of  recording  events  which 
must  necessarily  partake  of  the  changes  that 
affected  the  transmitting  agents.  Oral  traditions 
constitute  an  exceedingly  uncertain  channel  for 
historical  events ;  hence  such  as  happened  pre¬ 
vious  to  the  introduction  of  written  signs,  are,  so 
to  say,  lost  to  universal  history. 

III.  Written  records  are  not  imperishable;  in¬ 
numerable  monuments  of  antiquity  have  been  de¬ 
stroyed  by  age  and  accidents;  but  few  ancient 
remnants  have  been  preserved  until  the  period 
when  the  art  of  printing  was  invented.  Most  of 
them  have  perished,  and  with  them  we  have  lost 
the  light  that  they  would  have  shed  upon  histori¬ 
cal  events. 

IV.  Most  of  the  records  that  have  been  pre¬ 
served,  have  been  disfigured  and  rendered  unin¬ 
telligible  by  passion,  imperfect  comprehension , 
and  even  by  the  genius  of  their  expounders.  Even 
the  most  ancient  historical  record  excites  our  sus- 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


851 


picion,  nor  does  a  modern  chronicle  convey  cer¬ 
tainty  to  the  mind.  If  an  event  which  took  place 
this  very  day,  among  people  with  whom  we  are 
living,  and  in  a  city  which  we  are  inhabiting,  is 
related  in  so  many  different  ways,  that  we  find  it 
difficult  to  extract  the  truth  from  the  many  con¬ 
tradictory  statements ;  how  can  we  expect  to 
have  a  correct  knowledge  of  nations  and  ages 
that  are  removed  from  us  much  further  by  the 
strangeness  of  their  customs  than  by  age  ?  The 
small  sum  of  events  which  remains  after  making 
all  the  previously-named  deductions,  constitutes 
the  subject  of  history  in.  its  vastest  acceptation. 
What  and  how  much  of  this  belongs  to  universal 
history  ? 

Among  these  events  the  general  historian  dis¬ 
tinguishes  such  as  have  had  an  essential,  incon¬ 
trovertible,  and  readily  perceptible  influence  upon 
the  present  constitution  of  the  world,  and  the  con¬ 
dition  of  living  generations.  In  order  to  gather 
materials  for  universal  history,  we  have  to  regard 
the  relation  between  the  historical  fact  and  the 
present  order  of  things.  Universal  history  starts 
from  a  beginning  which  is  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  Actually,  events  de¬ 
scend  from  the  commencement  of  things  to  their 
most  recent  developments  ;  the  general  historian 
starts  from  the  most  recent  changes  of  society, 
tracing  events  backward  to  the  first  beginning 
of  history.  If  he  ascends  mentally  from  the  pre¬ 
sent  year  and  century  to  the  next  preceding, 
noting  among  the  events  of  the  latter  period  those 
that  shed  light  upon  the  events  of  the  next  fol¬ 
lowing  ;  if  he  continues  this  course  step  by  step, 
to  the  beginning — not  of  the  world,  for  no  guide 
leads  thus  far — but  of  monumental  records  :  he 
may  then  turn  back  by  the  same  road,  and,  guided 
by  the  facts  he  has  noted,  descend  readily  and 
without  impediment  from  the  commencement  of 
monumental  records  to  the  most  recent  period. 
This  is  the  universal  history  we  possess,  and  it  is 
that  which  will  be  expounded  to  you. 

Since  universal  history  is  dependent  upon  the 
abundance  or  paucity  of  sources,  there  must  exist 
as  many  gaps  in  universal  history  as  there  are 
blanks  in  the  series  of  traditions.  Howsoever 
uniformly,  necessarily,  and  precisely,  social  and 
political  changes  succeed  each  other  as  cause  and 
effect,  yet  historically  the  chain  of  events  will  be 
found  interrupted,  and  arbitrarily  or  accidentally 
united.  Between  the  course  of  the  world  and  the 
course  of  universal  history  there  exists  a  marked 
disagreement.  The  world’s  course  may  be  com¬ 
pared  to  an  uninterrupted  stream  of  which  only  a 
few  ripples  are  shown  in  the  mirror  of  universal 
history.  Inasmuch  as  the  connection  between  a 
distant  event  and  the  events  of  the  current  year 
may  become  strikingly  manifest  before  its  con¬ 
nection  with  previous  or  cotemporaneous  events 
is  seen :  it  inevitably  follows  that  events  which 
are  intimately  connected  with  the  latest  epoch 
will  sometimes  appear  isolated  in  the  age  to 
which  they  properly  speaking  belong.  The  ori¬ 
gin  of  Christianity  and  especially  of  Christian 
ethics  is  an  event  of  this  kind.  Christianity  is  so 
deeply  interested  in  the  present  condition  of  the 
world,  that  no  fact  in  universal  history  claims  a 
greater  portion  of  our  regard  than  the  origin  of 


that  institution  ;  but  this  origin  cannot  be  satis¬ 
factorily  accounted  for  either  by  the  age  in  which, 
or  by  the  people  among  whom  it  took  place. 
The  data  for  such  an  explanation  are  wanting. 

With  all  these  defects  before  us,  universal  his¬ 
tory  would  only  remain  an  aggregation  of  frag¬ 
ments  which  could  never  be  dignified  with  the 
name  of  science.  Here  it  is  that  the  philosophi¬ 
cal  reason  supplies  the  deficiencies,  and  by  unit¬ 
ing  these  fragments  by  means  of  artificial  links, 
the  aggregation  of  facts  is  systematized,  and 
changed  to  a  rational,  coherent  whole.  Authority 
for  this  proceeding  is  derived  from  the  uniformity 
and  immutable  oneness  of  the  laws  of  nature  and 
of  the  human  mind,  in  consequence  of  which  one¬ 
ness  the  events  of  the  remotest  antiquity  recur  in 
our  age,  if  similar  circumstances  act  as  determin¬ 
ing  causes;  by  which  means  we  are  enabled  to 
obtain  light  and  draw  inferences  from  the  most 
recent  events  occurring  within  the  range  of  our 
own  observation,  regarding  those  that  took  place 
in  the  primeval  ages.  In  history,  as  in  other  de¬ 
partments  of  science,  the  method  of  reasoning  by 
analogy  is  a  powerful  auxiliary  ;  but  it  should  be 
justified  by  an  appropriate  object,  and  resorted 
to  with  caution  and  judgment. 

Scarcely  has  the  philosophical  observer  com¬ 
menced  to  dwell  upon  the  materials  of  universal 
history, when  a  new  impulse  becomes  active  in  his 
mind,  which  leads  him  irresistibly  to  trace  events 
to  a  general  law  of  development,  and  to  deter¬ 
mine  the  idea  from  wdiich  they  flow  as  their  gene¬ 
rating  principle.  The  more  frequently  and  suc¬ 
cessfully  he  renews  the  attempt  of  uniting  the 
past  with  the  present,  the  more  he  will  be  dis¬ 
posed  to  unite  in  the  relation  of  means  to  end 
what  has  manifested  itself  to  his  mind  as  cause 
and  effect.  One  phenomenon  after  another  ceases 
to  stand  before  him  as  the  product  of  blind 
chance,  of  lawless  anarch}q  and  becomes  an  har¬ 
monious  element  in  a  concordant  whole,  of  which 
he,  it  is  true,  only  possesses  an  intellectual  per¬ 
ception.  Very  soou  he  finds  it  difficult  to  per¬ 
suade  himself  that  this  succession  of  phenomena 
which,  to  his  mind,  seems  so  full  of  regularity  and 
design,  does  not  possess  these  qualities  in  reality  ; 
he  finds  it  difficult  to  resign  under  the  blind  rule 
of  necessity  what  had  begun  to  assume  such  a 
luminous  shape  under  the  borrowed  light  of  the 
understanding.  Out  of  his  own  reason  he  trans¬ 
fers  this  harmony  into  the  order  of  things';  in 
other  words,  he  arranges  the  cause  of  things 
under  a  rational  end,  he  introduces  a  teleological 
principle  into  universal  history.  In  company 
with  this  principle  he  again  wanders  through  the 
labyrinth  of  history,  examining  in  its  mirror  every 
phenomenon  which  this  great  stage  presents  to 
his  mind.  He  sees  the  same  phenomenon  con¬ 
firmed  by  a  thousand  facts,  and  refuted  by  as 
many  more ;  but  as  long  as  important  links  re¬ 
main  wanting  in  the  series  of  the  world’s  changes  ; 
as  long  as  destiny  keeps  back  the  ultimate  expla¬ 
nation  of  so  many  events,  he  declares  the  ques¬ 
tion  as  undecided,  and  the  victory  is  awarded  to 
the  opinion  that  offers  more  satisfaction  to  the 
understanding,  and  a  higher  degree  of  happiness 
to  the  heart. 

I  need  hardly  make  the  statement  that  a  uni- 


352 


FIRST  HUMAN  SOCIETY. 


versal  bistory  written  in  this  spirit,  can  only  be 
achieved  in  the  latest  periods  of  the  world’s  exis¬ 
tence.  A  premature  application  of  this  great 
measure  might  tempt  the  historian  to  do  violence 
to  events,  and,  by  attempting  to  accelerate  this 
happy  epoch  for  universal  history,  to  remove  it 
more  and  more.  But  we  cannot  direct  too  soon 
our  attention  to  this  luminous,  and  yet  so  much 
neglected  aspect  of  history,  by  which  it  connects 
itself  with  the  highest  subjects  of  human  endea¬ 
vors.  Even  the  silent  contemplation  of  this,  as 
yet  only  possible  end,  must  be  a  stimulating  in¬ 
centive  and  a  sweet  reward  to  the  industry  of  the 
inquirer.  He  will  attach  importance  to  the 
slightest  exertion,  if  he  finds  hinYself  upon  the 
road  or  leads  his  successors  to  the  road  upon 
which  the  solution  of  the  world’s  problem  may  be 
reached,  and  where  the  Supreme  Mind  may  be 
met  in  the  beautiful  order  of  his  government. 

Treated  in  this  manner,  the  study  of  universal 
history  will  afford  you  an  occupation  as  attractive 
as  useful.  It  will  kindle  a  light  in  your  under¬ 
standings,  and  a  beneficent  enthusiasm  in  your 
hearts.  It  will  elevate  you  above  all  petty  views 
of  common  morality,  and,  by  spreading  out  before 
your  vision  the  great  picture  of  ages  and  nations, 
it  will  rectify  the  premature  decisions  of  the  mo¬ 
ment,  and  the  contracted  verdicts  of  egotism. 
By  accustoming  man  to  identify  himself  with  the 
past,  and  to  embrace  the  distant  future  in  his 
conclusions,  it  hides  the  extreme  points  of  birth 
and  death  which  confine  man’s  life  within  such 
narrow  and  oppressive  limits,  and,  like  an  optical 
illusion,  it  expands  his  short  existence  into  an  in¬ 
finite  space,  and  imperceptibly  merges  the  indi¬ 
vidual  in  the  species. 

Man  changes  and  quits  the  stage  ;  his  opinions 
pass  away  and  change  with  him  ;  history  alone 
remains  upon  the  stage,  as  the  immortal  citizen 
of  all  nations  and  ages.  Like  Homer’s  Zeus,  it 
regards  with  the  same  cheerful  eye  the  bloody 
labors  of  war  and  the  peaceful  tribes  that  derive 
their  guiltless  support  from  the  milk  of  their 
,  flocks.  How'ever  lawlessly  man’s  freedom  may 
seem  to  dash  along  on  its  course,  history  looks 
calmly  upon  the  chaotic  movement;  her  far-reach¬ 
ing  eye  beholds  in  the  distant  future  the  rule  by 
which  this  anarchical  chaos  is  bent  toward  a 
higher  system  of  order.  What  she  hides  from  the 
rebellious  conscience  of  a  Gregory,  or  a  Crom¬ 
well,  she  hastens  to  reveal  to  humanity:  “that  a 
selfish'man  may  pursue  low  aims,  but  unconsciously 
promotes  those  of  a  higher  order.” 

No  false  glitter  can  dazzle  her,  no  ruling  preju¬ 
dice  can  carry  her  away,  for  she  witnesses  the  ulti¬ 
mate  fate  of  things.  Whatever  ceases ,  has  been 
ot  equally  short  duration  for  her  ;  she  preserves 
the  freshness  of  the  well-earned  wreath  of  olives, 
and  breaks  the  obelisk  erected  by  vanity.  By 
showing  the  workings  of  the  delicate  mechanism 
by  which  the  quiet  hand  of  Nature  has  developed 
man’s  powers  from  the  commencement  of  the 
world,  according  to  an  immutable  design,  and  by 
indicating  the  progressive  evolutions  of  this  great 
design  in  every  age,  she  restores  the  true  measure 
ot  happiness  and  merit  which  the  ruling  delusion 
falsities  differently  in  every  century.  She  cures  us 
oi  the  extravagaut  admiration  of  antiquity,  and 


of  the  childish  longing  for  the  past ;  and  by  point¬ 
ing  out  to  us  our  own  acquirements,  she  prevents 
us  from  wishing  back  again  the  age  of  Alexander 
or  Augustus. 

All  the  preceding  ages  have  unconsciously  and 
unintentionally  endeavored  to  prepare  the  advent 
of  our  humane  century.  Ours  are  the  treasures 
which  industry  and  genius,  reason  and  experience, 
have  conquered  in  the  world’s  protracted  exist¬ 
ence.  History  teaches  us  the  value  of  goods 
which  habit  and  unassailed  possession  incline  so 
readily  to  rob  of  our  gratitude  ;  precious  goods, 
stained  with  the  blood  of  the  noblest  of  our  race, 
and  conquered  by  the  severe  labor  of  generations. 
Who  among  you,  in  whom  a  clear  mind  and  a  feel¬ 
ing  heart  are  allied,  could  think  of  the  obligation 
of  gratitude  without  experiencing  a  silent  wish  to 
discharge  to  the  coming  generation  the  debt  which 
the  past  can  no  longer  receive  ?  A  noble  desire 
must  become  kindled  in  our  hearts  to  contribute 
with  our  own  means  to  the  rich  legacy  of  truth,  mo¬ 
rality,  and  liberty,  that  has  been  bequeathed  to  us 
by  our  ancestors,  and  which  we  have  to  leave  again 
to  our  successors  ;  and  to  link  our  fleeting  exist¬ 
ence  with  the  imperishable  chain  that  winds 
through  all  the  generations  of  mankind.  What¬ 
ever  may  be  the  destiny  that  awaits  you  in  human 
society,  you  all  can  contribute  something  to  that 
legacy  !  For  every  merit  the  road  to  immortality 
is  open,  to  that  true  immortality  where  the  deed 
lives  and  is  perpetuated  to  future  generations, 
though  the  name  of  its  author  should  remain  buried 
in  the  urn  of  time  ! 


THOUGHTS  CONCERNING  THE  FIRST 
HUMAN  SOCIETY, 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  MOSAIC  RECORD.* 

MAN’S  TRANSITION  TO  FREEDOM  AND 
HUMANITY. 

It  is  by  the  guiding  power  of  instinct,  which 
directs  the  movements  of  the  animal,  that  Provi¬ 
dence  had  to  introduce  man  into  life,  and,  his  rea¬ 
son,  being  still  undeveloped,  had  to  stand  behind 
him  like  a  watchful  nurse.  Hunger  and  thirst  led 
him  to  the  perception  of  the  necessity  of  food  ; 
what  he  required  to  gratify  this  necessity,  had 
been  accumulated  around  him  in  copious  abund¬ 
ance,  and  smell  and  taste  guided  him  in  his  selec¬ 
tion.  His  nudity  was  protected  by  the  mildness 
of  the  climate,  and  his  defenseless  life  was  secured 
by  universal  peace.  The  preservation  of  the 
species  had  been  cared  for  by  the  sexual  inetcuct. 
In  this  way  man’s  vegetative  and  animal  organism 
was  perfect.  While  Nature  was  still  thinking, 
caring,  and  acting  for  him,  his  powers  were  per¬ 
mitted  to  cultivate  more  easily,  and  with  less 
trouble,  habits  of  calm  observation  ;  his  reason, 
undisturbed  by  care,  was  enabled  to  cultivate  its 
instrument,  language,  and  attune  the  delicate  play 

*  This  Essay,  with  the  two  following,  is  part  of  tb« 
author’s  lectures  on  Universal  History,  delivered  at  the 
University  of  Jena.  It  first  appeared  in  the  11th  nuin- 
her  of  the  Thalia. 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


353 


of  ideas.  As  jet,  he  beheld  creation  with  a  happy 
eye  ;  his  cheerful  mind  received  a  genuine  impres¬ 
sion  of  all  phenomena,  and  deposited  them  in 
their  purity  in  an  active  memory.  Gentle  and 
smiling  was  the  beginning  of  human  existence, 
and  this  had  to  be  so,  if  he  was  to  fortify  himself 
for  the  struggle  that  awaited  him. 

If  Providence  had  kept  man  on  this  low  plane 
of  life,  he  might  have  been  the  happiest  and  the 
most  intelligent  of  all  animals,  but  he  would  never 
have  elevated  himself  above  the  guardianship  of 
the  natural  instinct;  his  acts  would  never  have 
been  acts  of  freedom  and  morality;  he  would 
never  have  been  more  than  an  animal.  In  a  plea¬ 
surable  repose,  he  would  always  have  remained  a 
child,  and  he  would  always  have  moved  in  the 
smallest  possible  circle,  from  desire  to  enjoyment, 
from  enjoyment  to  repose,  and  from  repose  back 
again  to  desire. 

But  man  was  destined  to  fulfill  different  pur¬ 
poses ;  the  powers  that  were  slumbering  in  him, 
called  him  to  a  different  order  of  bliss.  What 
nature  had  done  for  him  in  the  cradle,  he  was 
now,  since  he  had  become  of  age,  to  do  for  him¬ 
self.  He  was  to  become  the  creator  of  his  own 
bliss,  and  the  degree  of  this  bliss  was  to  depend 
upon  the  share  he  had  in  realizing  it.  He  was 
to  learn  to  reconstruct  by  his  reason  the  state 
of  innocence  which  he  now  lost,  and  as  a  free  and 
rational  spirit  he  was  to  return  to  the  point 
whence  he  had  started  as  a  plant  and  a  creature 
of  instinct :  from  a  paradise  of  ignorance  and 
bondage  he  was  to  raise  himself,  were  it  only 
after  thousands  of  years,  to  a  paradise  of  know- 
ledge  and  freedom,  a  paradise  where  he  would 
obey  the  moral  law  in  his  heart  as  implicitly  as 
he  had  obeyed  the  movements  of  a  blind  instinct, 
which  are  still  the  ruling  impulses  of  the  plant 
and  the  animal.  What  was  inevitable?  What 
had  to  take  place  if  he  w7as  to  advance  to  this 
end  ?  As  soon  as  his  reason  had  tested  its  first 
powers,  Nature  repelled  him  from  her  nursing 
arms,  or  rather,  and  more  correctly,  man  himself, 
impelled  by  a  power  of  whose  nature  he  was  still 
ignorant,  and  not  knowing  what  a  great  deed  he 
was  doing  at  the  time,  severed  himself  from  Na¬ 
ture’s  guiding  hand,  and,  with  his  still  feeble 
reason  which  the  instinct  only  accompanied  from 
afar,  he  plunged  into  the  wild  chances  of  life,  and 
betook  himself  to  the  dangerous  path  that  was 
to  lead  him  to  moral  freedom.  By  converting 
the  voice  of  God  in  Eden,  which  forbade  him  to 
eat  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  into  the 
voice  of  instinct  that  drew  him  back  from  this 
tree,  his  pretended  disobedience  against  that 
divine  commandment  simply  becomes  a  rebel¬ 
lion  against  his  instinct,  the  first  manifesta¬ 
tion  of  his  Independent  activity,  the  first  at¬ 
tempt  of  his  reason,  the  beginning  of  his  moral 
existence.  Man’s  rebellion  against  his  instinct, 
which,  it  is  true,  introduced  moral  evil  into  Na¬ 
ture,  but  only  to  the  end  that  the  moral  good 
might  find  room  in  it,  is  without  contradiction, 
the  greatest  and  mosf  fortunate  event  in  human 
history ;  his  ireedom  dates  from  this  event  ;  this 
event  was  the  corner-stone  of  his  morality.  The 
popular  teacher  is  quite  right  in  considering  this 
event  as  a  fall,  and  drawing  useful  moral  lessons 
Vol.  II.— 23 


from  it;  but  the  philosopher  is  equally  right  in 
congratulating  human  nature  in  the  abstract  upon 
this  important  step  to  perfection.  The  former 
is  right  in  declaring  it  a  fall,  for  from  an  inno¬ 
cent  creature  man  became  a  guilty  one,  from  a 
perfect  pupil  of  Nature  he  became  an  imperfect 
moral  being,  from  a  happy  instrument  an  unhappy 
artist. 

The  philosopher  is  entitled  to  look  upon  this  event 
as  a  gigantic  stride  on  the  road  of  progress;  for, 
by  it  man  was  converted  from  a  slave  of  the  natu¬ 
ral  instinct  into  a  free  creature,  from  an  automa¬ 
ton  into  a  moral  being;  this  stride  was  the  first 
step  on  the  ladder  which,  after  the  lapse  of  thou¬ 
sands  of  years,  will  lead  him  to  self-government. 
Now7  the  road  to  enjoyment  w7as  longer  than 
before.  At  first,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  stretch 
out  his  hand,  in  order  to  enjoy  as  soon  as  the 
desire  was  felt  ;  but  now7  he  had  to  think,  in¬ 
dustry  and  trouble  had  to  intervene  between 
desire  and  its  gratification-.  The  peace  existing 
between  him  and  the  animal  creation,  was  at  an 
end.  Necessity  drove  the  beasts  against  his 
works,  even  against  himself,  and  by  means  of  his 
reason  he  had  to  contrive  the  means  of  protection, 
and  a  superiority  of  power  that  Nature  had  denied 
him  ;  he  had  to  invent  arms  and  protect  his  slum¬ 
bers  from  the  hostile  brute.  But  even  here  Na¬ 
ture  compensated  him  by  intellectual  pleasures 
for  the  loss  of  vegetative  delights  she  had  inflicted 
upon  him.  The  corn  he  himself  had  planted, 
surprised  him  with  a  savor  he  had  never  known  ; 
sleep  overcame  him  after  the  fatigue  of  the  day, 
and  was  sweeter  under  the  roof  made  by  his  own 
hands  than  in  the  idleness  of  paradise.  In  strug¬ 
gling  with  the  assaulting  tiger  he  became  con¬ 
scious  of  his  cunning  and  physical  powTer,  and 
after  every  victory  he  might  thank  himself  for  the 
gift  of  life. 

At  this  stage  he  had  become  too  noble  for  para¬ 
dise,  and  if,  impelled  by  want  he  had  wished  him¬ 
self  back  again  amidst  his  idle  joys,  it  wrould  have 
been  because  he  w7as  ignorant  of  his  nature.  An 
internal  restlessness,  the  aw7akened  instinct  of  self¬ 
activity,  would  have  soon  pursued  him  in  his  idle 
bliss,  and' would  have  disgusted  him  w7ith  the  de¬ 
lights  that  he  had  not  created  for  himself.  He 
would  have  transformed  paradise  into  a  wilder¬ 
ness,  and  this  wilderness  again  into  a  paradise. 
Happy  the  human  raefi,  if  it  had  had  no  worse 
enemy  to  combat  than  the  indolence  of  the  soil, 
the  fury  of  wild  animals,  and  the  tempests  of  Na¬ 
ture  !  Want  besieged  man,  passions  were  aroused, 
and  soon  armed  him  against  his  like.  Against 
man  he  had  to  fight  for  his  existence,  a  long  fight, 
replete  with  vice,  and  not  yet  ended  ;  but  in  this 
fight  alone  he  wras  enabled  to  cultivate  his  reason 
and  morality. 

DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

The  first  sons  born  of  the  mother  of  men,  en¬ 
joyed  an  important  advantage  over  their  parents; 
they  were  reared  by  men.  All  the  improvements 
which  the  parents  had  made  by  their  own  genius, 
and  therefore  much  more  slowly,  benefited  the 
children  to  whom  they  were  transmitted  even  in 
their  earliest  infancy,  by  parents  who  loved  them. 
With  the  first  son  who  was  born  of  woman,  the 


854 


FIRST  HUMAN  SOCIETY. 


great  instrument  through  which  the  whole  human 
race  was  to  receive  its  culture,  and  will  continue 
to  do  so — I  mean  tradition,  or  the  transmission 
of  ideas — was  set  in  motion. 

Here  the  Mosaic  record  leaves  us,  and  leaps 
over  a  period  of  fifteen  and  more  years,  in  order 
to  present  the  two  brothers  before  us  as  full- 
grown.  But  this  interval  is  important  to  univer¬ 
sal  history,  and,  in  the  absence  of  written  records, 
has  to  be  completed  by  human  reason. 

The  birth  of  a  son,  the  necessity  of  feeding, 
nursing,  and  educating  him,  increased  the  know¬ 
ledge,  experience,  and  duties  of  the  first  men,  an 
increase  which  it  behooves  us  Ho  note  with  due 
care. 

Animals  probably  taught  our  first  mother  her 
most  imperious  maternal  duties,  and  necessity  may 
have  taught  her  the  means  she  had  to  make  use 
of  during  the  act  of  parturition.  Her  solicitude 
for  her  children  pointed  out  to  her  a  number  of 
small  comforts  that  had  been  unknown  to  her 
heretofore ;  the  number  of  objects  which  she 
learned  to  use,  became  larger,  and  the  ingenuity 
of  motherly  love  contrived  new  inventions. 

Until  now,  both  had  known  onlv  one  form  of 
love,  one  matrimonial  relation,  for  the  reason  that 
each  had  only  one  object  to  love.  Now  the  pos¬ 
session  of  children  taught  them  a  new  species  of 
love,  parental  affection  !  This  new  affection  was 
purer  than  the  former,  disinterested,  since  the 
former  was  exclusively  based  upon  pleasure,  upon 
the  reciprocal  desire  for  social  intercourse. 

This  new  experience  raised  them  to  a  higher 
degree  of  morality,  of  social  culture.  The  paren¬ 
tal  affection  for  their  offspring,  in  which  both 
met,  effected  a  considerable  change  in  the  rela¬ 
tion  which  they  had  held  to  each  other.  The 
care,  the  joy,  the  tender  sympathy  which  they 
conjointly  experienced  for  this  new  object  of  their 
affection,  realized  a  new  and  more  beautiful  bond 
of  union  between  themselves.  Each  discovered 
in  the  other  new  and  more  beautitul  traits  of 
character,  and  each  discovery  of  this  kind  elevated 
and  refined  their  matrimonial  connection.  In  his 
wife,  the  husband  loved  the  mother  of  his  cherished 
son.  The  wife  loved  in  the  man  the  father  and 
preserver  of  her  child.  The  sensual  delight  with 
which  they  had  greeted  each  other  heretofore,  was 
purified  by  a  sentiment  of  esteem  ;  from  the  selfish 
love  of  sex  arose  the  beautiful  phenomenon  of 
conjugal  affection. 

Very  soon  new  affections  were  added  to  the 
former.  The  children  grew  up,  and  were  united 
by  tender  bonds.  The  child  preferred  the  com¬ 
pany  of  the  child,  because  every  creature  is  at¬ 
tracted  to  its  like.  With  tender  and  impercepti¬ 
ble  threads  the  love  of  brother  and  sister  wove  a 
tissue  of  new  emotions  in  the  hearts  of  the  parents. 
For  the  first  time  they  beheld  a  picture  of  social 
life,  of  benevolfince  outside  of  themselves ;  they 
saw  their  own  feelings  reflected  in  the  mirror  of 
youth. 

Until  now,  as  long  as  they  were  alone,  both  had 
lived  only  in  the  present  and  the  past ;  but  now  a 
distant  future  held  out  to  them  prospective  joys. 
In  proportion  as  their  children  grew  up,  and  every 
day  developed  a  new  capacity  in  them,  the  future 
opened  new  and  smiling  prospects  to  the  parents, 


in  whose  hearts  the  emotion  of  hope  was  enkindled 
by  the  expectation  of  seeing  their  offspring  grow 
up  to  the  age  of  manhoo^  What  a  boundless 
range  was  opened  to  them  by  hope !  Formerly 
they  had  enjoyed  every  pleasure  once  only  in  the 
present ;  now  every  future  joy  was  anticipated 
with  numberless  repetitions. 

As  the  children  grew  up  to  manhood,  what 
variety  was  introduced  into  this  first  human 
society !  Every  notion  that  had  been  communi¬ 
cated  to  them,  had  assumed  a  different  form  in 
each  soul,  and  now  surprised  it  by  the  newness 
of  the  phenomenon.  Thoughts  crowded  upon 
thoughts,  the  moral  sense  became  quickened,  and 
was  developed  by  practical  applications ;  language 
was  enriched,  the  more  delicate  shades  of  senti¬ 
ment  were  defined  with  more  precision ;  observa¬ 
tions  of  natural  phenomena  were  multiplied,  and 
the  experience  of  former  days  led  to  new  experi¬ 
ments.  Now,  man  became  the  highest  object  of 
care,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  his  relapsing  into 
the  condition  of  an  animal. 

DIFFERENT  MODES  OF  LIFE. 

Already  among  the  first  generation  of  men  the 
progress  of  culture  became  visible.  Adam  tilled 
the  field ;  one  of  his  sons,  Abel,  resorted  to  a  new 
branch  of  industry,  cattle-raising.  Already  at 
this  early  period,  the  human  race  was  divided 
into  two  different  classes — agriculturists  and 
herdsmen. 

The  first  man  was  a  pupil  of  Nature,  she 
taught  him  all  the  useful  arts  of  life.  A  little  atten¬ 
tion  must  have  shown  him  the  order  according 
to  which  plants  reproduce  themselves.  He  saw 
Nature  perform  the  act  of  sowing  and  watering, 
his  desire  of  imitation  became  active,  and  soon 
necessity  stimulated  him  to  assist  Nature  and 
to  favor  her  productiveness  by  artificial  means. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  man’s  first  at¬ 
tempt  at  agriculture  was  the  raising  of  grain; 
this  requires  considerable  preparation,  and  the  na¬ 
tural  progress  of  things  is  from  the  simple  to  the 
more  complicated.  Rice  was  probably  one  of  the 
first  grains  cultivated  by  man  ;  Nature  invited  him 
to  this  branch  of  labor,  rice  grows  wild  in  India, 
and  the  most  ancient  historians  mention  rice¬ 
growing  as  one  of  the  most  ancient  branches  of 
agriculture.  Man  saw  that  a  continued  drought 
causes  the  plants  to  wither,  and  that  they  recover 
their  vigor  after  a  shower  of  rain.  He  likewise 
perceived  that  the  soil  became  more  fertile  where 
.a  layer  of  mud  had  been  left  behind  by  an  inun¬ 
dation.  Profiting  by  these  discoveries,  he  insti¬ 
tuted  an  artificial  system  of  irrigation,  and,  if  no 
river  was  sufficiently  near  to  provide  his  fields 
with  mud,  he  carried  it  there.  He  learned  the 
art  of  manuring  and  irrigating  the  soil. 

He  most  have  found  it  more  difficult  to  learn 
the  use  of  animals.  Here  too,  as  in  all  other 
things,  he  began  with  natural  and  innocent  wants. 
For  centuries  he  may  have  contented  himself  with 
the  milk  of  animals  before  he  undertook  to  slaugh¬ 
ter  them.  The  mother’s  milk  undoubtedly  led 
him  to  the  attempt  of  using  the  milk  of  animals. 
Scarcely  had  he  become  acquainted  with  this  new 
food,  when  he  appropriated  it  permanently.  In 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


355 


order  to  have  a  sufficient  supply  on  hand  at  all 
times,  it  was  not  well  that  his  meeting:  a  milch  ani¬ 
mal  should  depend  upon  chance.  He  therefore 
hit  upon  the  idea  of  gathering  a  number  of  such 
animals  around  himself,  he  procured  for  himself  a 
herd ;  this  herd  had  to  consist  of  gregarious  ani¬ 
mals  which  had  to  be  tamed,  or,  in  other  words, 
had  to  be  transferred  from  the  condition  of  wild 
freedom  to  a  state  of  servitude  and  quiet.  Before 
undertaking  the  taming  of  animals  of  the  wild 
scrt,  and  superior  to  him  in  natural  powers  and 
means  of  defense,  he  first  attempted  to  tame 
those  to  which  he  was  superior  and  which  were 
naturally  of  a  rather  gentle  disposition.  He 
therefore  kept  sheep  before  keeping  hogs,  oxen, 
and  horses. 

From  the  moment  he  deprived  animals  of  their 
freedom,  he  was  obliged  to  feed  and  take  care  of 
them.  Thus  he  became  a  herdsman,  and  as  long 
as  society  remained  limited  in  number,  Nature 
had  abundant  food  for  his  flock.  He  had  no 
other  trouble  than  to  find  pasture-grounds  for 
them,  and  to  conduct  them  to  other  locali¬ 
ties  after  the  former  had  been  denuded  of 
their  grass.  The  richest  abundance  rewarded  him 
for  this  easy  occupation,  and  the  product  of  his 
labor  was  not  subject  to  changes  of  the  seasons  or 
weather.  Uniform  enjoyment  was  the  lot  of  shep¬ 
herds,  freedom  and  a  joyous  idleness  made  up  his 
character. 

The  agriculturist  was  differently  situated.  Like 
a  slave  he  was  bound  to  the  soil  he  had  culti¬ 
vated,  and  this  compulsory  mode  of  life  had  com¬ 
pelled  him  to  renounce  every  choice  of  habitation. 
With  anxious  care  he  had  to  accommodate  him¬ 
self  to  the  nature  of  the  grain  he  was  growing, 
and  had  to  help  his  crops  along  by  art  and  labor, 
whereas  his  brother’s  flocks  took  care  of  them¬ 
selves.  At  first  his  labor  was  impeded  by  the  ab¬ 
sence  of  suitable  utensils;  and  yet  his  hands  were 
scarcely  adequate  to  the  work.  How  laborious 
must  it  have  been  before  the  plow  facilitated  his 
endeavors,  before  he  compelled  the  ox  to  share 
the  work  with  him. 

Breaking  up  the  ground,  sowing  and  irrigation, 
the  harvest  itself,  how  much  labor  did  all  this  re¬ 
quire  !  And  how  much  labor  had  to  be  per¬ 
formed  after  the  harvest,  until  the  fruit  of  his 
industry  should  have  undergone  all  the  changes 
necessary  to  fit  it  for  use !  How  often  had  he 
to  drive  off  wild  animals  that  invaded  his  fields, 
which  he  had  to  fence  in,  or  defend  even  at  the 
peril  of  his  life  !  And  in  spite  of  all  this,  how 
unsafe  was  the  fruit  of  his  labor,  exposed,  as  it 
was,  to  the  violence  of  storms,  and  to  unfavorable 
weather!  A  freshet,  a  hail-storm,  might  deprive 
him  of  it  at  the  very  goal,  and  thus  expose  him  to 
bitter  want.  Hard,  unequal  and  dubious  was  the 
lot  of  the  peasant  compared  to  the  comfortable 
lot  of  shepherds,  and  his  soul  must  become  brutish 
in  a  body  hardened  by  so  much  fatiguing  work. 

If  he  thought  of  comparing  his  hard  lot  with 
the  happy  life  of  a  shepherd,  this  inequality  must 
impress  his  sensual  mind  with  the  idea  that  the 
latter  was  the  favorite  of  Heaven. 

Envy  became  roused  in  his  breast ;  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  first  inequality,  this  unfortunate 
passion  could  not  fail  to  become  excited  in  the 


human  heart.  With  a  squinting  eye ’he  looked  at 
the  shepherd’s  prosperity,  who  fed  his  flock  in  the 
shade,  whereas  he  was  exposed  to  the  heat  of  the 
sun,  and  labor  caused  the  perspiration  to  tricklo 
from  his  brow.  The  cheerful  and  careless  manner 
of  the  shepherd  shocked  his  brother’s  feelings. 
This  one  hated  the  former  on  account  of  his  hap¬ 
piness,  and  despised  him  for  his  idleness.  Thus 
lie  entertained  a  silent  indignation  against  his 
brother  that  could  not  fail  in  breaking  out  in  acts 
of  violence  at  the  first  opportunity.  It  was  not 
long  in  presenting  itself.  Individual  rights  were 
not  yet  clearly  defined,  and  mine  and  thine  were 
not  yet  determined  bylaw.  Each  fancied  himself 
entitled  to  the  whole  earth,  for  the  institution  of 
property  was  only  to  result  from  previous  colli¬ 
sions.  Let  us  suppose  that  a  shepherd  had  cleared 
with  his  flocks,  all  the  pastures  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood,  and  yet  was  unwilling  to  wander  far  away 
from  the  family  to  distant  regions,  what  must  he 
necessarily  conclude  to  do  ?  He  drove  his  flock 
on  the  fields  of  the  peasant,  or,  at  any  rate,  did  not 
prevent  them  from  invading  his  domain.  Here 
his  sheep  found  an  abundance  of  grass,  and  there 
was  no  law  that  forbade  this  inroad.  Whatever 
he  could  lay  his  hands  upon,  was  his, — thus  rea¬ 
soned  man  in  his  infancy. 

Now  for  the  first  time,  man  came  into  collision 
with  his  like  ;  instead  of  fighting  wild  animals 
which  had  hitherto  beset  the  peasant,  he  now  had 
to  wage  war  against  his  neighbor.  This  neighbor 
now  appeared  to  him  like  a  hostile  beast  of  prey, 
bent  upon  devastating  his  fields.  Is  it  a  wonder 
that  he  received  his  neighbor  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  beast  of  prey,  which  man  now  imitated  ? 
The  hatred  he  had  nourished  in  his  breast  for 
many  a  year,  added  to  his  wrath  ;  a  murderous 
blow  with  a  club  avenged  him  at  once  of  the  long 
happiness  of  his  envied  neighbor. 

This  was  the  sad  end  of  the  first  collision  among 
men. 

CESSATION  OF  EQUALITY  OF  CONDITION. 

A  few  passages  in  the  ancient  records  permit  us 
to  infer  that  polygamy  was  something  rare,  even 
in  those  early  ages,  and  that  monogamic  habits 
were  the  order  of  the  day.  Regular  marriages 
seem  to  denote  a  certain  degree  of  morality  and 
refinement  which  could  hardly  be  expected  in 
those  early  periods.  It  was  the  consequences  of 
disorder  that  led  men,  in  most  cases,  to  orderly 
institutions ;  anarchy  evoked  the  government  of 
laws. 

The  introduction  of  regular  marriages  seems  to 
have  taken  place  in  accordance  with  custom 
rather  than  in  obedience  to  law.  Man  must  ne¬ 
cessarily  live  in  matrimonial  relations,  and  the 
example  of  one  acted  with  the  force  of  law 
toward  his  successor.  The  human  race  had  com¬ 
menced  with  a  single  pair.  By  this  example, 
Nature  had  announced,  as  it  were,  her  will. 

If  we  suppose  that  in  the  first  period  of  human 
existence,  the  numerical  proportions  of  both  sexes 
were  the  same,  it  is  evident  that  nature  had  pro¬ 
vided  for  what  man  had  omitted  to  do.  Each 
took  to  himself  one  wife,  because  there  was  only 
one  to  be  had. 


356 


FIRST  HUMAN  SOCIETY. 


Even  if  numerical  differences  set  in,  and  an  op¬ 
portunity  was  afforded  to  make  a  selection,  this 
order  having  become  an  established  custom,  nobody 
was  willing  to  violate  it  by  rash  and  daring  inno¬ 
vations. 

Jn  the  same  way  as  the  matrimonial  relations 
had  become  regulated  by  custom,  a  government 
naturally  arose  in  the  bosom  of  society.  Nature 
had  established  the  paternal  authority  because  the 
helpless  child  was  dependent  upon  the  father,  and 
was  accustomed,  from  the  tenderest  infancy,  to 
respect  his  will.  The  son  would  naturally  pre¬ 
serve  this  feeling  during  the  whole  course  of  his 
life.  If  he  himself  became  a  father,  his  own  son 
could  not  regard,  without  respect,  one  whom  the 
father  treated  with  so  much  veneration,  and  im¬ 
plicitly  he  would  accord  a  higher  degree  of  respect 
to  the  father  of  his  own  parent.  This  authority 
of  the  grandsire  must  necessarily  increase  with 
every  increase  of  family,  and  advance  in  years, 
and  his  greater  experience,  the  fruit  of  a  long¬ 
life,  must  afford  him  a  natural  superiority  over 
every  younger  member  of  his  tribe.  In  every  liti¬ 
gation,  the  grandsire  was  appealed  to  as  the  su¬ 
preme  judge,  and  the  long  continuance  of  this 
custom  led  to  a  natural  and  mild  government,  the 
patriarchal  authority,  which  did  not  do  away  with, 
on  the  contrary  fortified  the  general  equality. 

But  this  equality  could  not  last.  Some  were 
less  industrious,  others  were  less  favored  by  for¬ 
tune  and  soil,  some  were  of  less  robust  frame 
than  others  ;  there  were  robust  and  feeble,  bold 
and  timid,  opulent  and  poor  people.  The  feeble 
and  poor  had  to  beg,  the  rich  might  give  or  refuse. 
Man  began  to  become  dependent  on  man. 

It  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  old  age 
should  be  relieved  from  labor,  and  that  the  son 
should  work  for  his  ancient  sire.  Soon  this  natu¬ 
ral  duty  was  imitated  by  art.  By  some,  a  desire 
was  felt  to  unite  the  quiet  of  old  age  with  the  labor 
of  youth,  and  to  select  some  one  who  might  take 
it  upon  himself  to  serve  as  a  son.  They  selected 
the  poor  or  the  feeble,  who  claimed  their  protec¬ 
tion,  or  appealed  to  their  abundance.  The  poor 
and  the  feeble  required  his  assistance,  whereas  he 
needed  the  industry  of  the  poor.  Hence,  a 
mutual  relation  of  dependence  was  established. 
The  poor  and  feeble  served  and  received,  the 
strong  and  rich  gave,  and  went  idle. 

FIRST  DISTINCTION  OF  RANKS. 

The  rich  became  richer  by  the  industry  of  the 
poor ;  in  order  to  augment  his  wealth,  he  in¬ 
creased  the  number  of  his  servants  ;  he  saw  him¬ 
self  surrounded  by  many  who  were  less  fortunate 
than  himself;  many  were  dependent  upon  him. 
The  rich  began  to  feel  his  power  and  became 
proud.  He  commenced  to  regard  the  instruments 
of  his  happiness  as  the  tools  of  his  will  ;  the  labor 
of  many  redounded  to  his  exclusive  benefit ; 
hence  he  concluded  that  these  many  existed  for 
his  sake  ;  he  was  only  one  step  removed  from 
being  a  despot. 

The  son  of  the  rich  began  to  think  better  of 
himself  than  of  the  sons  of  his  father’s  servants. 
Heaven  had  favored  him  more  than  these  :  hence 
he  concluded  that  Heaven  preferred  him  to  others. 


He  called  himself  son  of  Heaven,  as  we  designate 
the  favorites  of  fortune  as  her  sons.  Compared 
to  him,  who  was  the  son  of  Heaven,  the  servant 
was  only  the  son  of  a  man.  Hence  the  difference 
in  Genesis  between  the  children  of  Elohiin  and 
those  of  men. 

Fortune  led  the  rich  to  idleness;  idleness  led 
him  to  lust,  and  finally  to  vice.  To  fill  up  the 
blank  of  his  existence,  he  had  to  multiply  the 
number  of  his  enjoyments ;  the  ordinary  mea¬ 
sure  of  Nature  was  no  longer  sufficient  to  gratify 
the  debauchee  who  strove  to  imagine  new  de¬ 
lights  in  his  indolent  repose. 

He  had  to  have  every  thing  better  and  more 
abundantly  than  the  servant.  The  servant  con¬ 
tinued  to  content  himself  with  one  spouse.  He, 
on  the  contrary,  took  to  himself  a  number  of 
wives.  Continual  enjoyment  blunts  and  fa¬ 
tigues  the  senses.  He  had  to  think  of  stimulat¬ 
ing  it  by  artificial  incentives.  A  new  step.  He 
no  longer  merely  contented  himself  with  gratify¬ 
ing  the  sensual  instinct  ;  he  sought  to  concentrate 
in  one  enjoyment  a  number  of  refinements.  Le¬ 
gitimate  pleasures  no  longer  satisfied  him  ;  his 
desire  led  him  to  seek  secret  delights.  The  mere 
woman  no  longer  charmed  him  ;  now  she  had  to 
be  beautiful. 

Among  the  daughters  of  his  servants  he  espied 
beautiful  women.'  His  fortune  had  made  him 
proud  ;  pride  and  security  rendered  him  insolent. 
He  readily  persuaded  himself  that  what  belonged 
to  his  servants,  was  his.  Because  he  was  not 
punished  for  anything,  he  permitted  himself  every 
thing.-  The  daughter  of  his  servant  was  too  low 
for  him  as  his  spouse,  but  she  might  be  useful  to 
him  as  an  instrument  of  lust.  A  new  and  im¬ 
portant  step  toward  a  more  refined  depravity. 

As  soon  as  the  example  had  been  set,  the  de¬ 
pravity  must  become  general.  The  less  numer¬ 
ous  the  restraints  by  which  it  might  have  been 
checked  ;  the  nearer  the  society  which  became 
tainted  had  remained  to  a  condition  of  inno¬ 
cence,  the  more  rapidly  the  depravity  must  spread. 

The  right  of  the  stronger  is  set  up,  might  jus¬ 
tified  oppression,  and  for  the  first  time  tyrants 
make  their  appearance. 

The  record  indicates  them  as  the  sons  of  plea¬ 
sure,  spurious  children,  the  result  of  legal  unions. 
If  this  is  literally  true,  this  statement  conceals  a 
moral  that  has  not  yet  been  dwelled  upon  as  far 
as  I  know.  These  bastards  inherited  their  fa¬ 
ther’s  pride,  but  not  his  estates.  The  father  may 
possibly  have  loved  them  during  his  lifetime,  and 
preferred  them  to  his  legitimate  heirs  ;  but,  after 
his  death,  they  were  excluded  and  expelled  by  the 
latter.  Expelled  from  a  family  upon  whom  they 
had  been  forced  by  an  illegitimate  road,  they 
found  themselves  abandoned  and  alone  in  the 
wide  world  ;  they  belonged  to  nobody,  and  no¬ 
thing  belonged  to  them  ;  at  that  period  there  was 
no  other  social  position  than  either  to  be  master 
or  a  master’s  servant. 

Without  being  the  former  they  were  too  proud 
to  be  the  latter;  moreover,  they  had  been  brought 
up  in  too  much  affluence  to  be  able  to  do  hard 
work.  What  were  they  to  do  ?  The  pride  of 
birth,  and  sound  limbs,  were  all  that  had  been  left 
them  ;  the  recollection  of  their  former  prosperity, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


357 


and  a  heart  replete  with  bitter  indignation  against  | 
society,  accompanied  them  in  their  misery.  Hun¬ 
ger  made  them  robbers,  robber-fortune  made  them 
adventurers,  and  finally  heroes. 

Soon  they  became  terrible  to  the  peaceful  cul¬ 
tivator  of  the  soil,  to  the  defenseless  shepherd, 
and  extorted  from  these  people  whatever  they 
wished.  Their  fortune  and  triumphs  spread  their 
reputation  far  and  near,  and  the  comfort  and 
affluence  of  this  mode  of  life  attracted  numbers 
to  their  band.  Thus,  according  to  the  sacred 
record,  they  became  men  of  power  and  celebrity. 

This  excessive  disorder  of  the  first  society 
would  probably  have,  ended  in  order,  and  the  ces¬ 
sation  of  equality  among  men  would  have  led 
from  the  patriarchal  form  of  government  to  the 
monarchical.  One  of  these  adventurers,  more 
powerful  and  bolder  than  the  rest,  would  have 
made  himself  master,  would  have  built  a  for¬ 
tified  city,  and  founded  the  first  state  ;  but 
these  results  were  considered  premature  by  the 
{Supreme  Ruler  of  the  world’s  destinies  ;  a  fright¬ 
ful  revolution  in  Nature  suddenly  arrested  the 
progress  which  the  human  race  was  on  the  point 
of  making  in  culture. 

THE  FIRST  KING. 

Asia  depopulated  in  consequence  of  the  flood, 
soon  fell  a  prey  to  wild  beasts  which  multiplied 
rapidly  and  in  great  numbers,  and  extended  their 
dominion,  in  parts,  where  man  was  too  feeble  to 
resist  them.  Every  region  of  country  that  was 
cultivated  by  the  new  race,  had  to  be  conquered 
from  the  wild  beasts,  and  had  to  be  protected 
against  their  incursions  by  cunning  and  force. 
Europe  is  purged  of  these  savage  inhabitants,  and 
we  are  scarcely  able  to  picture  to  ourselves  the 
misery  that  weighed  upon  those  times ;  but  we 
may  form  an  idea  of  the  extent  of  this  dreadful 
plague  from  several  passages  of  Holy  Writ,  and 
from  the  custom  of  ancient  nations,  and  espe¬ 
cially  the  Greeks,  who  invested  the  conquerors  of 
wild  beasts  with  immortality  and  the  dignity  of 
gods. 

The  Theban  OEdipus  was  elevated  to  the  rank 
of  a  king,  because  he  had  exterminated  the  devas¬ 
tating  Sphinx  ;  Perseus,  Hercules,  and  Theseus 
won  their  immortal  fame  and  elevation  to  the 
rank  of  gods  by  similar  deeds.  Tie  who  engaged 
in  the  extirpation  of  these  enemies  of  the  public 
good,  was  the  greatest  benefactor  of  his  race,  and, 
in  order  to  be  successful  in  this  career,  had  in¬ 
deed  to  possess  rare  gifts.  Before  men  fought 
against  each  other,  the  chase  of  these  animals  was 
the  special  business  of  heroes.  Such  a  chase  was 
probably  undertaken  by  great  crowds  under  some 
iutrepid  man  whose  courage  and  cunning  consti¬ 
tuted  him  a  natural  leader.  He  gave  a  name  to 
the  most  important  of  such  expeditions,  and  such 
a  name  united  hundreds  under  his  banner,  where 
they  expected  to  perform  deeds  of  valor.  Since 
these  expeditions  had  to  be  planned  and  directed 
by  a  chief,  he  was  implicitly  enabled  to  assign  his 
part  to  each  follower,  and  to  impose  his  will  upon 
the  whole  band.  Imperceptibly  they  became  used 
to  submit  to,  and  act  according  to  his  higher  in¬ 
telligence.  If  he  had  distinguished  himself  by  j 


'  deeds  of  personal  bravery,  by  a  bold, spirit  and  a 
strong  arm,  fear  and  admiration  acted  in  his  favor, 
until  his  orders  were  blindly  obeyed  in  the  end. 
If  disputes  arose  among  his  companions,  which 
could  not  well  be  otherwise  among  such  a  nu¬ 
merous  and  rude  swarm  of  hunters,  he,  whom  all 
respected  and  honored,  was  the  most  natural  arbi¬ 
ter  of  their  difficulties,  and  the  respect  and  fear 
which  his  personal  bravery  inspired,  enabled  him 
to  enforce  his  decrees.  In  this  way  a  leader  of  the 
chase  was  transformed  into  a  chief  and  judge. 

On  dividing  the  booty,  the  greater  portion  must 
reasonably  fall  to  the  leader’s  share,  and  inasmuch 
as  he  did  not  require  the  whole  for  his  own  use, 
he  became  possessed  of  means  to  obligate  others 
and  to  attach  them  to  his  person.  Soon  the 
bravest,  whose  number  he  sought  to  increase  by 
new  favors,  assembled  around  his  person  ;  gradu¬ 
ally  he  transformed  them  into  a  sort  of  body-guard 
who  supported  his  pretensions  with  fierce  devo¬ 
tion,  and  by  their  number  frightened  every  body 
who  dared  to  oppose  them. 

Since  his  hunts  became  useful  to  shepherds  and 
owners  of  the  soil,  whose  domain  he  purged  of  de¬ 
vastating  enemies,  it  is  probable  that  voluntary 
presents  consisting  of  the  fruits  of  the  field  and 
flocks  were  at  first  given  him  for  this  useful  labor  ; 
subsequently  he  insisted  upon  a  continuance  of 
these  presents  as  a  tribute  that  was  due  to  him, 
and  finally  extorted  them  by  forcible  means  as  a 
debt  and  a  lawful  tax.  By  distributing  these  ac¬ 
quisitions  likewise  among  his  partisans,  he  swelled 
their  number  more  and  more.  Since  his  hunts 
frequently  led  him  across  fields  which  might  have 
been  damaged  by  these  expeditions,  many  owners 
of  the  soil  deemed  it  prudent  to  get  rid  of  this 
trouble  by  voluntary  presents.  These  presents 
were  afterward  extorted  from  all  those  who  might 
have  suffered  losses  at  his  hands.  By  these  and 
similar  means  he  augmented  his  wealth,  and  by 
his  wealth  he  increased  the  number  of  his  follow¬ 
ers  to  a  small  army  that  had  become  inured  to 
danger  and  fatigue  by  its  battles  with  lions  and 
tigers,  and  had  become  all  the  more  terrible  from 
such  causes.  Terror  preceded  his  name,  and  no¬ 
body  dared  refuse  his  request.  If  disputes  arose 
between  a  member  of  his  band  and  a  stranger,  the 
huntsman  would  naturally  appeal  to  his  leader  and 
protector,  and  in  this  way  the  leader  was  taught 
to  extend  his  jurisdiction  over  things  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  his  chase.  All  that  was  now 
wanting  to  make  him  a  king,  was  a  solemn  recog¬ 
nition  that  could  not  well  be  denied  him  at  the 
head  of  his  armed  and  imperious  bands.  He  was 
most  able  to  rule,  because  he  possessed  most  power 
to  enforce  his  orders.  He  was  the  benefactor  of 
all,  because  they  were  indebted  to  him  for  peace 
and  safety  from  the  common  enemy.  He  was 
already  in  possession  of  the  power,  since  the  most 
powerful  obeyed  his  commands. 

In  a  similar  manner  the  ancestors  of  Alaric,  of 
Attila,  of  Meroveus,  became  the  kings  of  their 
people.  The  same  statement  applies  to  the  Gre¬ 
cian  kings  whom  Homer  mentions  in  the  Iliad. 
All  were  at  first  leaders  of  a  warlike  band,  con- 
qerors  of  monsters,  benefactors  of  their  nation. 
|  From  warlike  chiefs  they  were  gradually  trans- 
j  formed  into  arbiters  and  judges;  with  the  ac- 


358 


FIRST  HUMAN  SOCIETY. 


quired  booty  they  purchased  partisans  who  ren¬ 
dered  them  powerful  and  terrible.  At  last  they 
ascended  the  throne  by  force. 

Historians  quote  the  example  of  King  Dejoces, 
of  the  Medes,  whom  these  invested  with  the  royal 
dignity  because  he  had  done  them  good  service  as 
a  judge.  Hut  it  is  incorrect  to  refer  this  example 
to  the  origin  of  royalty.  ■  When  the  Medes  made 
Dejoces  their  king,  they  already  constituted  a 
people,  a  political  body  ;  in  the  present  case,  the 
first  political  society  was  to  be  formed  by  the  first 
king.  The  Medes  had  borne  the  oppressive  yoke 
of  the  Assyrian  monarchs  ;  on  the  contrary,  the 
king  of  whom  mention  is  made\here,  was  the  first 
king  that  ever  existed,  and  the  people  who  sub¬ 
mitted  to  his  dominion  were  a  society  of  free-born 
men  who  had  never  yet  known  any  power  to  rule 
over  them.  A  power  that  had  already  been  tole¬ 
rated  on  a  previous  occasion,  may  be  restored  in 
this  quiet  manner,  but  in  this  quiet  way  no  en¬ 
tirely  new  and  hitherto  unknown  power  can  be 
instituted. 

It  seems  therefore  more  conformable  to  the 
course  of  events  to  suppose  that  the  first  king 
was  a  usurper,  called  to  the  throne,  not  by  a 
voluntary,  unanimous  call  of  the  nation — a  nation 
did  not  yet  exist — but  by  force  and  fortune,  and 
by  a  readily  organized  military  power. 


THE  MISSION  OF  MOSES* 

The  foundation  of  the  Jewish  republic  by  Moses 
is  one  of  the  most  memorable  events  recorded  in 
history,  important  if  we  regard  the  strength  of 
mind  with  which  it  was  accomplished,  and  still 
more  important,  if  we  regard  its  consequences  to 
the  world,  which  continue  even  to  the  present 
moment.  Two  religions  that  govern  the  larger 
portion  of  the  inhabited  globe — Christianity  and 
Islamism  —  both  rest  upon  the  religion  of  the 
Jews;  without  it  neither  Christianity  nor  the 
Koran  would  have  existed. 

In  a  certain  sense  it  is  even  indisputable  that 
we  are  indebted  to  the  religion  of  Moses  for  a 
large  portion  of  the  culture  we  now  possess. 
’i  h rough  its  instrumentality  a  precious  truth — 
which  the  unaided  efforts  of  reason  would  only 
have  discovered  in  the  course  of  a  slowly  progress¬ 
ing  development — namely,  the  doctrine  of  one 
God,  was  spread  among  the  people  and  established 
as  an  article  of  creed,  until  it  had  time  to  dawn 
in  the  clearer  intellects  as  a  rational  perception. 
By  this  means  a  large  portion  of  the  human  race 
was  spared  the  sad  mistakes  to  which  the  belief  in 
many  gods  must  finally  lead,  and  the  constitution 
of  the  Hebrews  enjoyed  the  characteristic  dis¬ 
tinction  that  the  religion  of  their  sages  was  not 
opposed  to  that  of  the  people,  as  was  the  case 
among  the  enlightened  heathens.  Viewed  in  this 
light,  the  Hebrews  must  appear  to  us  as  a  nation 
invested  with  high  importance  as  a  subject  of 
universal  history,  and  the  evil  which  has  been  im- 

*  This  essay  was  first  published  in  the  tenth  number 
of  the  Thalia. 


puted  to  them,  or  the  efforts  of  shallow  wits  t« 
degrade  them  in  public  appreciation,  should  not 
prevent  us  from  doing  them  justice.  The  low 
and  depraved  character  of  the  nation  cannot 
efface  the  sublime  merit  of  its  lawgiver,  nor  can 
it  do  away  with  the  great  influence  which  this 
nation  has  acquired  in  history.  We  cannot  help 
valuing  it  as  an  impure  vessel  in  which  precious 
treasures  have  been  preserved  ;  we  have  to  re¬ 
spect  it  as  the  channel,  be  it  ever  so  impure, 
which  was  chosen  by  Providence  for  the  purpose 
of  communicating  to  us  the  noblest  of  all  goods, 
truth,  and  which  was  destroyed  as  soon  as  it  had 
accomplished  its  purpose.  By  pursuing  this  course 
we  shall  avoid  the  double  wrong  of  imputing  to 
the  Jews  qualities  which  they  never  possessed,  or 
of  robbing  them  of  a  merit  that  cannot  be  denied 
them. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Hebrews  went  to 
Egypt  as  a  single  nomadic  family,  not  number¬ 
ing  above  seventy  souls,  and  that  they  increased 
in  this  country  until  they  had  become  a  nation. 
During  a  period  of  about  four  hundred  years  that 
they  resided  in  Egypt,  their  numbers  increased  to 
about  two  millions,  among  whom  they  counted 
six  hundred  thousand  fighting  men  at  the  time 
when  they  marched  out  of  Egypt.  During  this 
long  sojourn  they  lived  separately  from  the  Egyp¬ 
tians,  from  whom  they  were  distinguished  by  a 
separate  region  of  country,  which  they  occupied, 
and  by  their  nomadic  habits  that  made  them  an 
object  of  aversion  to  the  Egyptians,  and  excluded 
them  from  the  civil  rights  of  the  natives.  They 
kept  up  their  nomadic  system  of  government, 
the  father  ruled  over  the  family,  an  hereditary 
prince  over  the  tribes,  thus  constituting  a  state 
within  the  state,  which  finally  excited  the  appre¬ 
hensions  of  the  kings. 

Such  a  separate  multitude  of  people  in  the 
heart  of  the  country,  leading  an  idle  nomadic  life, 
and  closely  united  among  themselves,  without 
having  a  single  interest  in  common  with  the  king¬ 
dom,  might  become  dangerous  during  an  invasion, 
and  might  be  tempted  to  profit  by  the  weakness 
of  the  kingdom  of  which  they  had  been  the  idle 
spectators.  Political  prudence  suggested  the 
propriety  of  watching  them  closely,  of  giving  them 
employment,  and  preventing  their  increase.  They 
were  oppressed  by  heavy  labor,  and  inasmuch  as 
it  was  found  that  they  might  be  made  useful  to 
the  kingdom,  interest  and  political  cunning  went 
hand  in  hand,  and  lead  to  the  system  of  exacting 
a  heavy  tribute  from  them.  They  were  compelled 
in  the  most  inhuman  manner  to  labor  for  the  king, 
and  special  overseers  were  appointed  to  incite 
them  to  work,  and  abuse  them.  This  barbarous 
treatment  did  not  prevent  their  increase.  Sound 
policy  would  have  thought  of  distributing  them 
among  the  people  and  allowing  them  equal  politi¬ 
cal  rights  with  the  rest  of  the  nations  ;  but  this 
was  prevented  by  the  general  detestation  which 
the  Egyptians  felt  for  them.  This  detestation 
was  still  heightened  by  the  consequences  it  must 
necessarily  entail.  When  the  Egyptian  King  as¬ 
signed  to  the  family  of  Jacob  the  province  of  Go¬ 
shen,  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Nile,  as  their  dwelling- 
place,  he  probably  never  imagined  that  two  millions 
of  people  would  live  in  it  at  some  future  period  ;  the 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


359 


province  was  of  limited  extent,  although  it  was  a 
generous  gift,  even  if  not  calculated  for  more 
than  the  one-hundredth  part  of  this  number. 
Since  the  locality  where  the  Hebrews  resided  did 
not  expand  with  their  numbers,  the  consequence 
was  that  with  every  succeeding  generation  they 
lived  more  closely  together,  until  they  were  finally 
crowded  together  in  a  very  small  space  in  a  man¬ 
ner  which  was  exceedingly  prejudicial  to  their 
health.  The  consequences  of  such  a  mode  of 
existence  were  inevitable.  Uncleanliness  and 
contagious  diseases  prevailed  among  them.  Here 
it  was  that  the  evil  first  commenced  which  has 
visited  this  nation  to  the  present  period  ;  but  at 
that  time  it  raged  to  a  frightful  extent.  Leprosy,  the 
most  frightful  epidemic  of  those  countries,  broke 
out  among  them,  and  was  perpetuated  through 
many  generations.  The  very  sources  of  life  were 
contaminated  by  this  plague,  and  an  accidental 
disease  was  finally  converted  into  an  hereditary 
national  malady.  The  universality  of  this  plague 
may  be  inferred  from  the  numerous  precautionary 
measures  which  the  lawgiver  instituted  against  it ; 
and  the  unanimous  testimony  of  profane  writers, 
the  Egyptian  author  Manetho,  Diodorus  of  Sicily, 
Tacitus,  Lysimachus,  Strabo,  and  a  number  of 
others,  who  scarcely  knew  any  thing  else  of  the 
Jewish  nation  than  this  national  malady,  shows 
how  universal  and  deep  was  the  impression  it  had 
made  upon  the  Egyptian  mind. 

This  leprous  disease,  a  natural  consequence  of 
their  confined  habitations,  of  their  bad  and  scanty 
food,  and  of  the  ill  treatment  which  they  expe¬ 
rienced,  became  a  new  cause  of  injustice  and 
wrong.  Those  who  at  first  had  been  despised  as 
shepherds  and  avoided  as  strangers,  now  were 
detested  and  expelled  from  all  intercourse,  as  pes¬ 
tiferous  outcasts.  The  fear  and  repugnance  which 
the  Egyptians  had  felt  against  them  at  all  times, 
were  now  accompanied  by  loathing  and  a  deep 
and  repelling  contempt.  Every  thing  was  deemed 
lawful  against  people  whom  the  wrath  of  the  gods 
had  struck  down  in  such  a  frightful  manner,  and 
the  most  sacred  rights  of  man  were  disregarded 
in  their  case  without  the  least  hesitation. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  they  were  treated  the  more 
barbarously,  the  more  the  consequences  of  this 
barbarous  treatment  became  visible,  and  that 
they  were  punished  more  and  more  cruelly  for  the 
misery  which  their  own  persecutors  had  inflicted 
upon  them. 

The  vicious  political  system  sought  to  remedy 
the  mistakes  it  had  committed  against  them,  by 
another  still  more  flagrant  wrong.  Unable,  in 
spite  of  all  oppression,  to  prevent  the  increase  of 
the  Hebrew  nation,  the  Egyptians  hit  upon  the 
dreadful  and  inhuman  plan  of  causing  all  the  new¬ 
born  sons  of  the  Hebrews  to  be  destroyed  by  the 
midwives.  But,  man’s  better  nature  be  praised  ! 
despots  are  not.  always  obeyed  when  they  issue  in¬ 
human  commands  !  The  midwives  found  means 
and  ways  to  evade  this  unnatural  order,  and  the 
government  had  to  resort  to  forcible  measures  in 
order  to  execute  its  plan.  By  royal  command, 
authorized  murderers  invaded  the  dwellings  of  the 
Hebrews,  destroying  every  male  offspring  in  the 
cradle.  In  this  way  the  Egyptian  government 
must  finally  succeed  in  carrying  out  its  murderous 


designs,  and,  unless  a  saviour  should  arise,  the 
Jewish  nation  must  eventually  be  extiipated. 

Whence  was  this  saviour  to  come  ?  He  could 
scarcely  be  expected  to  arise  among  the  Egyptians, 
for  why  should  one  of  them  intercede  in  behalf  of 
a  nation  that  was  a  stranger  to  him,  whose  lan¬ 
guage  he  did  not  even  understand,  and  would 
probably  not  take  the  trouble  of  studying,  and 
that  seemed  to  him  both  incapable  and  unworthy 
of  a  better  fate.  Still  less  probable  it  was  that 
he. would  arise  in  their  own  midst,  for  how  deeply 
had  the  Hebrews  sunk  in  the  course  of  a  few 
centuries,  in  consequence  of  the  inhuman  treat¬ 
ment  the  Egyptians  had  inflicted  upon  them  ! 
They  had  become  the  most  brutal,  the  most 
malicious  and  depraved  people  on  the  earth,  ut¬ 
terly  brutalized  by  the  debasing  bondage  of  three 
hundred  years,  intimidated  and  embittered  by  this 
oppression,  degraded  in  their  own  eyes  by  an 
hereditary  and  most  infamous  disease,  unmanned 
and  paralyzed  for  all  heroic  resolutions,  sunk  to 
the  condition  of  brutes  by  a  long-lasting  imbecility. 
How  could  a  free  man,  an  enlightened  mind,  a  hero 
and  a  statesman,  be  expected  to  come  from  such  a 
debased  race  ?  Where  should  a  man  be  found 
among  them  who  would  inspire  respect  for  such 
a  despised  mob  of  slaves,  kindle  feelings  of  con¬ 
scious  dignity  in  the  hearts  of  such  a  deeply  op¬ 
pressed  people,  and  render  such  ignorant  and  raw 
bands  of  shepherds  superior  to  their  more  cunning 
oppressors?  A  bold  and  heroic  leader  could  no 
more  be  hoped  for  among  the  Hebrews,  than 
among  the  degraded  pariahs  of  the  Hindoos. 

Here  the  hand  of  Providence,  which  unties  the 
most  complicated  knot  by  the  simplest  means, 
excites  our  admiration,  not  the  Providence  which 
interferes  in  the  economy  of  Nature  by  violent 
means,  but  the  Providence  which  so  arranges  the 
government  of  Nature  as  to  effect  extraordinary 
things  in  a  quiet  way.  A  native  Egyptian  was 
not  inspired  by  the  national  sympathy  necessary 
to  become  the  saviour  of  the  Hebrews.  A  mere 
Hebrew  was  deficient  in  power  and  mind  for  this 
purpose.  What  expedient  did  destiny  resort  to  ? 
It  snatched  a  Hebrew  at  an  early  age  from  the 
bosom  of  his  brutalized  nation,  and  placed  him  in 
possession  of  Egyptian  wisdom  ;  thus  it  was  that 
a  Hebrew,  reared  by  Egyptians,  became  the  in¬ 
strument,  by  means  of  which  his  nation  was  freed 
from  bondage. 

For  three  months,  a  Hebrew  mother  of  the 
tribe  Levi,  had  concealed  her  new-born  son  from 
the  King’s  murderers,  who  were  commissioned  to 
destroy  every  male  offspring  ;  at  last  she  aban¬ 
doned  all  hope  of  affording  him  an  asylum  much 
longer.  Necessity  suggested  a  ruse  that  might 
perhaps  enable  her  to  preserve  him,  She  laid  her 
babe  in  a  little  box  made  of  papyrus,  which  she 
had  protected  by  means  of  pitch  against  filling 
with  water,  and  now  awaited  the  hour  when 
Pharaoh’s  daughter  was  in  the  habit  of  bathing. 
Shortly  previous,  the  babe’s  sister  was  directed  to 
place  the  box  among  the  rushes  where  the  princess 
had  to  pass,  and  could  not  help  noticing  it.  The 
mother  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  to  watch 
the  fate  of  the  infant.  Pharaoh’s  daughter  saw 
the  box,  and  inasmuch  as  the  babe  pleased  her, 
she  .determined  to  save  it.  His  sister  now  ap- 


860 


’  MISSION  OF  MOSES. 


proached  and  offered  to  obtain  a  Hebrew  nurse, 
which  was  granted.  A  second  time  the  son  was 
given  to  his  mother,  who  now  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  publicly  showing  and  educating  him.  Thus  he 
learned  the  language  of  his  people,  became  ac¬ 
quainted  with  their  customs,  and  his  mother  pro¬ 
bably  took  every  opportunity  of  depicting  to  him 
their  pitiable  condition  in  the  most  heart-rending 
language.  After  he  had  reached  the  age  when  it 
became  necessary  to  remove  him  from  the  common 
fate  of  the  nation,  the  mother  returned  him  to  the 
princess  who  now  took  charge  of  his  destiny.  She 
adopted  him,  and  called  him  Moses,  because  he 
had  been  saved  from  the  watqr.  In  this  way, 
from  the  son  of  a  slave  and  the  victim  of  murder, 
he  became  the  son  of  a  princess,  and  in  this  ca¬ 
pacity  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  reserved  for  the 
children  of  kings.  The  priests  to  whose  order  he 
belonged  the  very  moment  he  became  a  member 
of  the  royal  family,  took  charge  of  his  education, 
and  instructed  him  in  the  erudition  of  Egypt, 
which  was  the  exclusive  property  of  their  caste. 
It  is  even  probable  that  they  initiated  him  in  all 
their  mysteries,  since  we  infer  from  a  passage  in 
the  Egyptian  historian  Manetho,  where  he  desig¬ 
nates  Moses  as  an  apostate  from  the  Egyptian  reli¬ 
gion  and  a  priest  who  had  escaped  from  Heliopolis, 
that  Moses  was  destined  for  the  priestly  office. 

In  order  to  determine  the  degree  and  quality  of 
the  instruction  which  Moses  received  in  this 
school,  and  what  share  the  education  he  received 
from  Egyptian  priests,  had  in  his  subsequent 
legislation,  we  shall  have  to  subject  the  doctrines 
and  usages  of  the  Egyptian  priesthood  to  a  closer 
examination.  Let  us  hear  the  testimony  of  ancient 
authors  on  this  head.  The  apostle  Stephanas 
states  that  Moses  was  initiated  in  the  wisdom  of 
Egypt.  The  historian  Philo  informs  us  that 
Moses  had  been  initiated  by  the  Egyptian  priests 
in  the  philosophy  of  symbols  and  hieroglyphics, 
and  in  the  mysteries  of  the  sacred  animals.  This 
testimony  is  confirmed  by  a  number  of  other 
authors,  and  after  casting  a  glance  at  what  has 
been  called  Egyptian  mysteries,  we  shall  discover 
a  remarkable  similarity  between  these  mysteries 
and  the  subsequent  acts  and  institutions  of  Moses. 

We  know  that  the  worship  of  the  most  ancient 
nations  soon  assumed  the  form  of  idolatry  and 
superstition  ;  even  among  tribes  whom  Holy  Writ 
designates  as  worshipers  of  the  true  God,  the 
notions  entertained  of  the  Supreme  Being  were 
neither  pure  nor  noble,  nor  were  they  at  all  founded 
upon  a  lucid  and  rational  comprehension  of  his 
character.  As  soon  as,  in  consequence  of  a  better 
organization  of  human  society  and  the  establish¬ 
ment  of  a  regular  government,  a  separation  of 
men  into  classes  had  taken  place,  and  the  care  of 
divine  things  had  become  the  exclusive  business 
of  a  particular  class  of  men  ;  as  soon  as  the  human 
mind,  free  from  all  harassing  care,  had  leisure  to 
devote  itself  exclusively  to  the  contemplation  of 
its  own  essence  and  of  nature ;  as  soon  as  the 
physical  mechanism  of  nature  was  more  clearly 
understood,  the  reason  must  finally  overcome  those 
coarse  prejudices,  and  the  ideas  concerning  the 
Supreme  Being  must  assume  a  higher  and  purer 
character.  The  idea  of  a  general  connection  of 
all  things  must  necessarily  lead  to  the  idea  of  a 


Supreme  Intelligence,  and  where  should  such  an 
idea  have  taken  root  sooner  than  in  the  mind  of 
a  priest  ?  Egypt  being  the  first  civilized  state  of 
which  history  makes  mention,  and  the  most  ancient 
mysteries  having  come  from  Egypt,  it  was  most 
probably  here  that  the  idea  of  the  unity  of  the 
Supreme  Being  was  first  conceived  by  the  human 
mind.  The  fortunate  discoverer  of  this  soul- 
exalting  idea  selected  among  those  who  were 
around  him,  able  subjects  to  whom  he  confided  it 
as  a  sacred  treasure,  and  thus  it  was  perpetuated 
from  one  thinker  to  another  through  perhaps  an 
unknown  series  of  generations,  until  it  finally  be¬ 
came  the  property  of  a  small  society  capable  of 
comprehending  the  idea,  and  developing  it  still 
further. 

Inasmuch  as  a  certain  amount  of  knowledge 
and  intellectual  culture  is  required  to  correctly 
comprehend  and  apply  the  idea  of  one  God  ;  inas¬ 
much  as  the  belief  in  one  God  must  necessarily 
lead  to  the  contempt  of  idolatry,  which  was  the 
dominant  religion,  it  was  readily  seen  that  it  would 
be  indiscreet  or  even  dangerous  to  spread  this 
idea  among  the  people.  Without  previously  up¬ 
setting  the  customary  gods,  and  showing  them  in 
their  ridiculous  nakedness,  this  new  doctrine  could 
not  expect  to  meet  with  a  favorable  reception. 
Moreover  it  could  not  be  expected  or  foreseen  that 
every  one  who  began  to  feel  the. absurdity  of  the 
old  superstition,  would  at  once  comprehend  the 
pure  and  exalted  idea  of  one  God.  The  whole 
constitution  of  society  was  based  upon  idolatry; 
if  this  faith  was  crushed,  all  the  pillars  which  sup¬ 
ported  the  political  edifice  were  likewise  torn  down, 
and  it  was  very  uncertain  whether  the  new  religion 
that  was  substituted  for  the  former  superstition, 
would  at  once  be  established  with  sufficient  firm¬ 
ness  to  support  the  social  edifice. 

On  the  contrary,  if  the  attempt  to  crush  the 
ancient  gods,  failed,  fanaticism  would  rise  in  arms, 
and  the  innovators  would  become  the  victims  of 
an  enraged  crowd.  It  was  therefore  deemed  ad¬ 
visable  to  make  the  new  truth  the  exclusive  pro¬ 
perty  of  a  small  class,  to  select  those  among  the 
crowd  who  showed  the  required  capacity,  as  mem¬ 
bers  of  this  class,  and  to  invest  the  truth  itself 
which  was  to  be  kept  hidden  from  impure  eyes, 
with  a  robe  of  mystery  that  could  only  be  removed 
by  him  who  had  been  capacitated  for  this  business. 

For  this  purpose  the  hieroglyphics  were  chosen, 
a  symbolic  language  that  concealed  a  general  idea 
under  the  garb  of  sensual  symbols,  and  was  based 
upon  a  few  arbitrary  rules  concerning  which  they 
had  agreed.  Having  been  reminded  by  the  wor¬ 
ship  of  idols  what  strong  impressions  may  be 
made  upon  the  youthful  heart  through  the  instru¬ 
mentality  of  the  imagination  and  the  senses,  these 
enlightened  men  did  not  hesitate  to  make  use  of 
this  artifice  in  behalf  of  truth.  They  therefore 
conveyed  the  new  ideas  to  the  soul  with  a  certain 
sensual  pomp,  and  by  all  sorts  of  contrivances 
adapted  to  this  end,  they  first  roused  up  in  the 
pupil’s  mind  a  deep  feeling  of  emotion  that  ren¬ 
dered  the  mind  more  susceptible  to  the  new  truth. 
Of  this  character  where  the  purifications  which 
the  candidate  had  to  undergo,  the  washings  and 
sprinklings,  the  wrapping  up  in  linen  cloths,  absti¬ 
nence  from  all  sensual  enjoyments  elevation  and 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


361 


devotional  solemnity  of  the  mind  by  singing-,  a 
long-lasting  silence,  alternate  darkness  and  light; 
and  the  like. 

These  ceremonies,  accompanied  by  those  mys¬ 
terious  figures  and  hieroglyphics,  and  the  truths 
that  lay  hidden  in  them,  and  were  preceded  by 
these  formalities,  were  designated  in  their  inte¬ 
grality  as  the  Egyptian  mysteries.  They  were 
located  in  the  temples  of  Isis  and  Serapis,  and 
constituted  the  prototype  of  the  subsequent  mys¬ 
teries  of  Eleusis  and  Samothrace,  and  of  the  more 
recent  order  of  the  free-masons. 

It  seems  past  all  doubt  that  the  meaning  of  the 
ancient  mysteries  of  Heliopolis  and  Memphis, 
during  their  purity,  was  the  doctrine  of  one  God, 
refutation  of  paganism,  and  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  Those  who  participated  in  these  important 
teachings,  called  themselves  epoptae,  or  beholders, 
since  the  recognition  of  a  previously  hidden  truth 
may  be  compared  to  the  transition  from  darkness 
to  light,  or  perhaps  for  the  reason  that  the  newly 
recognized  truths  were  actually  beheld  by  them 
under  the  garb  of  symbolic  signs. 

They  could  not,  at  once,  enjoy  the  full  percep¬ 
tion  of  the  truth,  because  the  mind  had  first  to  be 
purified  of  many  errors,  and  had  first  to  pass 
through  many  preparations  before  it  was  able  to 
bear  the  full  light  of  truth.  Hence  there  were 
degrees  of  initiation,  and  it  was  only  in  the  inner 
sanctuary  that  the  scales  were  completely  re¬ 
moved  from  their  eyes. 

The  epoptae  acknowledged  one  highest  cause 
of  all  things,  a  primary  force  in  Nature,  the  Being 
of  beings  being  identical  with  the  demiurgos  of 
Greek  sages.  Nothing  surpasses  in  sublimity  the 
simple  greatness  with  which  they  spoke  of  the 
Creator  of  the  world.  In  order  to  distinguish  him 
in  a  very  marked  manner,  they  did  not  name  him. 
Names,  they  said,  are  only  intended  to  enable  us 
to  discriminate  between  different  objects;  he  who 
is  the  Only  One  does  not  require  a  name,  for  there 
is  not  any  body  with  whom  he  could  be  confounded. 
Under  an  old  statue  of  Isis  the  following  inscrip¬ 
tion  was  read  :  “  Tam  what  is,”  and  upon  a  pyra¬ 
mid  in  Sais,  the  following  ancient  and  most  re¬ 
markable  inscription  is  found:  “  /  am  who  is, 
was,  and  will  he  ;  no  mortal  man  has  lifted  my 
vail.”  No  one  was  permitted  to  enter  the  temple 
of  Serapis,  who  did  not  wear  upon  his  breast  or 
forehead  the  name  Iao  or  Joha-ho,  a  name  that 
has  almost  the  same  sound  and  probably  the  same 
meaning  as  the  Hebrew  Jehovah  ;  and  no  name 
was  pronounced  with  more  respect  in  Egypt  than 
this  name  Iao.  In  the  hymn  which  the  hiero¬ 
phant  or  president  of  the  sanctuary  sang  to  the 
candidate,  the  following  preliminary  explanation 
was  given  concerning  the  nature  of  the  deity. 
“  He  is  alone  and  of  himself,  and  to  this  only 
One  all  things  owe  their  existence.” 

Before  being  initiated  in  the  Egyptian  mys¬ 
teries,  the  candidate  had  to  undergo  circumcision. 
Pythagoras  had  to  comply  with  this  requirement, 
This  distinction  between  them  and  others  who 
were  not  circumcised,  was  to  denote  a  closer  fra¬ 
ternity,  a  closer  relation  to  the  deity,  for  which 
purpose  Moses  introduced  circumcision  among 
the  Hebrews. 

In  the  interioi  of  the  temple  the  candidate  saw 


several  sacred  vessels  significative  of  some  sacred 
meaning.  Among  them  was  a  sacred  ark  named 
the  coffin  of  Serapis,  which,  according  to  its  origin, 
was  intended  as  a  symbol  of  hidden  wisdom,  but 
afterward,  when  the  priesthood  had  degenerated, 
was  used  as  an  instrument  of  priestly  fraud  and 
mercenary  mysticism.  It  was  the  privilege  of  the 
priest,  or  of  a  special  class  of  ministers  of  the 
sanctuary,  named  on  this  account,  Kistophors,  to 
carry  the  ark  in  the  procession.  Only  the  hiero¬ 
phant  was  permitted  to  remove  the  lid  of  the  ark, 
or  even  to  touch  it.  Of  one  person  who  had  the 
boldness  to  open  it,  it  is  related  that  he  was  sud¬ 
denly  bereft  of  his  reason. 

In  the  Egyptian  mysteries  several  hieroglyphical 
images  of  gods  were  seen,  that  were  composed  of 
several  figures  of  animals.  The  well-known  Sphinx 
is  of  this  kind ;  by  these  figures  it  was  intended  to  de¬ 
signate  the  attributes  which  are  united  in  the  Su- 
preme  Being,  or  else  to  combine  in  one  body  the 
highest  powers  of  the  living.  Something  was  taken 
from  the  mightiest  bird,  as  the  eagle  ;  from  the 
mightiest  wild  quadruped,  as  the  lion;  from  the  most 
powerful  domestic  animal,  as  the  bull ;  and  lastly 
from  the  most  powerful  animal  of  all,  man.  The 
figure  of  the  bull,  or  Apis,  was  especially  employed 
as  the  symbol  of  power,  in  order  to  designate  the 
omnipotence  of  the  highest  Being;  in  the  primi¬ 
tive  tongue  the  name  for  bull  is  cherub. 

These  mystic  forms,  to  which  none  but  the 
epoptae  had  the  key,  imparted  to  the  mysteries 
themselves  a  sensual  exterior  which  deceived  the 
people,  and  partook  somewhat  of  the  character 
of  idolatry.  Thus  the  superstition  of  the  people 
was  sustained  by  the  external  garb  of  the  mys¬ 
teries,  whereas  those  who  dwelled  in  the  sanctuary 
discarded  it  with  scorn. 

We  can  comprehend  how  this  pure  deism  was 
compatible  with  idolatry,  for  while  the  latter  was 
overturned  among  the  priests,  it  was  favored  among 
the  people.  This  contradiction  between  the  reli¬ 
gion  of  the  priests  and  that  of  the  people  was  ex¬ 
cused  by  the  first  founders  of  the  mysteries  on  the 
score  of  necessity.  It  seemed  less  dangerous  and 
less  impracticable,  because  leaving  more  room  tor 
hope,  to  arrest  the  evil  consequences  of  a  con¬ 
cealment  than  those  of  a  premature  nnvailing-of 
truth.  But  in  proportion  as  unworthy  members 
were  received  among  the  initiated,  and  the  insti¬ 
tution  lost  its  primitive  purity,  mystery,  which  had 
originally  been  a  necessary  expedient,  was  set  up 
as  the  ultimate  end  of  worship  ;  ahd  instead  of 
gradually  removing  superstition  and  fitting  the 
people  for  the  reception  of  truth,  advantage  was 
taken  of  their  ignorance,  and  they  were  plunged 
more  and  more  deeply  into  it.  Priestly  artifice 
now  took  the  place  of  those  pure  intentions,  and 
the  institution  whose  object  it  was  to  preserve, 
and  cautiously  to  spread  a  knowledge  of  the  only 
true  God,  now  became  the  most  powerful  means  of 
eradicating  it,  and  substituting  in  its  place  an 
idolatrous  worship.  In  order  to  preserve  their  in¬ 
fluence  over  the  public  mind,  hierophants  deemed 
it  advisable  to  postpone  their  ultimate  disclosures 
as  long  as  possible,  and,  instead  of  gratifying  the 
expectation  of  knowing  the  truth,  to  obstruct  the 
avenues  to  the  sanctuary  by  all  sorts  of  theatrical 
tricks.  At  last  the  key  to  the  hieroglyphics  aud 


362 


MISSION  OF  MOSES. 


mysterious  symbols  was  entirely  lost,  and  whereas, 
it  was  the  original  design  to  use  them  as  avail  for 
truth,  they  were  now  regarded  as  truth  itself. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  Moses  was  edu¬ 
cated  during  the  bright  period  or  the  decay  of  the 
institution  ;  it  is  probable  that  the  institution  was 
already  declining,  as  we  may  judge  from  a  few 
juggleries  which  the  Jewish  lawgiver  borrowed 
from  the  mysteries,  and  from  a  few  rather  inglo¬ 
rious  tricks  which  he  resorted  to.  But  the  spirit 
of  the  original  founders  had  not  yet  disappeared, 
and  the  doctrine  of  one  God  still  rewarded  the 
initiated. 

This  doctrine  which  necessarily  leads  to  a  con¬ 
tempt  of  idolatry,  and  the  belief  in  the  immor¬ 
tality  of  the  soul  which  could  not  well  be  sepa¬ 
rated  from  such  a  doctrine,  were  the  precious 
treasures  vouchsafed  to  Moses  by  his  initiation 
in  the  mysteries  of  Isis.  At  the  same  time  he 
obtained  a  more  accurate  knowledge  of  the  pow¬ 
ers  of  Nature  which  were  likewise  ranked  among 
the  mysteries.  This  knowledge  enabled  him  af¬ 
terward  to  perform  miracles,  and  to  contend  in 
Pharaoh’s  own  presence  with  his  teachers  and 
magicians  whom  he  even  surpassed  in  many  re¬ 
spects.  His  subsequent  career  shows  us  that  he 
had  been  an  able  disciple,  and  had  reached  the 
highest  degree  of  initiation. 

In  the  school  where  he  was  educated,  he  gath¬ 
ered  a  treasure  of  hieroglyphics,  mystic  figures 
and  ceremonies,  of  which  his  genius  afterward 
availed  itself.  He  had  wandered  through  the 
whole  domain  of  Egyptian  wisdom,  had  penetrated 
with  his  thoughts  the  whole  priestly  system,  had 
weighed  in  the  balance  its  defects  and  its  advan¬ 
tages,  its  strength  and  its  weakness,  and  had  cast 
a  deep  and  significant  glance  into  the  political 
science  of  the  people. 

It  is  not  known  how  long  he  remained  in  the 
school  of  the  priests,  but  from  the  fact  that  he 
first  assumed  the  political  leadership  of  his  na¬ 
tion  at  the  age  of  eighty  years,  we  infer  that  he 
devoted  twenty  or  more  years  to  the  study  of  the 
mysteries  and  of  the  art  of  government.  His 
sojourn  among  the  priests  does  not  seem  to  have 
excluded  him  from  intercourse  with  his  people, 
and  he  had  abundant  opportunities  of  witnessing 
the  barbarities  under  which  they  groaned. 

The  Egyptian  education  had  not  extinguished 
his  national  sympathies.  The  abuse  which  his 
people  suffered,  reminded  him  of  his  Hebrew  ex¬ 
traction,  ancf  a  deep  feeling  of  indignation  was 
kindled  in  his  bosom  whenever  he  saw  one  of  them 
maltreated.  The  more  his  own  self-respect  in¬ 
creased,  the  more  he  revolted  at  the  sight  of  the 
cruelties  which  his  people  had  to  endure. 

One  day  he  saw  a  Hebrew  wincing  under  the 
blows  of  an  Egyptian  overseer;  the  sight  over¬ 
powered  him  ;  he  killed  the  Egyptian.  Soon  the 
deed  became  known,  he  had  to  flee  from  Egypt 
and  hide  himself  in  the  Arabian  desert.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  many  authors,  this  flight  took  place  in 
his  fortieth  year,  but  there  is  no  proof  for  this 
statement.  It  is  sufficient  for  us  to  know  that 
Moses  was  not  very  young  when  it  occurred. 

This  exile  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch  in 
his  life  ;  if  we  desire  to  judge  correctly  his  sub¬ 
sequent  political  career  in  Egypt,  we  have  to  ac¬ 


company  him  through  his  solitude  in  the  Arabian 
wilderness.  He  carried  a  bloody  hatred  against 
the  oppressors  of  his  people,  and  the  knowledge 
he  had  derived  from  the  Egyptian  mysteries,  along 
with  him  into  the  desert.  His  mind  was  full  of 
ideas  and  plans,  his  heart  full  of  bitterness,  and 
nothing  in  this  wild  and  uninhabited  region  dis¬ 
turbed  his  solemn  and  contemplative  mood. 

According  to  the  record,  he  guarded  the  sheep 
of  an  Arabian  Bedouin,  Jethro.  How  deeply 
his  soul  must  have  been  wounded  by  the  fall  from 
his  prospects  and  hopes  in  Egypt  to  the  position 
of  a  shepherd  in  Arabia,  from  the  future  ruler  of 
men  to  the  hired  servant  of  a  Nomad  ? 

Dressed  as  a  shepherd,  he  was  animated  by  the 
spirit  of  a  ruler,  by  a  restless  ambition.  In  this 
desert,  where  no  present  interest  chains  his  mind, 
he  seeks  refuge  in  the  past  and  future,  and  feeds 
upon  his  own  silent  thoughts.  The  scenes  of  op¬ 
pression  he  had  witnessed,  now  pass  before  him 
with  all  the  pang  of  past  wrongs,  and  sting  his 
soul  to  the  quick.  Nothing  seems  more  intoler¬ 
able  to  a  great  soul  than  to  suffer  wrong  ;  more¬ 
over  it  was  his  own  people  that  were  suffering. 

A  noble  pride  is  awakened  in  his  breast,  and  an 
intense  desire  for  action  and  distinction  inflames 
his  heart. 

All  that  he  has  gathered  during  many  years, 
all  the  beautiful  and  great  things  he  has  planned, 
is  all  this  to  die  with  him  in  this  wilderness  ?  is 
he  to  have  planned  and  meditated  to  no  purpose? 
His  fiery  soul  cannot  bear  such  a  thought  ;  he 
raises  himself  above  fate;  this  wilderness  is  not 
to  be  the  limit  of  his  activity;  the  Supreme  Being 
into  whose  knowledge  he  lias  been  initiated  in  the 
mysteries,  has  destined  him  for  something  great. 
His  imagination,  inflamed  by  solitude  and  si¬ 
lence,  takes  the  part  of  the  oppressed  which  ap¬ 
peals  most  powerfully  to  his  heart.  Like  feelings 
attract  each  other,  and  the  unfortunate  most  rea¬ 
dily  sympathizes  with  his  unfortunate  brother.  In 
Egypt  he  might  have  become  an  Egyptian,  a  hie¬ 
rophant,  a  general ;  in  Arabia  he  becomes  a  He¬ 
brew.  The  idea:  “I  will  redeem  this  people,” 
looms  up  in  his  mind  as  a  glorious  thought. 

But  how  was  it  possible  for  him  to  carry  out  his 
plan  ?  There  are  countless  obstacles  in  the  way, 
and  those  which  he  has  to  contend  against  among 
his  own  people,  are  the  most  terrible  of  them  all.  * 
There  he  finds  neither  harmony  nor  confidence, 
neither  self-respect  nor  courage,  neither  patriot¬ 
ism  nor  the  enthusiasm  that  will  rouse  a  bold  de¬ 
sire  for  action  ;  a  long  bondage,  an  oppression  of 
four  hundred  years  has  stifled  all  these  sentiments. 
The  people  at  whose  head  he  is  to  place  himself, 
are  both  incapable  and  unworthy  of  a  bold  strug¬ 
gle  for  independence.  What  remains  to  be  done? 
Before  attempting  the  deliverance  of  his  people, 
he  must  first  prepare  them  for  this  blessing.  He 
must  first  re-awaken  the  consciousness  of  the 
human  rights  they  have  lost.  He  must  re¬ 
store  the  qualities  which  a  long  degradation  has 
stifled  among  them;  he  must  kindle  hope,  confi¬ 
dence,  heroism,  and  enthusiasm  in  their  hearts. 

But  these  sentiments  can  only  arise  from  the 
true  or  illusory  consciousness  of  strength,  and 
whence  are  the  slaves  of  the  Egyptians  to  derive 
this  consciousness  ?  Suppose  he  should  succeed 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


363 


in  carrying  them  away  for  a  moment  by  his  elo¬ 
quence.  will  not  this  artificial  enthusiasm  leave 
them  in  the  lurch  at  the  first  sight  of  danger? 
Will  they  not,  more  dispirited  than  ever,  relapse 
into  bondage  ? 

Here  the  Hebrew  is  assisted  by  the  Egyptian 
priest  and  statesman.  From  his  mysteries,  from 
his  school  at  Heliopolis  he  remembers  the  efficient 
instrument  by  means  of  which  a  small  priestly 
caste  governed  millions  of  raw  men  like  a  band 
of  untutored  children.  This  instrument  is  confi¬ 
dence  in  supernatural  protection,  faith  in  super¬ 
natural  agencies.  Not  knowing  any  thing  in  visi¬ 
ble  nature,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  which 
would  inspire  the  hearts  of  his  oppressed  people 
with  courage  ;  unable  to  bind  their  confidence  to 
earthly  things,  he  binds  it  to  heaven.  Abandon¬ 
ing  the  hope  of  exciting  in  their  hearts  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  their  own  strength,  he  gives  them  a 
God  who  possesses  it  for  them.  If  he  succeeds 
in  kindling  the  confidence  in  this  God  in  their 
breasts,  he  has  given  them  strength  and  boldness, 
and  the  confidence  in  this  higher  power  is  the 
flame  by  means  of  which  he  will  have  to  kindle  all 
their  other  virtues  and  energies.  If  he  succeeds 
in  imposing  himself  upon  his  people  as  the  instru¬ 
ment  and  messenger  of  this  God,  they  became  like 
playthings  in  his  hands  ;  he  will  be  able  to  guide 
and  control  them  as  he  pleases.  The  question 
now  occurs  :  What  God  is  he  to  announce  to 
them,  and  by  what  means  shall  he  be  able  to  in¬ 
spire  them  with  confidence  in  him  ? 

Is  he  to  announce  to  them  the  true  God,  the 
Demiurgos  or  lao  in  whom  he  himself  be¬ 
lieves  ? 

How  can  he  imagine  that  a  slavish  rabble 
like  his  own  people,  will  comprehend  and  cherish 
a  truth  that  was  the  heritage  of  a  few  Egyptian 
sages,  and  the  comprehension  of  which  required  a 
high  degree  of  culture  ?  How  could  he  hope  that 
the  dregs  of  Egypt  would  comprehend  that  which 
could  only  be  comprehended  by  the  best  thinkers 
of  the  land? 

But,  even  if  he  had  succeeded  in  imparting 
a  knowledge  of  the  true  God  to  his  people,  in 
their  present  situation  they  could  not  have  made 
made  use  of  him.  and  the  knowledge  of  such  a 
God  would  have  undermined  rather  than  promoted 
•  his  project.  The  true  God  cared  for  the  Hebrews 
no  mo^e  than  for  any  other  people.  The  true  God 
could  not  do  battle  for  them,  could  not  overturn 
the  laws  of  Nature  for  their  sakes.  The  true 
God  suffered  them  to  fight  their  battle  with  the 
Egyptians,  without  assisting  them  in  the  struggle 
by  miracles ;  of  what  use  was  such  a  God  to  his 
people  ? 

Is  he  to  announce  to  them  a  false  and  fabulous 
God,  against  which  his  reason  rebels,  whom  the 
mysteries  have  rendered  odious  to  him  ?  His  un¬ 
derstanding  is  too  enlightened,  his  heart  too  sin¬ 
cere  and  noble  for  such  fraud.  He  is  not  disposed 
to  base  his  beneficent  enterprise  upon  a  lie.  The 
enthusiasm  he  now  feels,  would  not  lend  him  its 
fire  for  an  act  of  fraud,  and  he  would  soon  lack 
the  cheerful  courage  and  perseverance  for  a  con¬ 
temptible  part  that  would  be  so  much  opposed 
to  his  convictions.  He  designs  to  render  the 
blessing  he  is  on  the  point  of  imparting  to  his 


people,  perfect ;  he  not  only  designs  their  indepen¬ 
dence,  but  likewise  their  happiness.  He  wants 
to  build  his  work  upon  eternal  foundations. 

Therefore  it  must  not  be  based  upon  fraud,  but 
upon  truth.  How  is  he  to  conciliate  all  these 
contradictions?  As  regards  the  true  God,  he 
cannot  announce  him  to  his  people,  because  they 
are  unable  to  comprehend  him  ;  and  he  is  unwill¬ 
ing  to  announce  a  fabulous  god,  because  he  de¬ 
spises  this  trick.  What,  therefore,  remains  for 
him  to  do.  but  to  announce  to  them  his  true  God 
in  a  fabulous  manner. 

He  now  examines  his  rational  religion,  and  tries 
to  determine  what  he  has  to  add  to  or  take  from 
it,  in  order  to  secure  for  it  a  favorable  reception 
among  his  Hebrews.  He  identifies  himself  with 
their  situation,  with  their  limited  powers  of  com¬ 
prehension,  and,  by  diving  into  his  people’s  own 
minds,  he  explores  the  hidden  threads  to  which 
he  has  to  fasten  his  truth. 

He  provides  his  God  with  such  attributes  as 
can  be  comprehended  by  the  Hebrews  in  their 
present  condition,  and  as  are  adequate  to  their 
present  wants.  He  adapts  his  lao  to  the  people 
to  whom  he  intends  to  announce  him  ;  he  adapts 
him  to  the  circumstances  under  which  he  an¬ 
nounces  him.  Thus  arises  his  Jehovah. 

In  the  minds  of  his  people  he  discovers  faith  in 
divine  things,  but  this  faith  has  degenerated  into 
the  crudest  superstition.  He  has  to  eradicate  the 
superstition,  without  impairing  the  faith.  He  has 
only  to  detach  it  from  its  present  unworthy  object, 
and  turn  it  toward  his  new  deity.  The  supersti¬ 
tion  itself  favors  him  in  his  undertaking.  It  was 
a  common  belief  in  those  times,  that  every  nation 
w7as  under  the  protection  of  a  special  national 
deity,  and  it  pleased  the  national  pride  to  place 
this  deity  above  the  gods  of  every  other  nation. 
The  divine  character  of  these  gods  was  not  denied 
on  this  account,  only  they  must  not  elevate  them¬ 
selves  above  the  gods  of  other  nations.  Upon 
this  error  Moses  grafted  his  truth.  He  made  the 
demiurgos  of  the  mysteries  the  national  God  of 
the  Hebrews,  but  he  went  a  step  further. 

He  did  not  content  himself  with  making  this 
God  the  national  God  of  the  Hebrews,  he  likewise 
made  him  the  only  God,  and  hurled  all  other  gods 
round  about  him  into  annihilation.  He  made  him 
the  Hebrews’  own  God,  in  order  to  accommodate 
himself  to  their  comprehension,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  subjected  all  other  nations  and  powers  of 
natnre  to  his  sway.  By  the  manner  in  which  he 
represented  his  God  to  the  Hebrews,  he  saved  two 
of  his  most  important  attributes,  unity  and  omni¬ 
potence,  and  rendered  them  more  efficient  in  this 
human  garb. 

The  puerile  vanity  of  possessing  the  deity  ex¬ 
clusively,  now  had  to  be  made  subservient  to  the 
interest  of  truth,  and  had  to  secure  willing  ears  to 
his  doctrine  of  one  God.  It  is  only  a  new 
error  by  means  of  which  he  overthrows  the  former; 
but  this  new  error  is  much  nearer  to  the  truth 
than  the  one  which  he  overthrows;  it  is  this  slight 
admixture  of  error  which  secures  the  success  of  his 
truth  ;  it  is  to  this  foreseen  and  indeed  premedi¬ 
tated  misapprehension  of  his  doctrine  that  he  is 
indebted  for  all  the  good  he  accomplishes  by 
means  of  it.  What  could  his  Hebrews  have  ac« 


364 


MISSION-  OF  MOSES. 


complished  with  his  philosophical  God?  With 
such  a  national  God,  on  the  contrary,  he  achieves 
wonders  among  them.  Identify  yourselves  with 
the  condition  of  the  Hebrews.  In  their  ignorance 
they  measure  the  strength  of  the  gods  by  the 
fortune  of  the  nations  over  whom  they  watch. 
Abandoned  and  oppressed  by  men.  they  imagine 
they  are  forgotten  by  the  gods ;  the  relation  which 
they  hold  to  the  Egyptians,  must  be  held  by  their 
God  to  the  gods  of  the  latter ;  compared  to  these, 
he  is  a  small  light,  they  even  doubt  his  existence. 
Suddenly  they  are  told  that  they  too  have  a  pro¬ 
tector  in  the  Heavens,  that  this  protector  has 
waked  up  from  his  slumber,  that  he  is  girding 
himself,  and  preparing  to  do  great  deeds  against 
his  enemies. 

This  announcement  of  their  God  is  like  the  call 
of  a  chieftain  to  place  himself  under  his  victorious 
banner.  If  this  leader  gives  them  a  proof  of  his 
strength,  or  if  they  happen  to  remember  him  from 
former  periods,  the  delirium  of  enthusiasm  will 
overpower  even  the  most  timid  ;  this  result  was 
likewise  calculated  by  Moses  in  conceiving  his 
plan. 

The  conversation  he  had  with  the  vision  in  the 
burning  bush,  shows  us  the  doubts  he  had  con¬ 
ceived  in  his  own  mind,  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  solved  them.  Will  my  unhappy  nation 
win  confidence  in  a  God  who  had  neglected  it  so 
long,  who  now  descends  to  the  people  suddenly  as 
from  the  clouds,  whose  name  they  have  not  even 
heard,  who  had  been  for  centuries  an  idle  specta¬ 
tor  of  the  abuse  they  had  to  suffer  at  the  hands 
of  their  oppressors?  Will  they  not  regard  the 
God  of  their  enemies  as  the  more  mighty?  This 
thought  must  more  immediately  arise  in  the  heart 
of  the  new  prophet.  How  does  he  remove  his 
doubts  ?  He  makes  his  Iao  the  God  of  their 
fathers,  he  grafts  him  upon  their  old  traditions, 
thus  converting  him  into  an  old,  well-known  na¬ 
tional  God.  In  order  to  show  that  he  meant  the 
true  and  only  God,  in  order  to  prevent  all  confu¬ 
sion  with  any  of  the  monstrous  outbirths  of  super¬ 
stition,  in  order  to  leave  no  room  for  misapprehen¬ 
sions,  he  invests  him  with  the  sacred  name  he  has 
in  the  mysteries.  I  am  who  I  am.  Tell  the  peo¬ 
ple  of  Israel,  he  makes  him  say,  I  am  has  sent  me 
to  you. 

In  the  mysteries,  this  was  really  the  name  of 
the  deity.  To  the  stupid  Hebrews  this  name 
must  be  unintelligible.  They  could  not  possibly 
understand  any  thing  by  this  name,  and  Moses 
might  have  had  more  success  with  another  name  ; 
but  he  preferred  running  this  risk  to  giving  up  an 
idea  in  which  his  whole  soul  was  interested,  which 
was,  to  acquaint  the  Hebrews  with  the  God  who 
was  taught  in  the  mysteries  of  Isis.  Since  it  is 
pretty  certain  that  the  Egyptian  mysteries  had 
flourished  long  before  Jehovah  appeared  to  Moses 
in  the  bush,  it  is  surprising  that  he  assumed  the 
same  name  for  his  God  that  he  had  been  known  by, 
in  the  mysteries  of  Isis. 

It  was  not  sufficient  that  Jehovah  announced 
himself  to  the  Hebrews  as  the  God  of  their 
fathers,  he  had  likewise  to  prove  himself  a  power¬ 
ful  God,  if  they  were  to  have  confidence  in  him  ; 
this  was  the  more  necessary,  as  their  previous 
condition  in  Egypt  could  not  possibly  have  given 


them  a  high  opinion  of  their  protector.  Inas¬ 
much  as  he  was  introduced  by  a  third  person,  he 
had  to  invest  this  person  with  his  own  power,  and 
enable  him  to  demonstrate  by  extraordinary  acts, 
both  his  own  mission  and  the  power  and  great¬ 
ness  of  him  who  sent  him. 

If  Moses  intended  to  justify  his  mission,  he  had 
to  support  it  by  miraculous  acts.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  these  acts  were  performed.  How  they 
were  performed,  and  how  they  have  to  be  under¬ 
stood,  is  left  to  every  man’s  own  discretion. 

The  form  in  which  Moses  related  his  mission  to 
the  Hebrews,  has  all  the  characteristics  necessary 
to  inspire  them  with  confidence,  and  this  was  suf¬ 
ficient  for  the  time  being  ;  with  us  this  effect  is 
no  longer  needed.  We  know,  for  instance,  that, 
if  the  Creator  of  the  world  should  conclude  to 
appear  before  a  man  in  fire  or  wind,  it  is  indif¬ 
ferent  to  him  whether  the  man  is  barefoot  or  not. 
Moses  makes  his  Jehovah  order  him  to  take  off 
his  shoes,  for  he  knew  that  among  his  Hebrews 
the  idea  of  divine  sanctity  had  to  be  assisted  by 
some  sensual  symbol ;  such  a  symbol  had  adhered 
to  his  memory  from  the  ceremonies  of  initiation. 

He  doubtlessly  anticipated  the  objections  that 
might  be  raised  against  him,  and  embodied  them 
in  his  narrative,  where  they  w'eve  answered  by  Je¬ 
hovah  himself.  He  moreover  did  not  accept  his 
mission  until  after  a  long  resistance  ;  hence  the 
command  of  God,  who  imposed  this  mission  upon 
him,  must  seem  so  much  more  solemn.  In  gene¬ 
ral  he  depicts  with  the  most  characteristic  and 
striking  details  that  which  the  Israelites  would 
find  it  the  most  difficult  to  believe,  and  it  is  be¬ 
yond  doubt  that  he  had  good  reason  for  doing  so. 

If  we  condense  our  previous  remarks  in  one 
short  sentence,  what  was  the  plan  which  Moses 
proposed  to  himself  in  the  wilderness? 

He  intended  to  lead  the  Israelites  out  of  Egypt, 
give  them  independence,  and  a  political  constitu¬ 
tion  of  their  own  in  a  separate  country.  But  in¬ 
asmuch  as  he  was  well  acquainted  with  the  diffi¬ 
culties  that  would  beset  him  in  such  an  undertak¬ 
ing ;  inasmuch  as  he  knew  that  the  energies  of 
those  people  could  not  be  depended  upon  until 
their  confidence  in  themselves,  courage,  hope,  and 
enthusiasm  had  been  restored  ;  inasmuch  as  he 
foresaw  that  his  eloquence  would  not  be  able  to 
rouse  the  slavish  feelings  of  his  crushed  country¬ 
men,  he  perceived  the  necessity  of  announcing  to 
them  a  higher  and  supernatural  protection,  and 
of  ranging  them,  as  it  were,  under  the  banner  of 
a  divine  leader. 

He  therefore  gives  them  a  God  -whose  first  busi¬ 
ness  is  to  deliver  them  out  of  Egypt.  But  this 
is  not  sufficient.  In  the  place  of  the  country  he 
takes  from  them,  he  has  to  give  them  another, 
which  they  first  have  to  conquer  with  arms  in 
their  hands,  and  -where  they  have  to  maintain 
themselves  by  similar  means.  For  this  purpose, 
he  unites  their  forces  in  a  political  body,  and 
gives  them  laws  and  a  constitution. 

In  his  capacity  of  priest  and  statesman,  he 
knows  that  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  indis¬ 
pensable  support  of  all  political  constitutions  is 
religion  ;  he  therefore  has  to  employ  the  God 
whom  he  had  given  them  only  for  the  purpose  of 
delivering  them  out  of  Egypt,  as  his  guide  in  pm 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


365 


paring;  a  code  of  laws  for  his  people;  and  he  an¬ 
nounces  him  in  the  character  with  which  he  in¬ 
tended  to  invest  him.  For  purposes  of  legisla¬ 
tion,  and  the  foundation  of  apolitical  constitution, 
he  requires  the  help  of  the  true  God,  for  Moses  is 
a  great  and  noble  man,  who  is  unable  to  found 
upon  a  lie  a  work  that  is  to  last  forever.  He  de¬ 
signs  to  realize  the  permanent  happiness  of  the 
Hebrews  by  the  constitution  he  intends  to  give 
them,  and  this  end  can  only  be  reached  by  found¬ 
ing  his  legislation  upon  truth.  Their  mental 
faculties  are  too  dull  to  receive  this  truth  ;  he  is 
unable  to  familiarize  their  souls  with  it  by  rational 
means.  Being  unable  to  convince  them,  he  has 
to  persuade,  bribe,  overpower  them  by  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  supernatural  agencies.  He  invests  the 
God  whom  he  announces  to  them,  with  attributes 
that  render  him  comprehensible  and  commenda¬ 
ble  to  feeble  minds;  he  has  to  envelop  him  in  a 
heathenish  robe,  and  has  to  be  content  if  his  peo¬ 
ple  only  estimate  the  heathenish  attributes  of  his 
true  God,  and  receive  the  true  only  in  a  heathen¬ 
ish  dress.  By  this  means  he  gains  a  great  deal ; 
the  basis  of  his  legislation  is  truth  ;  a  future  re¬ 
former  need  not  first  overthrow  the  constitution, 
in  order  to  change  a  few  definitions, — a  result 
which  is  inevitable  in  all  false  religious  systems, 
as  soon  as  they  are  examined  by  the  light  of  rea¬ 
son. 

All  the  other  states  of  that  period,  and  even  of 
subsequent  ages,  are  based  upon  fraud  and  delu¬ 
sions,  and  upon  idolatry,  although  we  have  shown 
that  in  Egypt  a  small  caste  entertained  correct 
notions  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Moses,  who  be¬ 
longs  to  this  caste,  and  is  indebted  to  it  for  his 
better  knowledge  of  the  Supreme  Being,  is  the 
first  who  not  only  dares  to  divulge  these  secret 
doctrines  of  the  mysteries,  but  to  make  them  the 
basis  of  a  political  constitution.  For  the  benefit 
of  his  age  and  of  posterity,  he  becomes  a  traitor 
against  the  mysteries,  and  causes  a  whole  nation 
to  partake  of  a  truth  that  had  hitherto  been  the 
exclusive  privilege  of  a  few  sages.  It  is  true, 
with  the  new  religion  it  was  beyond  his  power  to 
impart  to  them  the  power  to  comprehend  it ;  in 
this  respect  the  Egyptian  epoptce  enjoyed  a  great 
advantage  over  them.  The  epoptae  recognized 
truth  by  their  reason  ;  all  that  the  Hebrews  could 
do  was  to  blindly  believe  it.* 


THE  LEGISLATION  OF  LYCURGUS  AND 

SOLON, t 

LYCURGUS. 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  plan  of  Lycurgus  as 
it  deserves,  we  have  to  look  back  upon  the  poli- 
cal  condition  of  Sparta  as  it  existed  at  that 
period,  and  study  the  constitution  which  the  re- 

*  The  readers  of  this  essay  may  be  reminded  of  an 
ensay  of  a  similar  import,  entitled;  On  the  most  an¬ 
cient  Hebrew  Mysteries,  by  Br.  Deems,  a  celebrated  and 
highly  deserving  author,  from  which  essay  I  have  ex¬ 
tracted  a  few  ideas  and  facts  here  enunciated. 

f  These  Lectures  were  first  published  in  the  eleventh 
number  of  the  Thalia. 


public  possessed  at  the  time  when  Lycurgus  pro¬ 
posed  to  offer  his  new  code  of  laws.  Two  kings, 
both  of  them  having  equal  power,  wTere  at  the 
head  of  the  government  ;  each  jealous  of  the 
other,  each  endeavoring  to  create  for  himself  a 
party,  and  to  limit  by  such  means  the  power  of 
his  associate.  From  the  two  first  kings,  Procles  and 
Eurysthenes,this  jealousy  had  been  perpetuated  by 
their  respective  descendants  down  to  the  period  when 
Lycurgus  made  his  appearance  upon  this  stage  ; 
During  this  long  period  Sparta  had  been  con¬ 
tinually  disturbed  by  factions.  Each  king  sought 
to  bribe  the  people  by  granting  extraordinary 
license,  and  these  grants  finally  drove  the  people 
to  insolence  and  rebellion.  Between  monarchy 
and  democracy  the  republic  was  balancing  to  and 
fro,  passing  rapidly  from  the  one  extreme  to  the 
other.  The  rights  of  the  people  and  the  powers 
of  royalty  were  not  yet  distinguished  by  suitable 
and  fixed  lines  of  demarkation,  riches  accumulated 
in  a  few  families.  The  rich  citizens  tyrannized 
over  the  poor,  and  the  despair  of  the  latter  broke 
out  in  rebellion. 

Torn  by  internal  discord  the  feeble  republic 
had  to  become  the  prey  of  its  warlike  neighbors, 
or  else  split  into  several  tyrannical  governments. 
It  is  in  this  condition  that  Sparta  was  found  by 
Lycurgus  ;  ill-defined  limits  of  the  royal  and 
popular  powers,  unequal  distribution  of  property 
among  the  citizens,  want  of  public  spirit  and  har¬ 
mony,  and  a  complete  political  exhaustion,  were 
the  evils  that  claimed  the  most  urgent  attention 
of  the  legislator,  and  which  he  had  therefore 
chiefly  to  consider  in  framing  his  laws. 

On  the  day  that  Lycurgus  intended  to  promul¬ 
gate  his  new  laws,  he  caused  thirty  of  the  most  in¬ 
fluential  citizens  whom  he  had  first  gained  over  to 
his  cause,  to  appear  in  the  public  square  ;  they 
were  armed  in  order  to  intimidate  those  who 
might  feel  tempted  to  resist.  King  Charilaus, 
frightened  by  these  arrangements,  fled  into  the 
temple  of  Minerva,  because  he  imagined  that  this 
whole  movement  was  directed  against  himself. 
But  this  fear  being  removed  from  him,  he  was 
even  prevailed  upon  to  give  an  active  support 
to  the  plan  of  Lycurgus. 

The  first  change  affected  the  government.  In 
order  to  prevent  hereafter  all  uncertain  waver¬ 
ing  of  the  republic  between  royal  tyranny  and 
anarchical  democracy,  Lycurgus  created  a  third 
power  which  was  to  serve  as  a  counterbalancing 
influence,  and  wras  denominated  the  Senate.  The 
Senators,  of  whom  there  were  twenty- eight, 
making  thirty  with  the  kings,  were  to  side  with  the 
people  if  the  kings  abused  their  power  ;  on  the 
contrary,  if  the  people  should  become  too  power¬ 
ful,  they  were  to  side  with  the  kings,  and  protect 
them  against  the  people.  An  excellent  arrange¬ 
ment  by  means  of  which  Sparta  escaped  forever 
from  the  violent  internal  commotions  that  had  con¬ 
vulsed  it  heretofore.  By  this  means  either  party 
was  prevented  from  trampling  on  the  other ; 
against  both  the  Senate  and  the  people  the  kings 
were  powerless  ;  nor  could  the  people  arrogate  to 
themselves  the  reins  of  power,  if  the  kings  and 
the  Senate  wrere  arrayed  against  them. 

A  third  case  had  been  overlooked  by  Lycurgus; 
where  the  Senate  itself  abused  its  power.  As  a 


866 


LYCURGUS. 


mediating  power  the  Senate,  without  endangering 
the  public,  tranquillity,  might  with  the  same  ease 
join  either  the  kings  or  the  people,  but  the  kings 
could  not  combine  with  the  people  against  the 
Senate  without  endangering  the  safety  of  the  re¬ 
public.  The  Senate  soon  began  to  improve  the 
advantages  of  its  position,  and  to  use  its  power 
beyond  the  bounds  contemplated  by  the  consti¬ 
tution.  In  this  the  Senate  succeeded  more  easily, 
since  the  small  number  of  senators  made  it  the 
more  easy  to  concert  their  measures.  The  suc¬ 
cessor  of  Lycurgus  filled  this  gap  by  introducing 
the  Ephori  who  were  to  hold  ttye  power  of  the 
senators  in  check. 

A  more  dangerous  and  bolder  arrangement  was 
the  second  one  made  by  Lycurgus.  It  was  to 
divide  the  whole  country  in  equal  portions  among 
the  citizens,  and  to  remove  the  distinction  between 
rich  and  poor  forever.  The  whole  territory  was 
divided  into  thirty  thousand  shares,  the  land  around 
Sparta  into  nine  thousand,  each  share  being  suffi¬ 
cient  to  afford  abundant  support  to  a  family. 
Sparta  now  exhibited  a  beautiful  and  attractive 
view,  and  Lycurgus  was  delighted  with  the  sight 
when  he  made  a  trip  through  the  country.  The 
whole  of  Laconia,  he  exclaimed,  is  like  a  field 
which  brothers  have  shared  among  each  other  as 
brothers. 

Lycurgus  felt  disposed  to  distribute  personal 
property  as  he  had  done  the  soil.  But  there  were 
invincible  obstacles  in  the  way  which  impeded  the 
accomplishment  of  this  measure.  He  therefore 
sought  to  reach  this  end  by  a  circuitous  route,  and 
to  cause  that  which  it  was  beyond  his  power  to 
nullify  by  a  decree,  to  fall  by  an  inherent  want  of 
conservative  vitality. 

He  commenced  by  prohibiting  gold  and  silver 
coin,  and  introducing  iron  coin  in  its  stead.  At 
the  same  time  he  affixed  a  trifling  value  to  a  large 
and  heavy  lump  of  iron,  so  that  a  considerable 
space  was  required  to  keep  a  small  sum  of  money, 
and  horse-power  to  move  it  from  one  place  to 
another.  To  prevent  every  temptation  to  put  a 
value  on  this  kind  of  money,  on  account  of  the 
iron,  lie  caused  the  metal  which  was  used  for  such 
purposes,  to  be  made  red  hot,  whereupon  it  was 
cooled  in  vinegar  and  hardened,  and  by  this  means 
rendered  unfit  for  any  other  purpose. 

Who  now  would  be  tempted  to  steal  or  to  accu¬ 
mulate  riches,  since  the  small  profit  could  neither 
be  concealed  nor  used  ? 

Lycurgus  did  not  content  himself  with  depriving 
his  fellow  citizens  of  the  means  of  luxury ;  he  re¬ 
moved  from  their  sight  the  objects  that  might 
have  tempted  their  desires.  A  foreign  merchant 
had  no  use  for  Sparta’s  iron  money  which  was  the 
only  coin  they  possessed.  Artists  who  worked 
for  the  luxurious  gratification  of  the  senses,  dis¬ 
appeared  from  Sparta,  no  foreign  vessel  entered 
the  Spartan  ports,  no  adventurous  traveler  sought 
to  make  his  fortune  in  this  country ;  no  merchant 
showed  himself  to  lay  Spartan  vanity  and  luxury 
under  contribution,  for  there  was  not  any  thing 
that  could  be  taken  in  exchange,  except  iron 
coin  which  was  rejected  by  every  other  nation. 
Luxury  ceased,  because  there  was  not  any  body 
to  keep  it  up. 

In  another  manner  Lycurgus  sought  to  stifle 


the  germs  of  luxury.  He  directed  all  citizens  to 
partake  of  the  same  fare  at  a  common  table.  It 
was  unlawful  to  cultivate  effeminate  habits  at 
home,  and  to  indulge  in  costly  viands  prepared  in 
one’s  own  private  kitchen.  Every  month,  each 
citizen  had  to  provide  a  certain  quantity  of  ali¬ 
ments  for  the  public  table,  and  in  return  the  re¬ 
public  furnished  him  the  food  he  required.  Fifteen 
persons  generally  sat  together  at  the  same  table, 
and  every  member  of  such  a  mess  had  to  be  unani¬ 
mously  voted  for,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  privilege 
of  a  seat  among  them.  No  one  was  permitted  to 
stay  away  without  a  valid  excuse ;  this  rule  was 
so  stringently  enforced  that  even  king  Agis  was 
refused  by  the  ephori  the  privilege  which  he  had 
requested,  of  dining  alone  with  his  spouse  after 
his  return  from  a  victorious  campaign.  Among 
the  aliments  used  by  the  Spartans,  the  black  soup 
has  become  famous ;  a  dish  in  whose  praise  it  was 
remarked  that  it  could  not  be  difficult  for  the 
Spartans  to  be  brave,  since  it  was  much  easier  to 
die  than  to  eat  their  black  soup.  They  seasoned 
their  meals  with  mirth  and  fun,  for  Lycurgus  him¬ 
self  was  so  fond  of  it,  that  he  erected  an  altar  to 
the  god  of  laughter  in  his  own  house. 

By  introducing  among  his  Spartans,  the  custom 
of  taking  their  meals  in  common,  Lycurgus  accom¬ 
plished  a  great  deal  for  his  purpose.  All  extra¬ 
vagant  expenditures  for  costly  plate  ceased,  be¬ 
cause  there  was  no  use  for  such  articles  at  the 
public  table.  Excesses  were  prevented  forever; 
sound  and  robust  bodies  were  the  consequence  of 
this  moderation  and  order,  and  healthy  parents 
were  able  to  beget  healthy  offspring.  Eating  in 
common  accustomed  the  citizens  to  live  in  com¬ 
pany  with  each  other,  and  to  look  upon  each  other 
as  members  of  the  same  political  body,  not  to 
mention  the  important  fact  that  such  a  uniform 
mo  le  of  life  must  exercise  an  influence  toward 
producing  a  state  of  commendable  equanimity. 

By  another  law,  no  roofs  were  permitted  except 
such  as  had  been  made  by  means  of  an  ax,  nor 
were  doors  permitted  to  be  used  except  such  as 
had  been  made  by  means  of  a  saw.  No  one 
dreamed  of  placing  costly  furniture  in  such  a  plain 
building ;  every  part  of  the  house  must  agree  with 
the  whole. 

Lycurgus  saw  perfectly  that  it  was  not  sufficient 
to  make  laws  for  his  fellow  citizens ;  he  had  to 
make  citizens  for  these  laws.  In  the  minds  of  the 
Spartans  he  had  to  secure  the  belief  in  the  per¬ 
petuity  of  his  constitution  ;  he  had  to  render  them 
insensible  to  foreign  impressions. 

The  most  important  part  of  his  legislation  was 
the  education  of  children  ;  this  closed,  as  it  were, 
the  circle  within  which  the  Spartan  republic  was 
to  revolve  as  an  independent  and  self-existing  unit. 
Education  was  an  important  work  of  the  state  and 
the  state  a  perpetual  result  of  education. 

His  solicitude  for  children-extended  even  to  the 
beginning  of  life.  The  bodies  of  young  females 
were  hardened  by  exercise,  in  order  to  facilitate 
the  production  of  robust  and  sound  offspring. 
They  even  went  without  clothes  in  order  to  learn 
to  endure  any  kind  of  exposure.  The  lover  had 
to  carry  them  off  by  stealth,  and  was  only  perT 
mitted  to  visit  them  during  the  night  and  stealth¬ 
ily.  This  prevented  all  excessive  and  continued 


SECOND  PEFIOD. 


867 


intimacy  even  daring  the  first  few  years  of  their 
marriage,  and  had  the  effect  of  preserving  their 
love  in  a  state  of  freshness  and  intensity. 

All  jealousy  was  banished  from  the  marriage 
relation.  Every  thing  was  made  subordinate  to 
the  main  object,  even  female  modesty.  He  sac¬ 
rificed  the  faithfulness  of  a  wife,  in  order  to  pro¬ 
cure  healthy  children  for  the  republic. 

As  soon  as  the  child  was  born,  it  belonged  to 
the  state.  Father  and  mother  had  lost  it.  It  was 
examined  by  the  parents  :  if  it  was  strong  and 
well-shaped,  it  was  confided  to  a  nurse;  if  it  was 
feeble  and  deformed,  it  was  thrown  down  a  pre¬ 
cipice  from  the  top  of  Mount  Taygetus. 

The  Spartan  nurses  became  famous  throughout 
Greece,  for  the  rigid  manner  in  which  they  brought 
up  their  children.  On  this  account  they  were  sent 
for  in  distant  parts.  As  soon  as  a  boy  had  reached 
his  seventh  year,  he  was  taken  from  them,  and 
was  educated,  fed,  and  instructed  with  other  chil¬ 
dren  of  the  same  age.  At  an  early  age  he  was 
taught  to  endure  fatigue,  and  to  acquire  a  perfect 
mastery  over  his  limbs  by  continued  and  severe 
exercise.  If  the  boys  grew  up  to  manhood,  the 
noblest  among  them  enjoyed  the  hope  of  finding 
friends  among  the  older  citizens  who  were  attached 
to  them  with  an  enthusiastic  affection.  The  old 
were  present  at  their  games,  watched  the  rising 
genius,  and  quickened  their  ambition  by  praise  or 
censure.  If  they  desired  a  full  meal,  they  had  to 
steal  the  materials,  and  if  any  one  was  caught  in 
doing  this,  he  might  expect  severe  retribution  and 
public  disgrace.  Lycurgus  chose  this  method  of 
giving  them,  at  an  early  age,  habits  of  cunning 
and  intrigue;  for  the  warlike  purposes  for  which 
he  brought  them  up,  he  deemed  these  qualities  as 
important  as  bodily  strength  and  courage.  We 
have  adverted  to  the  fact  that  Lycurgus  did  not 
hesitate  to  sacrifice  modesty  to  his  political  ends. 
However,  we  should  not  omit  to  consider  that 
neither  the  profanation  of  marriage  nor  this  legiti¬ 
mate  theft  could  occasion  in  Sparta  the  political 
injury  which  might  be  caused  by  such  legislation 
in  our  own  countries.  Inasmuch  as  the  state  took 
charge  of  the  education  of  children,  their  educa¬ 
tion  was  independent  of  the  happiness  and  purity 
of  marriages ;  inasmuch  as  little  value  was  at¬ 
tached  to  property,  and  property  was  generally 
held  in  common,  the  security  of  property  was  of 
trifling  importance,  and  an  attempt  against  pro¬ 
perty,  especially  when  directed  by  the  state  and 
perpetrated  for  some  definite  political  end,  was  no 
crime  in  the  eyes  of  the  law. 

The  young  Spartans  were  forbidden  to  adorn 
themselves,  except  when  going  to  battle  or  to  meet 
some  other  danger.  At  such  times  they  were  per¬ 
mitted  to  adorn  their  hair,  to  ornament  their  gar¬ 
ments  and  arms.  It  was  a  saying  of  Lycurgus, 
that  the  hair  rendered  handsome  people  still 
handsomer,  and  ugly  people  frightful.  It  was 
undoubtedly  a  cunning  contrivance  of  the  law¬ 
giver  to  combine  an  appearance  of  festive  mirth 
with  occasions  of  danger  and  to  deprive  them  by 
this  means  of  their  dangerous  character.  He 
went  still  further.  In  war  he  relaxed  the  severe 
discipline  somewhat ;  the  mode  of  living  was  a 
little  more  liberal,  and  transgressions  were  pun¬ 
ished  less  rigorously.  Hence  war  became  a  sort 


of  recreation  to  the  Spartan  citizens,  and  they 
anticipated  it  with  feelings  of  delight  as  an 
occasion  for  merry-making.  If  the  enemy  ap¬ 
proached,  the  Spartan  king  caused  the  Castorean 
hymn  to  be  sung,  and  the  soldiers  marched  out  in 
close  ranks,  at  the  sound  of  the  flute,  to  meet  the 
danger  with  fearless  bravery. 

The  consequence  of  Lycurgus’  legislation  was 
to  cause  every  Spartan  to  prefer  his  country  to 
his  own  private  interests,  and,  free  from  private 
care,  to  live  exclusively  for  the  former.  Hence 
he  deemed  it  advisable  to  save  his  fellow-citizens, 
the  trouble  of  attending  to  the  ordinary  business 
of  life,  and  to  cause  even  these  ordinary  kinds  of 
labor  to  be  performed  by  strangers,  lest  even  the 
care  of  business  or  the  interest  in  domestic  affairs 
should  withhold  their  attention  from  the  national 
concerns.  The  labor  in  the  field  and  house  was 
therefore  attended  to  by  slaves,  who  were  held 
like  cattle  in  Sparta.  They  were  called  Helotes, 
from  the  Lacedemonian  city  Helos,  whose  inhabi¬ 
tants,  against  whom  the  Spartans  waged  war  and 
who  were  conquered  and  made  prisoners  by  the 
latter,  became  the  first  slaves  the  Spartans  had. 
The  name  Helotes  was  afterward  given  to  all 
Spartan  slaves  who  were  taken  in  battle. 

The  treatment  which  these  unhappy  people  en¬ 
dured  in  Sparta  was  most  inhuman.  They  were 
regarded  as  mere  chattels,  that  might  be  used  for 
political  purposes  as  their  owners  pleased.  In 
their  persons  humanity  was  disgraced  in  a  most 
shocking  manner.  In  order  to  illustrate  to  the 
Spartan  youths  the  evil  effects  of  drinking  fer¬ 
mented  liquors,  these  Helotes  were  compelled  to 
intoxicate  themselves,  in  which  condition  they 
were  exposed  to  the  public  gaze.  They  were 
compelled  to  sing  infamous  songs,  and  to  dance 
like  fools  ;  they  were  forbidden  to  indulge  in  any 
of  the  dances  reserved  for  free  citizens. 

They  were  used  for  much  more  inhuman  pur¬ 
poses.  The  state  felt  interested  in  putting  the 
courage  of  its  boldest  youths  to  severe  tests,  and 
preparing  them  for  war  by  bloody  practices.  For 
this  purpose  a  number  of  young  men  were  sent 
by  the  Senate  into  the  country,  at  certain  periods 
of  the  year  ;  they  were  provided  with  nothing  but 
a  dagger  and  some  food.  In  the  daytime  they 
had  orders  to  keep  themselves  concealed  ;  but  at 
night  they  went  out  upon  the  pulic  roads,  killing 
the  Helotes  who  fell  into  their  hands.  This  ar¬ 
rangement  was  known  as  the  Cryptia  or  ambush  ; 
it  is  doubted,  however,  whether  it  originated  with 
Lycurgus.  At  all  events,  it  is  a  legitimate  con¬ 
sequence  of  his  system.  In  consequence  of  fortu¬ 
nate  wars,  the  number  of  Helotes  grew  so  con¬ 
siderable  that  they  became  a  source  of  danger  to 
the  republic.  Driven  to  despair  by  such  a  bar¬ 
barous  treatment,  they  incited  rebellions.  The 
Senate  hit  upon  an  inhuman  expedient,  which 
was  justified  by  the  plea  of  necessity.  Under 
cover  of  granting  them  their  liberty,  two  thousand 
of  the  bravest  Helotes  were  assembled  on  a  cer¬ 
tain  occasion  during  the  Peloponnesian  War, 
and,  adorned  with  wreaths,  were  conducted  to  the 
temples  in  solemn  procession.  Here  they  sud¬ 
denly  disappeared,  and  nobody  ever  knew  what 
had  become  of  them.  It  is  a  certain  fact,  which 
became  proverbial  among  the  Greeks,  that  Spar- 


368 


LYCURGUS. 


tan  slaves  were  the  most  miserable  of  any,  and 
that  Spartan  citizens  were  the  freest  men  in  the 
world. 

All  kinds  of  labor  being  performed  by  the  He- 
lotes,  the  citizens  lived  in  continual  idleness. 
The  young  men  spent  their  time  in  warlike  games 
and  evolutions,  and  the  old  people  were  specta¬ 
tors  and  judges  on  such  occasions.  It  was  con¬ 
sidered  disgraceful  for  an  old  man  in  Sparta  to 
stay  away  from  the  place  where  the  young  were 
educated.  In  this  way  every  Spartan  became 
identified  with  the  republic,  all  his  . acts  became 
public  acts.  Youth  grew  up  in\  presence  of  the 
nation,  and  old  age  declined  in  life  before  the 
same  witnesses.  Unceasingly  the  Spartan  kept 
his  eye  on  Sparta,  and  Sparta  kept  its  eye  upon 
him.  He  was  a  witness  to  every  occurrence,  and 
his  own  life  was  witnessed  by  all.  The  love  of 
glory  was  continually  stimulated,  the  national 
spirit  continually  fed  ;  the  idea  of  country  and 
-public  interest  became  interwoven  with  the  inmost 
life  of  the  citizens.  The  public  festivals,  which 
were  exceedingly  common  among  the  idle  Spar¬ 
tans,  afforded  other  opportunities  of  inflaming  the 
national  enthusiasm.  On  such  occasions  warlike 
songs  were  sung,  the  ordinary  burden  of  which 
was,  the  glory  of  the  citizens  who  had  fallen  in 
battle  for  their  country,  or  encouragement  to 
bravery.  At  such  festivals  the  citizens  were 
ranged  in  three  choruses.  The  chorus  of  the  an¬ 
cients  commenced  singing  :  In  past  ages  we  were 
heroes  !  The  chorus  of  the  men  responded  :•  We 
are  heroes  now ;  come  who  may  to  try  us!  The 
chorus  of  the  boys  concluded :  Heroes  we  shall 
be  ;  we  shall  obscure  you  by  deeds 1 

On  casting  a  hasty  glance  at  Lycurgus’  legis¬ 
lation,  we  are  seized  with  a  pleasant  surprise. 
Among  all  similar  institutions  of  antiquity,  this 
legislation  is  undoubtedly  the  most  perfect,  the 
Mosaic  legislation  alone  excepted,  which  it 
resembles  in  .many  respects,  especially  in  its  fun¬ 
damental  principles.  It  is  complete  within  itself. 
All  its  parts  cohere,  one  being  logically  depend¬ 
ent  upon  and  resulting  from  the  other.  No  bet¬ 
ter  means  could  have  been  chosen  to  reach  the 
end  which  Lycurgus  had  in  view,  namely,  to  found 
a  republic  isolated  from  all  others,  sufficient  unto 
itself,  and  capable  of  maintaining  itself  by  its  own 
internal  power  and  vital  action.  No  lawgiver 
has  ever  imparted  to  any  state  the  unity,  the  na¬ 
tional  character  and  public  sentiment,  which  Ly¬ 
curgus  succeeded  in  developing  in  every  Spartan 
breast.  By  what  means  was  this  end  reached? 
By  concentrating  the  activity  of  his  countrymen 
upon  the  concerns  of  the  republic,  and  closing  up 
every  channel  that  might  have  diverted  their  at¬ 
tention  from  such  an  exalted  object. 

By  his  legislation,  he  had  removed  every  thing 
that  attaches  the  soul  or  inflames  the  passions, 
except  the  public  welfare.  Wealth  and  pleasure, 
sciences  and  arts,  had  no  access  to  the  hearts  of 
the  Spartans.  The  universal  poverty  which  was 
the  lot  of  every  citizen,  did  away  with  the  envious 
contrast  of  fortunes  that  excites  the  love  of  gain 
in  most  hearts  ;  the  desire  of  property  disappeared 
together  with  the  opportunity  of  exhibiting  and 
using  it.  The  deep  ignorance  in  the  arts  and 
sciences  which,  like  a  dark  cloud,  weighed  upon 


every  Spartan  mind,  protected  the  constitution 
from  encroachments  that  might  have  been  at 
tempted  l>y  enlightened  minds;  this  very  igno¬ 
rance,  together  with  the  rude  national  pride  pecu¬ 
liar  1o  every  Spartan,  constituted  an  insurmount¬ 
able  and  unceasing  barrier  to  their  intercourse 
with  the  citizens  of  other  Greek  republics.  Even 
in  their  cradle  they  were  sealed  with  the  stamp 
of  the  republic,  and  the  more  they  went  contrary 
to  other  nations,  the  more  they  became  attached 
to  the  common  centre  of  patriotism.  The  coun¬ 
try  was  the  first  spectacle  that  the  Spartan  boy 
beheld  as  soon  as  his  mental  unfolding  began. 
He  woke  from  his  slumber  in  the  bosom  of  the 
republic  ;  he  was  surrounded  by  nothing  but  the 
nation,  the  national  concerns,  and  his  country. 
These  made  the  first  impression  upon  his  brain, 
and  his  whole  life  was  an  unceasing  renewal  of 
this  impression. 

In  his  own  home,  the  Spartan  citizen  found 
nothing  that  could  have  attracted  him  ;  the  law¬ 
giver  had  taken  care  to  remove  all  domestic  in¬ 
centives.  It  was  only  in  the  bosom  of  the  repub¬ 
lic  that  he  found  occupation,  delight,  honor,  re¬ 
ward;  all  his  impulses  and  passions  were  directed 
to  this  centre.  The  state  owned  the  energy  and 
powers  of  all  its  citizens  ;  the  public  sentiment 
which  inflamed  all  hearts,  must  kindle  and  feed 
the  national  spirit  in  every  single  heart.  It  is 
therefore  no  wonder  that  Spartan  patriotism  at¬ 
tained  a  height  that  must  seem  incredible  to  us. 
The  Spartan  citizens  could  never  hesitate,  if  oc¬ 
casion  required,  to  choose  between  self-preserva¬ 
tion  and  the  preservation  of  the  republic. 

These  facts  enable  us  to  comprehend  how  it  be¬ 
came  possible  for  the  Spartan  king  Leonidas  and 
his  three  hundred  heroes  to  deserve  an  epitaph 
that  is  the  most  beautiful  of  its  kind,  and  the 
sublimest  monument  of  patriotic  virtue.  “  .Relate 
of  us,  wanderer,  on  thy  arrival  in  Sparta,  that  we 
have  fallen  here  in  obedience  to  its  laws.” 

It  must  be  admitted  that  nothing  could  be  more 
profound,  more  adequate  to  the  end  than  this 
constitution  ;  that  it  is  a  complete  masterpiece 
of  its  kind,  and,  that,  if  rigidly  enforced,  it  must 
necessarily  continue  by  virtue  of  its  own  inherent 
power  of  preservation.  But  I  should  commit  a 
great  mistake,  if  I  confined  my  picture  to  these 
statements.  This  admirable  constitution  deserves 
our  severest  condemnation  ;  nothing  could  prove 
more  disastrous  for  humanity  than  to  see  such  a 
form  of  government  established  in  every  country. 
We  shall  have  no  difficulty  to  become  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  this  assertion. 

Considered  with  reference  to  his  own  end,  the 
legislation  of  Lycurgus  is  a  masterpiece  of  politi¬ 
cal  science  and  knowledge  of  human  nature.  He 
wanted  to  establish  a  powerful,  self-sustaining,  in¬ 
destructible  republic;  political  strength  and  dura¬ 
bility  were  his  aim,  which  he  accomplished  as  far 
as  possible  with  the  means  at  his  command.  But 
if  the  aim  of  Lycurgus  is  contrasted  with  the 
great  aims  of  humanity,  an  emphatic  condemna¬ 
tion  must  take  the  place  of  the  admiration  which 
a  first  hasty  glance  had  extorted  from  us.  Every 
thing  may  be  sacrificed  to  the  highest  interests  of 
the  state  except  the  end  for  which  the  state  itself 
is  designed.  The  state  itself  is  not  the  end  ;  it  ia 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


369 


important  only  as  a  means  to  the  realization  of 
this  end,  which  is  no  other  than  the  progressive 
development  of  all  the  powers  of  man.  If  a  con¬ 
stitution  impedes  this  development,  it  is  unworthy 
of  our  approbation,  were  it  otherwise  ever  so  in¬ 
genious  and  complete  within  itself.  In  such  a 
case  its  durability  becomes  a  reproach  rather  than 
a  distinction  ;  it  is  only  the  prolongation  of  an 
evil ;  the  longer  it  continues,  the  more  obnoxious 
it  becomes. 

In  general,  in  judging  the  value  of  political  in¬ 
stitutions,  we  may  adopt  the  rule,  that  they  de¬ 
serve  our  commendation  only  in  so  far  as  they 
favor,  or,  at  any  rate,  do  not  interfere  with  the 
development  of  all  the  useful  powers  of  humanity. 
This  observation  applies  to  religious  as  well  as  to 
political  laws ;  either  are  condemnable,  if  they 
fetter  any  of  the  powers  of  the  human  mind. 
A  law,  for  instance,  which  should  compel  a  nation 
to  adhere  to  'the  dogma  that  may  have  seemed 
the  most  excellent  at  one  time,  wTould  be  a  viola¬ 
tion  of  the  rights  of  humanity,  which  could  not  be 
justified  by  any  pretext,  were  it  ever  so  plausible. 
It  would  be  opposed  to  the  highest  good,  to  the 
highest  object  of  society. 

Provided  with  this  general  standard,  we  can¬ 
not  hesitate  to  pTonounce  judgment  upon  the 
republic  of  Lycurgus. 

A  single  virtue  was  practiced  in  Sparta  at  the 
expense  of  all  the  rest :  it  was  patriotism. 

To  this  artificial  sentiment  the  most  natural 
and  most  beautiful  affections  of  the  human  heart 
were  sacrificed. 

The  political  character  was  formed  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  morality.  Sparta  knew  nothing  of  con¬ 
jugal  love,  maternal  affection,  filial  piety,  friend¬ 
ship  ;  it  only  knew  citizens  and  civil  virtues. 
For  years  we  have  admired  the  Spartan  mother 
who  indignantly  repelled  the  son  that  returned 
from  the  fight,  and  hastened  to  the  temple  to 
thank  the  gods  that  the  other  one  had  met  his 
death.  It  is  wrong  to  congratulate  Humanity 
upon  such  an  unnatural  strength  of  mind.  A 
tender  mother  is  a  much  more  beautiful  pheno¬ 
menon  in  the  moral  world  than  a  heroic  monster 
which  denies  the  natural  sentiment  in  order  to 
gratify  an  artificial  duty. 

What  a  much  more  beautiful  spectacle  is 
afforded  by  the  rude  warrior  Marcius  in  his  camp 
before  Pome,  who  sacrifices  vengeance  and  vic¬ 
tory,  because  he  cannot  bear  seeing  his  mother’s 
tears  flow. 

By  making  the  state  the  father  of  the  child, 
the  natural  father  ceased  to  hold  this  relation. 
The  child  never  learned  to  love  its  father  or 
mother,  because  being  taken  from  them  in  its 
earliest  infancy,  it  only  knew  its  parents  by  hear¬ 
say,  not  by  the  favors  it  had  received  at  their 
hands. 

In  the  Spartan  breast  the  common  sentiment 
of  humanity  was  extirpated  in  a  much  more  revolt¬ 
ing  manner,  and  the  respect  for  man,  which  is  the 
soul  of  duty,  was  irretrievably  lost.  Inhumanity 
against  their  slaves  was  enjoined  by  law.  In  the 
Spartan  code,  the  dangerous  rule  was  laid  down 
to  consider  men  as  means,  not  as  the  end,  a  per¬ 
version  that  led  to  a  legal  demolition  of  the  found¬ 
ations  of  the  natural  right  and  morality.  Morality 
YToii.  II. — 21 


was  sacrificed  in  order  to  obtain  an  end  which 
can  only  be  valuable  as  a  means  toward  the  estab¬ 
lishment  of  this  morality. 

Can  there  be  anything  more  contradictory,  and 
can  the  subversion  of  any  natural  law  be  followed 
by  more  frightful  consequences,  than  the  antagon¬ 
ism  existing  between  the  legislation  of  Lycurgus 
and  the  inherent  rights  of  human  nature?  Not 
enough  that  Lycurgus  founded  his  republic  upon 
the  legalized  ruin  of  morality  ;  he  undermined  the 
highest  destiny  of  humanity  by  arresting,  through 
a  cunningly-devised  political  system,  the  minds 
of  the  Spartans  where  he  found  them,  and  pre¬ 
venting  every  possibility  of  progress. 

Industry  was  banished  from  Sparta,  sciences 
were  neglected,  all  commercial  intercourse  was 
rendered  impossible,  all  foreign  products  were  ex¬ 
cluded.  By  this  means  all  the  channels  of  mental 
progress  and  enlightenment  were  closed  ;  within 
the  limits  of  a  perpetual  monotony,  of  a  gloomy 
egotism,  the  Spartan  republic  was  to  revolve 
around  its  own  centre. 

It  was  the  united  aim  of  the  citizens  to  preserve 
what  they  possessed,  and  to  remain  what  they 
were,  not  to  acquire  new  truths,  and  to  elevate 
themselves  to  a  higher  degree  of  culture.  Inexor¬ 
able  laws  had  to  guard  the  mechanism  of  govern¬ 
ment  against  all  innovations,  or  even  against 
improvements  suggested  by  experience.  With  a 
view  of  securing  permanency  to  this  local  and 
temporary  legislation,  the  minds  of  the  people 
must  be  held  chained  to  the  level  where  their  law¬ 
giver  found  them. 

But  we  have  shown  that  the  progressive  develop¬ 
ment  of  the  mental  faculties  should  be  the  aim  of 
every  state. 

The  republic  of  Lycurgus  could  not  enjoy  per 
petuity  unless  the  minds  of  the  people  stood  still  ; 
hence  it  could  only  secure  its  existence  by  over 
looking  the  highest  and  only  object  of  political 
government.  What  has  been  said  in  praise  of  the 
laws  of  Lycurgus,  that  Sparta  would  flourish  only 
as  long  as  it  should  observe  them,  is  the  very 
worst  thing  that  could  be  said  of  them.  What 
made  Sparta  an  unhappy  republic,  was  the  very 
fact  that  it  could  not  relinquish  the  old  form  of 
government  which  Lycurgus  had  contrived  for  it, 
without  exposing  itself  to  complete  ruin  ;  that  it 
had  to  remain  what  it  was  ;  that  it  had  to  stand 
where  a  single  man  had  seen  fit  to  place  it  ;  its 
lawgiver  could  not  have  made  it  a  more  desolating 
present  than  this  boasted  perpetuity  of  a  consti¬ 
tution  which  was  so  much  opposed  to  the  true 
greatness  and  bliss  of  the  republic. 

On  looking  at  all  these  things  in  their  totality, 
the  false  glitter  by  which  the  only  prominent 
feature  of  the  Spartan  republic  could  dazzle  an 
inexperierced  eye,  disappears  in  the  light  of  trutn  ; 
all  we  see  is  the  imperfect  attempt  of  a  novice, 
the  first  political  exercise  of  a  young  age  that 
lacked  the  experience  and  the  clearness  of  views 
necessary  to  comprehend  the  true  relations  of 
things.  Nevertheless,  however  imperfect  this  first 
attempt  may  have  been,  it  cannot  fail  to  excite 
the  interest  of  a  philosophical  student  of  universal 
history.  It  was  a  gigantic  stride  of  the  human 
mind,  to  treat  as  a  work  of  art,  inteiests  winch 
had  hitherto  been  left  to  chance  and  passion.  The 


370 


SOLON. 


first  attempt  in  the  most  difficult  of  all  arts  must 
necessarily  have  been  imperfect,  but,  on  this  very 
account  it  is  valuable.  Sculptors  first  chiseled 
columns  of  Hermes,  before  they  attempted  the 
perfect  form  of  an  Antinous,  of  an  Apollo  of 
Belvidere;  lawgivers  will  have  to  continue  their 
rude  attempts  for  a  long  time,  until  the  happy 
equilibrium  of  political  and  social  forces  flashes 
upon  their  mental  vision. 

The  marble  bears  patiently  the  fashioning  chisel, 
and  the  strings  which  the  musician  causes  to  vi¬ 
brate,  respond  to  his  touch  without  resistance. 

The  lawgiver,  on  the  contrary,  works  upon  a 
self-acting,  resisting  substance,  the  free  will.  It 
is  only  imperfectly  that  he  can  realize  the  ideal 
which  he  may  have  delineated  in  his  brain  ever  so 
purely;  but  in  such  a  case  the  bare  attempt  is 
worthy  of  all  praise,  if  it  is  undertaken  with  dis¬ 
interested  benevolence,  and  carried  out  with  prac¬ 
tical  wisdom. 

SOLON. 

Solon’s  legislation  in  Athens  was  almost  the 
direct  opposite  of  the  legislation  of  Lycurgus. 
Inasmuch  as  these  two  republics  play  the  prin¬ 
cipal  part  in  the  history  of  Greece,  it  is  an  inter¬ 
esting  business  to  contrast  them  with  each  other, 
and  to  inquire  into  their  respective  defects  and 
advantages. 

After  the  death  of  Codrus,  the  royal  office  was 
abolished  in  Athens,  and  the  highest  power  was 
confined  for  life  to  an  authority  named  Arclion. 
During  a  period  of  three  hundred  years  thirteen 
Archoutes  ruled  in  Athens.  We  know  nothing 
remarkable  concerning  the  history  of  this  period. 
The  democratic  spirit  which  was  peculiar  to  the 
Athenians  even  at  the  time  of  Homer,  again  be¬ 
came  active  at  the  end  of  this  period.  The  dig¬ 
nity  of  an  Archon  who  held  his  office  until  his 
death,  seemed  too  much  like  royalty  ;  and  some 
of  the  last  Archontes  may  have  usurped  more 
power  than  was  proper  for  them  to  do.  For  this 
reason  an  Archou’s  term  of  office  was  fixed  at  ten 
years.  This  was  an  important  step  toward  liberty  ; 
by  electing  a  new  ruler  every  ten  years,  the  nation 
renewed  the  act  of  sovereignty  ;  every  ten  years 
it  resumed  its  power,  in  order  to  give  it  away 
again,  according  to  its  good  pleasure.  By  this 
measure,  the  Athenian  people  held  in  constant 
remembrance  what  the  subjects  of  hereditary  mon¬ 
archies  became  entirely  forgetful  of,  that  the  people 
are  the  source  of  the  supreme  power,  and  that  the 
prince  is  only  the  creature  of  the  nation. 

For  three  hundred  years  the  Athenians  had 
tolerated  the  government  of  Archons,  whose  term 
of  office  lasted  for  life ;  but  as  to  the  ten-yearly 
Archontes,  they  became  tired  of  them  after  the 
lapse  of  seventy  years.  This  seemed  natural ; 
during  this  period  the  people  had  elected  their 
rulers  seven  different  times  ;  consequently  they  had 
been  reminded  as  many  times  of  the  possession 
of  sovereignty.  In  the  second  period,  the  spirit 
of  liberty  was  much  more  active  than  in  the  for¬ 
mer. 

The  seventh  of  the  ten-yearly  Archontes  was 
the  last  of  this  kind.  The  people  desired  to  enjoy 
the  exercise  of  sovereignty  every  year;  they  had 


found  out  that  the' possession  of  power  for  ten 
successive  years  might  still  lead  to  abuses. 
Henceforth  the  Archontes  were  elected  every 
year,  and  inasmuch  as  one  Archon  might  assume 
royal  privileges  even  during  this  short  period, 
they  divided  the  governing  power  among  nine 
Archontes,  who  all  ruled  together. 

Three  of  these  nine  enjoyed  privileges  above 
the  remainder.  The  first  Archon,  named  Epony- 
mus,  presided  over  the  body  ;  he  signed  the  public 
acts  ;  the  year  was  designated  by  his  reign.  The 
second  Archon,  surnamed  Basileus,  or  King, 
had  to  watch  over  the  interests  of  religion,  and 
the  business  of  worship  ;  this  office  was  continued 
from  former  periods,  when  the  priestly  dignity  was 
a  prerogative  of  the  crown.  The  third,  Pole- 
marchus,  was  leader  of  the  armies  in  war.  The 
six  remaining  Archontes  had  the  name  Tliesmo- 
tetes,  because  they  had  to  watch  over  the  consti¬ 
tution,  and  had  to  preserve  and  interpret  the 
laws. 

The  Archontes  were  selected  from  the  noblest 
families,  until,  at  a  later  period,  persons  from  the 
lower  orders  managed  to  be  elected  to  the  office. 
This  constitution  was  an  aristocratic  rather  than 
a  democratic  form  of  government:  the  people 
had  not  gained  much  by  the  change. 

Next  to  the  good  feature  of  this  form  of  govern¬ 
ment,  which  was,  to  prevent  the  abuse  of  power,  on 
the  other  hand  it  labored  under  the  great  disadvan¬ 
tage  of  giving  rise  to  factions.  The  supreme  power 
had  been  possessed  and  relinquished  by  many  citi¬ 
zens.  On  laying  down  their  dignity,  they  found 
it  difficult  to  relinquish  the  taste  of  power  which 
they  had  once  enjoyed.  They  desired  again  to 
hold  office  :  they  formed  partisans,  excited  dis¬ 
turbances  in  the  bosom  of  the  republic.  The 
rapid  changes  in  the  office  of  Archon  excited  a 
hope  in  every  rich  and  distinguished  Athenian  to 
fill  this  office  ;  as  long  as  only  one  was  invested 
with  this  dignity  and  kept  it  for  a  long  period, 
there  was  no  room  for  such  a  hope.  At  last  this 
hope  increased  to  impatience,  and  the  impatience 
gave  rise  to  dangerous  plots.  Both  classes,  as 
well  those  who  had  been,  as  those  who  desired  to 
be  Archontes,  became  alike  dangerous  to  civil 
liberty. 

The  worst  was,  that  the  governing  power  being 
divided  among  several,  and  changingso  frequently, 
became  exceedingly  weak.  A  strong  hand  was 
required  to  control  the  factions  and  to  check  the 
rebellious  spirits.  Powerful  and  bold  citizens 
threw  the  republic  into  a  state  of  confusion,  and 
sought  to  be  independent. 

In  order  to  arrest  these  disorders,  a  blameless 
and  universally-feared  citizen  was  commissioned 
to  reform  the  laws,  which  had  hitherto  consisted 
in  defective  traditions.  This  citizen’s  name  was 
Draco,  a  man  without  human  feeling,  who  deemed 
human  nature  incapable  of  good,  beheld  all  human 
actions  in  the  gloomy  mirror  of  his  own  dark  soul- 
had  no  patience  with  the  ordinary  weaknesses  of 
human  nature;  a  poor  philosopher,  without  any 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  with  a  cold  heart, 
contracted  mind,  and  unyielding  prejudices.  Such 
a  man  might  do  very  well  in  executing  laws,  but 
no  worse  man  could  be  selected  to  frame  them. 

But  little  of  Draco’s  legislation  has  come  to  us, 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


371 


but  this  little  depicts  the  man  and  the  character 
of  his  laws.  All  crimes  were  indiscriminately 
punished  with  death,  idleness  or  murder,  stealing 
a  cabbage-head  and  a  sheep,  or  arson  and  high 
treason.  When  asked  why  he  punished  trifling 
transgressions  as  severely  as  the  heaviest  crimes, 
he  answered  :  “  The  most  trifling  violations  of  the 
law  are  worthy  of  death  ;  for  the  graver  offenses 
I  know  of  no  severer  penalty,  hence  I  have  to 
punish  both  with  death.” 

Draco’s  laws  are  the  attempt  of  a  beginner  in 
the  art  of  governing  men.  Terror  is  the  sole  in¬ 
strument  by  means  of  which  he  obtains  his  end. 
He  contents  himself  with  punishing  the  trans¬ 
gressions  that  have  been  committed,  he  does  not 
prevent  them,  he  does  not  take  the  least  pains  to 
stop  up  the  sources  of  evil,  and  to  improve  the 
character  of  the  people.  To  extirpate  a  man  for 
having  done  some  wrong,  is  tantamount  to  cut¬ 
ting  dowu  a  tree  for  having  produced  one  bad 
fruit. 

His  laws  were  doubly  condemnable,  because  they 
offended  the  feelings  and  rights  of  humanity,  and 
were  not  adapted  to  the  people  for  whom  they 
were  intended.  If  there  was  a  people  living  who 
could  not  prosper  under  such  laws,  that  people 
were  the  Athenians.  The  slaves  of  the  Pharaohs 
might  finally  have  accommodated  themselves  to 
such  laws,  but  how  could  Athenians  be  expected 
to  bend  their  necks  under  such  a  yoke? 

They  did  not  remain  in  force  more  than  half  a 
century,  although  he  designated  them  with  the 
presumptuous  title  of  unchangeable  laws. 

Draco  has  fulfilled  his  mission  very  badly;  his 
laws  injured  the  republic  instead  of  benefiting  it. 
Since  his  laws  could  not  be  executed,  and  no 
other  laws  being  in  existence  to  meet  emergen¬ 
cies,  Athens  was  actually  without  any  laws,  and 
the  saddest  anarchy  prevailed. 

At  that  period  the  condition  of  the  Athenian 
people  was  indeed  deplorable.  One  class  of  citi¬ 
zens  possessed  every  thing,  the  other  class  no¬ 
thing  ;  the  poor  were  oppressed  and  plundered 
by  the  rich  in  the  most  cruel  manner.  The  two 
classes  were  separated  by  an  impassable  gulf. 
Want  compelled  the  poor  to  apply  to  the  rich  for 
help,  who,  like  leeches,  had  drained  them  of  their 
blood ;  but  the  assistance  rendered  was  dearly 
paid  for.  Money  had  to  be  taken  up  at  an  enor¬ 
mous  rate  of  interest,  and  if  it  was  not  refunded 
at  the  stipulated  period,  their  property  was  for¬ 
feited  by  the  foreclosure  of  mortgages.  After 
having  exhausted  all  their  means,  and  being 
obliged  to  live,  they  had  to  sell  their  children  into 
bondage,  and  finally,  if  this  expedient  likewise 
failed  them,  they  had  to  pawn  their  own  bodies, 
and  suffer  their  creditors  to  sell  them  as  slaves. 
There  was  no  law  against  this  inhuman  traffic  in 
human  flesh,  and  the  cruel  rapacity  of  the  rich 
knew  no  bounds.  If  the  republic  was  not  to  be 
ruined  by  this  frightful  ineqality  of  conditions,  the 
equilibrium  of  property  had  to  be  restored  by  vio¬ 
lent  means. 

Three  parties  had  arisen  among  the  people,  all 
of  whom  aimed  at  the  establishment  of  a  social 
order  based  upon  a  just  distribution  of  property. 
One  party,  to  whom  the  poor  citizens  belonged, 
demanded  a  democratic  government,  an  equal  dis¬ 


tribution  of  the  soil  like  that  which  Lycurgus  had 
introduced  into  Sparta;  the  other  two  parties, 
consisting  of  the  rich,  contended  for  an  aristo¬ 
cracy. 

The  third  party  desired  a  combination  of  the 
two  former,  and  opposing  both,  prevented  either 
from  carrying  their  point. 

There  was  no  chance  of  settling  this  difficulty 
in  a  quiet  manner,  unless  a  man  could  be  found 
to  whose  judgment  the  three  parties  would  be 
willing  to  bow,  and  whom  they  would  be  willing  tc 
adopt  as  their  arbiter. 

Happily  such  a  man  was  found,  and  the  ser 
vices  which  he  had  rendered  to  the  republic,  his 
gentleness  and  justice,  and  the  reputation  of  his 
wisdom  had  attracted  the  eyes  of  the  nation  for  a 
long  time  previous.  This  man  was  Solon ,  like 
Lycurgus  of  royal  descent,  for  he  numbered 
Codrus  among  his  ancestors.  Solon’s  father  had 
been  a  very  rich  man,  but  he  had  reduced  his 
means  of  support  by  his  largesses  to  the  poor,  and 
young  Solon  had  to  devote  himself  to  mercantile 
pursuits  during  the  first  years  of  his  citizenship. 
The  journeys  which  he  had  to  undertake,  aud  his 
intercourse  with  foreign  nations,  afforded  him 
many  opportunities  of  enriching  his  mind,  and  of 
cultivating  his  genius  by  intercourse  with  foreign 
sages.  At  an  early  period  he  applied  himself  to 
poetry,  and  his  talent  in  this  ait  was  afterward  of 
great  use  to  him  in  clothing  moral  truths  and  po¬ 
litical  rules  in  this  delightful  garb.  His  heart  was 
susceptible,  to  pleasure  and  love  ;  the  foibles  of 
life  youth  rendered  him  forbearing  toward  others, 
and  imparted  to  his  laws  the  character  of  meek¬ 
ness  and  equity  which  distinguished  them  so 
beautifully  from  the  laws  of  Draco  and  Lycurgus. 
He  had  also  been  a  brave  general,  had  conquered 
the  island  of  Salamine  for  the  republic,  and  had 
rendered  other  important  military  services.  At 
that  time  the  study  of  philosophy  was  not  sepa¬ 
rated,  as  it  now  is,  from  political  and  military 
functions  ;  the  philosopher  was  the  best  states¬ 
man,  the  most  experienced  chieftain,  the  bravest 
soldier  ;  his  wisdom  was  made  available  in  every 
department  of  civil  life. 

Solon  was  equally  loved  by  all  parties.  The  rich 
entertained  high  hopes  of  him,  because  he  him¬ 
self  was  a  rich  man.  The  poor  confided  in  him, 
because  he  was  an  honest  man.  The  intelligent 
portion  of  the  Athenians  desired  him  for  their 
ruler,  because  the  monarchy  seemed  to  them  the 
safest  means  of  suppressing  the  spirit  of  faction  ;  his 
relatives  desired  the  same  thing,  but  from  inter* 
ested  motives,  because  they  wished  to  share  the 
government  with  him.  Solon  rejected  this  ad¬ 
vice.  “ The  monarchy,”  he  said,  “is  a  beautiful 
house,  but  it  has  no  outlet.” 

He  contented  himself  with  allowing  the  people 
to  elect  him  archon  and  lawgiver;  he  undertook 
this  work  unwillingly,  and  only  out  ot  respect  lor 
the  nation. 

He  commenced  his  work  with  issuing  the  cele¬ 
brated  edict  called  seisachtheia,  or  discharge,  by 
which  all  debts  were  abolished,  and  the  pawning 
of  one’s  body  was  forever  prohibited.  This  edict 
was  a  violent  infringement  of  the  rights  of  pro¬ 
perty,  but  the  extreme  need  into  which  the  repub¬ 
lic  was  plunged,  rendered  violent  measures  neces- 


372 


SOLON- 


sary.  This  measure  was  the  less  evil  of  two,  for 
the  class  who  suffered  by  its  operation,  was  much 
smaller  than  that  which  was  benefited. 

By  this  beneficent  edict  he  at  once  relieved  the 
poor  of  the  heavy  burden  under  which  they  had 
been  groaning  for  centuries ;  the  rich  were  not 
made  poor  by  it,  for  they  retained  that  which 
they  actually  possessed  ;  he  only  took  from  them 
the  means  of  being  unjust.  For  all  that,  he 
earned  no  more  gratitude  at  the  hands  of  the 
poor  than  at  those  of  the  rich.  The  poor  had 
been  hoping  for  an  equal  distribution  of  the  soil, 
such  as  the  Spartans  enjoyed,  and  grumbled  be¬ 
cause  he  had  deceived  them.  They  forgot  that 
the  lawmaker  owes  justice  to  the  rich  as  well  as 
to  the  poor,  and  that  it  was  unadvisable  to  imi¬ 
tate  the  arrangement  of  Lycurgus,  because  it  was 
unjust. 

The  ingratitude  of  the  people  extorted  a  modest 
complaint  from  the  lawgiver’s  lips.  “  Formerly,” 
he  said,  “  my  praises  were  sounded  by  all ;  now 
every  body  squints  at  me  with  an  inimical  eye.” 
Soon,  however,  the  beneficent  consequences  of 
his  arrangements  showed  themselves.  The  pea¬ 
sants  who  had  been  enslaved  heretofore,  now  were 
free  ;  the  citizen  now  cultivated  as  his  own  the 
field  which  he  had  heretofore  been  obliged  to 
work  for  a  creditor  as  a  common  day-laborer. 
Many  citizens  who  had  been  sold  to  foreigners 
and  already  began  to  forget  their  own  language, 
now  returned  to  their  former  homes  as  free  be¬ 
ings. 

The  confidence  with  which  the  lawgiver  lfad 
first  been  elected,  was  restored.  The  whole  re¬ 
form  of  the  republic  was  intrusted  to  his  care, 
and  unlimited  power  was  given  him  to  dispose  of 
the  property  and  the  rights  of  the  citizens.  The 
first  use  he  made  of  this  power,  was  to  abolish 
the  laws  of  Draco,  except  such  as  were  directed 
against  murder  and  adultery. 

After  this  he  undertook  the  important  task  of 
giving  a  new  constitution  to  the  republic. 

All  Athenian  citizens  had  to  furnish  a  state¬ 
ment  of  their  means  of  support,  and,  agreeably 
to  the  basis  thus  furnished,  were  divided  into  four 
classes. 

The  first  class  comprehended  those  who  enjoyed 
a  yearly  income  of  fifteen  hundred  measures  of 
dry  and  liquid  property. 

The  second  class  comprehended  those  who  had 
three  hundred  measures  and  were  able  to  keep  a 
horse. 

The  third  class  those  who  only  owned  half  this 
amount,  and  where  two  had  to  join  in  order  to 
make  up  the  former  number;  for  this  reason  they 
were  designated  a  yoke. 

The  fourth  class  comprehended  those  who  did 
oot  possess  any  landed  property,  and  who  earned 
their  living  by  manual  labor, — artists,  mechanics, 
and  day-laborers. 

The  three  first  of  these  four  classes  were  per¬ 
mitted  to  hold  public  offices,  from  which  those 
Delonging  to  the  fourth  class  were  excluded ;  in 
public  meetings,  however,  the  members  of  the 
fourth  class  voted,  like  the  rest,  which  secured  to 
them  a  large  share  in  the  government  of  the 
country.  All  important  transactions  were  laid 
before  the  national  assembly,  termed  ecclesia, 


which  decided  concerning  them  :  suth  as  the  elec¬ 
tion  of  officers,  the  distribution  of  offices,  impor¬ 
tant  litigations,  financial  transactions,  peace  and 
war.  If  the  text  of  the  law  was  obscure,  and  the 
judge  was  not  perfectly  certain  concerning  its 
meaning,  the  matter  had  to  be  laid  before  the 
ecclesia,  which  decided,  in  last  resort,  how  the  law 
was  to  be  interpreted.  From  every  tribunal  there 
lay  an  appeal  to  the  people.  Before  the  age  of 
thirty,  nobody  could  be  a  member  of  the  national 
assembly;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  attained  the 
legal  age,  he  was  not  permitted  to  stay  away  from 
its  sittings  without  rendering  himself  amenable  to 
punishment  ;  for  Solon  detested  and  opposed 
nothing  more  than  indifference  to  the  affairs  of 
the  state. 

Thus  the  Athenian  constitution  had  a  perfectly 
democratic  form  ;  the  people  wrere  sovereign  in 
the  strictest  sense  of  the  term  ;  they  ruled  not 
merely  by  representatives,  but  directly,  in  their 
own  names. 

Soon,  however,  this  arrangement  led  to  unplea¬ 
sant  consequences.  The  people  had  attained 
power  too  rapidly  to  enjoy  it  with  moderation  ; 
passions  broke  loose  in  the  public  assemblies,  and 
the  tumult  which  prevailed  on  such  occasions  did 
not  always  admit  of  calm  deliberations,  and  wrise 
decisions.  To  meet  this  inconvenience,  Solon 
created  a  Senate,  to  which  each  of  the  four  classes 
had  to  send  one  hundred  members.  This  senate 
had  previously  to  deliberate  on  the  business  that 
was  to  be  laid  before  the  ecclesia.  Nothing  that 
had  not  previously  been  considered  by  the  senate 
ci  uld  be  brought  before  the  people  to  whom  the 
final  decision  was  exclusively  reserved.  After  a 
subject  had  been  laid  by  the  senate  before  the 
people,  the  orators  rose  for  the  purpose  of  influ¬ 
encing  the  people  in  their  decision.  This  class 
has  acquired  considerable  renown  in  history,  and 
has  done  as  much  injury  to  the  republic  by  seek¬ 
ing  to  influence  the  susceptible  and  versatile 
genius  of  the  Athenians  by  their  arts  of  oratory, 
as  it  might  have  benefited  the  state,  if  self-inter¬ 
est  had  not  prompted  the  brilliant  efforts  of  the 
speaker.  The  orator  resorted  to  all  the  artifices 
of  eloquence,  in  order  to  induce  the  people  to 
adopt  the  views  he  had  at  heart ;  if  he  under¬ 
stood  his  art,  the  hearts  of  the  people  were  in  his 
hands.  These  orators  bound  the  people  by  gen¬ 
tle  and  legitimate  chains.  They  ruled  by  persua¬ 
sion,  and  their  rule  was  not  the  less  powerful  be¬ 
cause  it  left  the  choice  of  the  people  seemingly 
free.  The  people  were  free  to  adopt  or  reject  a 
proposition  ;  but  their  freedom  of  choice  was  di¬ 
rected  by  the  cunning  with  which  the  propositioi 
was  discussed  and  expounded.  If  the  orators 
had  always  been  animated  by  pure  and  true  mo¬ 
tives,  this  arrangement  might  have  been  condu¬ 
cive  to  much  good.  But  soon  the  art  of  oratory 
was  perverted  by  sophists,  who  made  it  their 
business  to  make  evil  look  like  good,  and  good 
like  evil. 

In  the  middle  of  Athens  was  a  large  public 
square,  called  the  prytaneum,  which  was  sur¬ 
rounded  by  the  statues  of  gods  and  heroes.  'The 
Senators  assembled  in  this  square,  and  were  on 
this  account  called  Prytani.  A  prytan  was  ex¬ 
pected  to  lead  a  blameless  life.  No  debauchee 


SECOND  PERIOD. 


873 


no  one  who  had  treated  his  father  with  disrespect, 
no  one  who  had  ever  been  intoxicated,  must  think 
of  being  elected  to  the  honorable  office  of  a  Sen¬ 
ator. 

Subsequently,  after  the  population  of  Athens 
had  increased,  and  in  the  place  of  the  four  classes 
introduced  by  Solon,  ten  had  been  established, 
the  number  of  Senators  likewise  increased  from 
four  hundred  to  one  thousand.  Of  these  thousand 
prytani  only  five  hundred  were  in  active  service 
annually,  nor  were  these  five  hundred  employed 
all  at  one  time.  Fifty  of  them  governed  for  five 
weeks  at  a  time,  in  such  a  manner  that  only  ten 
of  them  were  in  office  every  week.  Thus  it  be¬ 
came  impossible  to  rule  in  an  arbitrary  manner, 
for  each  had  as  many  witnesses  to  his  acts  as  he 
had  colleagues,  and  the  successor  had  it  in  his 
power  to  examine  the  acts  of  his  predecessor. 
Every  five  weeks  the  people  assembled  four  times, 
not  counting  extraordinary  convocations  ;  by  this 
arrangement  all  delay  was  rendered  impossible, 
and  business  was  transacted  with  dispatch. 

Beside  creating  the  Senate,  Solon  likewise  re¬ 
stored  the  Areopagus,  whose  authority  Draco  had 
curtailed  because  this  tribunal  judged  too  mildly 
to  suit  his  own  cruel  temper.  Solon  made  it  the 
supreme  guardian  of  the  laws,  and,  according  to 
Plutarch’s  statement,  attached  the  republic  to 
these  two  tribunals,  the  Senate  and  Areopagus,  as 
to  two  anchors. 

These  two  tribunals  had  been  instituted  for  the 
purpose  of  watching  over  the  preservation  of  the 
republic  and  its  laws.  Ten  other  tribunals  had 
charge  of  the  application  of  the  laws  ;  they  con¬ 
stituted  the  ordinary  judiciary.  Murderers  were 
tried  before  four  courts,  the  palladium,  delphinium, 
phreattys,  and  heliaea.  Only  the  two  first  were 
confirmed  by  Solon  ;  they  had  been  instituted  by 
the  kings.  Unintentional  homicide  was  tried  by 
the  palladium.  By  the  delphinium  those  were 
tried  who  admitted  having  killed  a  person,  but  for 
justifiable  causes.  The  phreattys  was  instituted 
for  the  trial  of  those  who  were  accused  of  inten¬ 
tional  murder  alter  they  had  already  fled  out  of 
the  country  on  account  of  unintentional  homicide. 
The  accused  appeared  on  board  a  vessel,  and  his 
judges  were  seated  on  the  beach.  If  he  was  in¬ 
nocent,  he  returned  to  his  place  of  exile  in  peace, 
in  the  joyous  hope  of  being  some  time  or  other 
permitted  to  return  home  again.  If  he  was  ad¬ 
judged  guilty,  he  returned  likewise  without  being 
molested,  but  he  was  never  again  permitted  to 
return  home. 

The  fourth  tribunal,  the  heliaea,  derived  its 
name  from  the  sun,  because  it  was  wont  to  meet 
immediately  after  sunrise,  at  some  place  that  the 
sun  shone  upon.  This  court  was  an  extraordinary 
commission  of  the  other  three  tribunals  ;  its  mem¬ 
bers  were  both  magistrates  and  judges.  They  had 
not  only  to  apply  and  execute,  but  likewise  to 
mend  and  interpret  the  laws.  Their  meeting  was 
very  solemn,  and  a  terrible  oath  bound  them  to 
speak  the  truth. 

As  soon  as  sentence  of  death  had  been  pro¬ 
nounced,  and  the  accused  had  not  evaded  it  by 
voluntary  exile,  he  was  delivered  over  to  the 
eleven  ;  this  name  was  assigned  to  a  commission 
to  which  each  of  the  ten  classes  furnished  a 


member,  who,  together  with  the  executioner, 
made  eleven.  These  eleven  superintended  the 
prisons  and  executed  the  sentence  of  death.  The 
Athenians  had  three  modes  of  putting  criminals 
to  death.  They  were  either  hurled  down  a  pre¬ 
cipice,  or  into  the  ocean  ;  or  they  were  decapitated, 
or  poisoned  with  hemlock. 

Next  to  the  death-penalty,  ranked  exile.  In 
happy  countries  this  punishment  appears  terrible; 
there  are  countries  from  which  it  is  no  misfortune 
to  be  exiled.  The  fact  that  the  Athenian  people 
ranked  exile  next  to  the  death-penalty,  and,  if 
perpetual,  considered  it  equal  to  the  latter,  speaks 
well  for  the  nobleness  of  their  national  sentiment. 
An  Athenian  who  had  lost  his  country,  never 
found  another  Athens  anywhere. 

Exile,  except  ostracism,  was  accompanied  by 
confiscation  of  property. 

Citizens,  who,  by  personal  merit  or  good  for¬ 
tune,  had  acquired  more  influence  and  authority 
than  was  consistent  with  republican  power,  and 
were  suspected  of  becoming  dangerous  to  repub¬ 
lican  liberty,  were  sometimes  banished  •without 
deserving  their  exile.  To  save  the  republic,  in¬ 
justice  was  practiced  toward  a  single  citizen.  The 
idea  which  underlies  this  motive,  may  be  praise¬ 
worthy  in  itself ;  but  the  remedy  they  resorted  to, 
evinces  political  childishness.  This  sort  of  exile 
was  termed  ostracism,  because  the  votes  were 
written  upon  pieces  of  slate.  Six  thousand  votes 
were  necessary  to  inflict  this  penalty.  In  the 
nature  of  things,  only  the  most  meritorious  citi¬ 
zens  were  ostracized:  this  penalty  was  therefore 
an  honor  rather  than  a  disgrace,  but  it  was,  for  all 
that,  an  act  of  injustice  and  cruelty,  for  it  de¬ 
prived  the  most  worthy  of  that  which  was  dearest 
to  him,  his  home. 

Disputes  of  less  importance  were  brought  be¬ 
fore  six  inferior  courts  which  never  acquired 
much  influence,  because  the  condemned  parties 
had  the  right  of  appeal  from  every  one  of  them 
to  the  higher  courts,  and  to  the  ecclesia.  Every 
citizen  plead  his  own  cause,  except  women,  chil¬ 
dren,  and  slaves.  The  duration  of  the  speeches 
which  the  complainant  and  the  defendant  were 
allowed  to  make,  was  regulated  by  dropping  water 
which  served  as  a  time-piece.  The  most  import¬ 
ant  civil  suits  had  to  be  decided  in  twenty-four 
hours. 

Thus  much  of  the  civil  and  political  institu¬ 
tions  of  Solon.  But  this  lawgiver  did  not  confine 
his  attention  to  these  points.  The  ancient  law¬ 
makers  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  fashioning  man 
in  accordance  with  their  laws  ;  they  extended 
their  attention  to  the  public  morality,  the  forma¬ 
tion  of  character ;  they  never  separated  the  man 
and  the  citizen,  as  is  the  case  with  us.  Among 
us  the  laws  are  very  frequently  antagonistic  to 
the  customs  and  morals  of  the  people  ;  among 
the  ancients  a  beautiful  harmony  prevailed  be¬ 
tween  the  laws  and  the  public  morals.  fI  his  is 
the  reason  why  their  public  bodies,  charged  with 
the  maintenance  of  order,  were  animated  by  so 
much  vital  zeal,  which  is  unknown  in  the  present 
ao-e ;  the  form  of  government  was  impressed  with 
indelible  traits  upon  the  souls  of  the  citizens. 

In  this  respect,  however,  we  must  not  bestow 
undue  praise  upon  the  ancients.  It  may  be  said 


374 


SOLON. 


that  the  intentions  of  ancient  law-makers  were, 
with  scarcely  an  exception,  praiseworthy  and 
wise,  but  they  did  not  always  employ  the  best 
means  to  execute  them.  These  means  frequently 
show  a  deficient  appreciation  of  human  nature, 
and  an  important  knowledge  of  the  operations  of 
the  human  mind.  They  went  too  far,  where  we 
do  not  go  far  enough.  If  our  law-makers  are 
wrong  in  entirely  neglecting  the  enactment  of 
laws  for  the  observance  of  moral  duties,  the  Gre¬ 
cian  law-makers  comnTitted  the  great  wrong  of 
enforcing  the  fulfillment  of  moral  duties  by  severe 
penalties.  Freedom  of  the  will  is  the  first  condi¬ 
tion  of  moral  beauty,  and  this  beauty  is  destroyed 
the  moment  we  undertake  to  enforce  moral  virtue 
by  legal  penalties.  It  is  the  noblest  privilege  of 
human  nature  to  determine  its  own  conduct,  and 
to  do  the  good  for  its  own  sake.  No  law  should 
enforce,  by  compulsory  means,  fidelity  to  the 
friend,  generosity  toward  an  enemy,  gratitude  to¬ 
ward  father  and  mother  ;  if  such  means  are  em¬ 
ployed,  a  free  moral  sentiment  becomes  the  result 
of  fear,  a  slavish  emotion. 

But  to  return  to  Solon. 

One  of  liis  laws  ordains  that  every  citizen 
shall  regard  an  insult  perpetrated  against  any 
other  citizen,  as  if  it  had  been  done  to  himself, 
and  he  shall  not  rest  until  the  perpetrator  is  pun¬ 
ished.  The  intention  by  which  this  law  was  dic¬ 
tated,  is  doubless  a  good  one.  The  intention  was 
to  inspire  every  citizen  with  a  warm  interest  in 
his  neighbor,  and  to  induce  all  to  look  upon  each 
other  as  the  members  of  a  great  and  coherent 
whole.  What  a  pleasant  surprise  it  would  afford 
us  to  arrive  in  a  country,  where  every  passer-by 
should  protect  us  from  insults  !  But  how  much 
less  pleasure  would  this  protection  afford  us,  if 
we  were  told  that  is  was  compulsory . 

Another  law  instituted  by  Solon,  inflicts  in¬ 
famy  upon  any  one  who  should  remain  neutral 
during  a  rebellion.  This  law  was  likewise  dic¬ 
tated  by  a  good  intention.  The  law-maker  was 
anxious  to  inspire  his  fellow-men  with  a  lively 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  state.  Indifference 
toward  the  country  seemed  to  him  a  most  detest¬ 
able  state  of  mind  in  any  citizen.  Neutrality 
may  frequently  result  from  such  indifference  ;  but 
he  forgot  that  the  most  intense  devotion  to  the 
country  frequently  commands  such  indifference, 
in  case  both  parties,  for  instance,  should  be 
wrong,  and  the  country  should  equally  lose  by 
the  ascendency  of  either. 

By  another  law,  Solon  forbids  speaking  ill  of 
the  dead,  or  even  speaking  ill  of  the  living  in 
public  places,  such  as  in  courts,  in  a  temple  or 
theatre.  lie  absolves  children  that  are  not  born 
in  wedlock,  from  all  filial  duties  toward  the  fa¬ 
ther,  on  the  plea  that  the  father  has  already  had 
his  share  of  such  duties  by  enjoying  the  sensual 
delight  of  procreation  :  he  likewise  absolved  the 
son  of  the  duty  of  taking  care  of  his  father,  if 
he  had  neglected  to  bind  his  son  to  a  trade. 
He  permitted  the  making  of  wills,  and  giving  away 
one’s  property  indiscriminately  ;  for  friends  of 
one’s  own  choice,  he  asserted,  were  worth  more 
than  mere  relatives.  He  abrogated  dowries,  be¬ 
cause  he  wished  marriages  to  result  from  love, 
not  from  interest.  Another  proof  of  his  gentle 


disposition  is  furnished  by  the  fact  that  he  called 
odious  things  by  milder  names.  Taxes  were  called 
contributions ;  soldiers  were  guardians  of  the 
city;  prisons  were  called  apartments,  and  the 
abolition  of  debts  he  designated  by  the  term  re¬ 
lief.  tie  moderated  by  wise  regulations  the  lux¬ 
ury  to  which  the  Athenians  were  so  prone  ;  rigid 
laws  watched  over  the  morals  of  females,  over 
the  intercourse  between  the  sexes,  and  the  sanc¬ 
tity  of  marriages. 

He  ordained  that  these  laws  were  only  to  be 
valid  for  one  hundred  years.  How  much  more 
sagacious  was  he  than  Lycurgus !  He  compre¬ 
hended  that  laws  are  only  the  instruments  of  cul¬ 
ture  ;  that  nations,  when  fully  grown,  require  a 
different  direction  from  those  that  are  still  living 
in  their  infancy.  Lycurgus  perpetuated  the  men¬ 
tal  infancy  of  his  Spartans,  in  order  to  secure, 
by  this  means,  the  perpetuity  of  his  laws  ;  but 
both  his  republic  and  his  laws  have  vanished. 
Solon,  on  the  contrary,  only  instituted  his  laws 
for  one  hundred  years,  and  even  to  this  day,  many 
of  his  laws  are  in  force  in  the  Roman  code. 

Solon  has  been  reproached  with  giving  too 
much  power  to  the  people.  This  reproach  is  not 
unfounded.  In  trying  to  avoid  one  cliff,  oligar¬ 
chy,  he  came  too  near  the  other,  anarchy ;  but  he 
only  approached  it,  for  the  Senate  and  the  Areo¬ 
pagus  were  powerful  restraints  of  the  popular 
will.  The  inseparable  defects  of  a  democratic 
government,  tumultuous  and  vehement  discus¬ 
sions,  and  party-spirit,  could  not,  it  is  true,  be 
avoided  in  Athens  ;  but  these  evils  are  to  be 
charged  much  more  upon  the  form  he  chose  than 
upon  the  essential  nature  of  democracy,,  He  erred 
in  allowing  the  people  to  discuss  their  affairs  in 
mass-meetings,  instead  of  selecting  representa¬ 
tives;  on  account  of  the  crowd,  such  discussions 
could  not  well  take  place  without  confusion  and 
tumult,  and  the  large  number  of  poor  voters  oc¬ 
casioned  frequent  resort  to  bribery.  Ostracism, 
which  could  not  be  inflicted  unless  six  thousand 
persons  had  voted  in  favor  of  the  measure,  may 
show  us  how  tumultuous  such  mass-meetings  of 
the  people  may  have  been.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  we  consider  how  well  even  the  common  man 
was  acquainted  with  the  business  of  the  republic, 
how  powerfully  and  actively  every  heart  was  moved 
by  patriotic  impulses,  how  much  care  the  law¬ 
giver  had  taken  to  make  the  love  of  country  the 
leading  sentiment  in  the  heart  of  every  citizen  : 
we  shall  acquire  a  better  idea  of  the  political 
sense  of  the  Athenian  people,  whom  we  should 
not  place  upon  a  level  with  the  common  people 
of  this  age.  All  large  meetings  lead  to  more  or 
less  lawlessness  as  their  immediate  result ; 
smaller  assemblies  find  it  difficult  to  keep  clear 
of  aristocratic  despotism.  To  hit  the  right 
mean  between  these  two  extremes,  is  a  difficult 
problem  that  will  only  be  solved  by  future  gene¬ 
rations.  I  shall  always  admire  the  spirit  that 
animated  Solon  in  giving  his  laws  the  spirit  of 
sound  and  genuine  political  science  which  never 
loses  sight  of  the  fundamental  principle  upon 
which  all  governments  should  rest,  which  consists 
in  the  people  making  their  own  laws,  and  induc¬ 
ing  them  to  fulfill  the  duties  of  a  citizen  from 
rational  conviction  and  patriotism,  not  from  a 


SECOND  PERIOD 


375 


slavish  fear  of  punishment,  from  a  blind  anc 
passive  submission  to  the  will  of  a  master. 

Solon’s  respect  for  human  nature  was  a  beauti¬ 
ful  trait  in  his  character.  He  never  sacrificed 
man  to  the  state,  or  the  end  to  the  means,  but  he 
caused  the  state  to  be  subservient  to  the  high 
purposes  of  human  existence.  His  laws  served 
as  yielding  bonds,  by  whose  guiding  but  gentle 
and  scarcely-perceptible  support  the  minds  of  the 
citizens  were  enabled  to  move  with  freedom  and 
ease  in  every  direction  ;  whereas  the  laws  of  Ly¬ 
curgus  operated  like  iron  fetters,  against  which 
the  bold  heart  chafed  until  it  sank  bleeding:  and 
oppressed  under  the  heavy  yoke.  Every  possible 
avenue  of  progress  was  opened  by  the  Athenian 
lawgiver  to  the  genius  and  industry  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  ;  the  Spartan  lawgiver,  on  the  contrary, 
stopped  up  every  avenue  of  development,  except 
political  merit.  Lycurgus  enjoined  idleness  by 
law ;  Solon  punished  it  severely.  Hence  every 
virtue  matured  in  Athens,  trades  and  arts  flour¬ 
ished,  every  channel  of  industry  was  stirring  with 
life  ;  every  field  of  knowledge  was  cultivated  in 
that  republic.  Has  Sparta  produced  a  Socrates, 
a  Thucydides,  a  Sophocles,  a  Plato?  Sparta 
could  only  produce  rulers  and  warriors;  no  artists, 
no  poets,  no  thinkers,  no  citizens  of  the  world. 
Both  Solon  and  Lycurgus  were  great  men,  both 
were  honest  men  ;  but  how  different  have  been 
their  actions,  since  they  started  from  opposite 
grounds!  Round  about  the  Athenian  law-giver, 
liberty  and  joy,  industry  and  abundance,  the  arts 
and  virtues,  the  graces  and  muses  are  grouped, 
look  up  to  him  with  feelings  of  gratitude,  and  call 
him  father  and  creator.  Lycurgus  is  snrrounded 
by  tyranny  and  its  horrid  opposite,  bondage, 
shaking  its  chains  and  cursing  the  author  of  its 
misery. 

The  character  of  a  whole  people  is  the  most 
faithful  expression  of  its  laws,  and  the  most  relia¬ 
ble  judge  of  their  worth  or  nothingness.  A  Spar¬ 
tan’s  mind  was  contracted,  and  his  heart  unfeeling. 
He  was  proud  and  overbearing  toward  his  allies, 
cruel  toward  the  vanquished,  inhuman  to  his 
slaves,  and  servile  to  his  superiors  ;  in  his  negotia¬ 
tions  he  was  unscrupulous  and  perfidious,  despotic 
in  his  decisions  ;  even  his  virtues  and  greatness 
were  deficient  in  the  pleasing  loveliness  that  alone 
wins  our  hearts.  The  Athenian,  on  the  contrary, 
was  gentle  and  meek  in  his  intercourse  with  his 
fellow-men,  polite  and  lively  in  conversation,  affa¬ 
ble  toward  inferiors,  hospitable  and  obliging  to 
strangers.  He  was  fond  of  fashion  and  comfort, 
but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  fighting  in  bat¬ 
tle  like  a  lion.  Clad  in  purple,  and  anointed  with 
incense,  he  yet  caused  the  millions  of  Xerxes  and 
even  the  rude  Spartans  to  tremble.  He  loved  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  and  found  it  difficult  to  re¬ 
sist  the  allurements  of  sensuality ;  but  drunken¬ 
ness  and  shameless  conduct  were  punished  with 
disgrace ;  delicacy  and  propriety  were  cultivated 
with  more  care  by  the  Athenians  than  by  any 
other  nation  of  antiquity.  In  a  war  against  King 
Philip,  the  Athenians  captured  some  letters  be¬ 
longing  to  the  king,  among  which  one  was  to  his 
spouse  ;  all  were  opened  except  this  one,  which 
was  sent  back  to  him  intact.  In  fortune,  the 
Athenian  was  generous,  and  firm  in  misfortune ; 


he  then  never  hesitated  to  sacrifice  every  thing 
for  his  country.  He  treated  his  slaves  humanely, 
and  the  servant,  if  ill-treated,  was  permitted  to 
bring  suit  against  his  master.  The  generosity  of 
these  people  extended  even  to  animals;  after  the 
construction  of  the  temple  Hekatonpedon  had 
been  finished,  it  was  decreed  that  all  the  animals 
which  had  assisted  in  the  work,  should  be  dis¬ 
charged  from  all  further  labor,  and  should  be 
allowed  during  the  remainder  of  their  lives  to  pas¬ 
ture  on  the  richest  meadows  without  being  ever 
called  upon  to  do  any  more  work.  Afterward  one 
of  these  animals  returned  to  the  work  of  its  own 
accord,  running  mechanically  in  front  of  the  others 
which  drew  freight.  This  spectacle  so  touched 
the  people  that  they  ordered  special  keepers  for 
this  animal,  who  fed  it  at  the  public  expense  in  a 
separate  stable. 

It  is  due  to  justice  to  mention  the  deficiencies 
of  the  Athenians,  for  history  should  not  be  a  flat¬ 
terer.  These  people  whom  we  have  admired  on 
account  of  their  fine  manners,  their  meekness, 
their  wisdom,  very  often  rendered  themselves 
guilty  of  the  most  shameless  ingratitude  toward 
their  greatest  men,  and  of  cruelty  toward  their 
vanquished  enemies.  Spoiled  by  the  flatteries  of 
their  orators,  having  become  insolent  by  their 
freedom,  and  vain  of  their  brilliant  achievements, 
they  frequently  treated  their  allies  and  neighbors 
with  intolerable  pride,  and  were  governed  in  their 
public  discussions  by  a  frivolous  and  intoxicating 
levity  which  frequently  neutralized  the  exertions 
of  their  wisest  statesmen,  and  brought  the  repub¬ 
lic  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  The  individual  Athenian 
was  social  and  gentle;  but  in  public  meetings  he 
put  off  this  character.  Hence  Aristophanes 
depicts  to  us  his  countrymen  as  sensible  old  men 
at  home,  but  as  fools  in  public  meetings.  The 
love  of  glory,  and  the  thirst  for  novelties  ruled 
them  to  excess  ;  to  gain  glory,  the  Athenian  fre¬ 
quently  risked  his  fortune,  his  life,  and  not  unfre- 
quently,  his  virtue.  A  crown  of  olive-branches, 
an  inscription  upon  a  column  which  promulgated 
his  deserts,  stimulated  him  more  keenly  to  great 
deeds  than  the  Persian  was  stirred  up  by  all  the 
treasures  of  his  king.  The  Athenians  manifested 
their  gratitude  with  the  same  extravagance  as 
their  ingratitude.  To  be  accompanied  home  from 
a  public  meeting  in  triumph  by  such  a  people,  to 
hold  their  attention  only  for  one  day,  afforded  a 
higher  and  a  truer  delight  to  the  vain-glorious 
Athenian  than  any  monarch  could  procure  for  his 
greatest  favorites  ;  for  it  is  something  quite  differ¬ 
ent  to  touch  a  proud  and  sensitive  people  than 
to  please  one  man  only.  The  Athenian  had  to  be 
in  a  constant  state  of  excitement ;  his  heart  was 
unceasingly  aspiring  after  new  sensations  and  en¬ 
joyments.  This  desire  for  newness  had  to  be  gra¬ 
tified  by  new  means,  day  after  day,  if  it  was  not  to 
become  a  source  of  public  mischief.  Hence  it 
was  that  a  public  spectacle  arranged  at  the  proper 
moment,  frequently  preserved  the  public  tran¬ 
quillity  which  was  threatened  by  an  outbreak  ; 
hence  it  was  that  an  usurper  frequently  won  the 
game,  if  he  only  knew  how  to  minister  to  this  pas¬ 
sion  for  new  sensations  by  an  uninterrupted 
course  of  amusements.  But  woe  even  to  the 
most  meritorious  citizen,  if  he  did  not  understand 


376 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  art  of  keeping  up  the  excitement  of  newness, 
and  rejuvenating  his  merit  from  day  to  day ! 

The  evening  of  Solon’s  life  was  less  cheerful 
than  his  life  had  warranted.  In  order  to  evade 
the  importunities  of  the  Athenians  who  beset  him 
every  day  with  questions  and  propositions,  he  left 
Athens  as  soon  as  his  laws  were  in  operation,  and 
undertook  a  journey  through  Asia  Minor,  to  the 
islands  and  to  Egypt,  where  he  conversed  with 
the  wisest  men  of  the  age,  and  visited  the  court 
of  King  Croesus  of  Lydia,  and  the  court  of  Sais 
in  Egypt.  What  is  recorded  concerning  his  in¬ 
terview  with  Thales  of  Miletus,  and  with  Croesus, 
is  too  well  known  to  require  any  further  notice  at 
my  hands.  On  his  return  to  Athens,  he  found 
the  republic  torn  by  three  factions  under  the 
leadership  of  two  dangerous  men — Megacles  and 
Pisistratus.  Megacles  rendered  himself  powerful 
and  formidable  by  his  riches,  Pisistratus  by  his 
political  cunning  and  his  genius.  This  Pisis¬ 
tratus,  Solon’s  former  favorite,  and  the  Julius 
Cesar  of  Athens,  one  day  appeared  before  the 
ecclesia,  pale,  stretched  out  upon  his  chariot,  and 
stained  with  blood  from  a  wound  which  he  had 
inflicted  upon  himself.  “  Thus,”  said  he,  “  my 
enemies  have  maltreated  me  on  your  account. 
My  life  is  in  constant  danger,  unless  you  take 
measures  to  guard  it.”  Thereupon  his  friend 
moved,  in  accordance  with  his  own  previous 
arrangements,  that  a  body-guard  should  be  formed 
whose  exclusive  business  it  should  be  to  accom¬ 
pany  him  in  public.  Solon  suspected  the  treache¬ 
rous  object  of  this  measure,  and  opposed  it  with 
zeal,  but  without  effect.  The  proposition  being 
adopted,  Pisistratus  received  a  body-guard,  at 
w'hose  head  he  at  once  took  possession  of  the 
citadel  of  Athens.  Now  the  scales  fell  from  the 
people’s  eyes,  but  too  late.  Terror  seized  upon 
Athens.  Megacles  and  his  friends  escaped  from 
the  city,  which  they  left  to  the  usurper.  Solon, 
who  had  not  been  deceived  by  his  plans,  was  the 
only  one  that  did  not  lose  his  courage ;  he  now 
used  the  same  efforts  in  animating  the  sinking 
courage  of  his  fellow-citizens,  that  he  had  em¬ 
ployed  before  in  preventing  them  from  commit¬ 
ting  the  rash  act,  from  the  consequences  of  which 
they  were  now  suffering.  When  nobody  would 
listen  to  him,  he  went  home,  and  laid  his  arms  in 
front  of  his  door,  exclaiming:  “Now  I  have  done 
all  I  was  able  to  do  for  my  country’s  good.”  He 
never  thought  of  escape,  but  continued  to  censure 
the  folly  of  the  Athenians  and  the  unscrupulous 
conduct  of  the  tyrant  in  the  most  unmeasured 
terms.  When  asked  by  his  friends,  what  gave 
him  the  courage  to  bid  defiance  to  power,  he  re¬ 
plied  :  “My  age  gives  me  courage.”  He  died 
without  beholding  his  country’s  freedom. 

But  Athens  had  not  fallen  into  barbarous 
hands.  Pisistratus  was  a  noble-hearted  man  who 
honored  Solon’s  laws.  Having  been  twice  ex¬ 
pelled  by  his  rival,  and  having  twice  reconquered 
the  government  of  the  city,  he  caused  his  usurpa¬ 
tion  to  be  forgotten  by  his  brilliant  virtues,  and 
the  services  he  rendered  to  the  republic.  Nobody 
perceived  the  loss  of  liberty,  so  gentle  and  quiet 
was  his  reign.  Not  he  ruled,  but  Solon’s  laws. 
Pisistratus  opened  the  golden  age  of  Athens ; 


under  him  the  arts  began  to  dawn.  He  died  re 
gretted  like  a  father. 

His  work  was  continued  by  his  sons  Hippias 
and  Hipparch.  Both  brothers  governed  harmo¬ 
niously,  and  were  animated  by  the  same  love  of 
science.  Under  their  government,  Simonides  and 
Anacreon  were  already  flourishing,  and  the  Aca¬ 
demy  was  founded.  The  people  made  rapid  strides 
toward  the  great  age  of  Pericles. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 

ON  THE  MIGRATIONS  OF  NATIONS,  CRUSADES, 
AND  THE  MIDDLE  AGES.* 

The  new  social  system  which,  born  in  the  North 
of  Europe  and  Asia,  was  introduced  by  the  con¬ 
quering  nations  upon  the  ruins  of  the  Western 
empire,  had  now  had  seven  centuries  to  try  its 
strength  in  this  more  extended  sphere,  and  in  new 
combinations,  and  to  develop  itself  in  all  its  forms 
and  varieties.  The  descendants  of  the  Yandals, 
Suevi,  Alani,  Goths,  Heruleans,  Longobardi, 
Franks,  Burgundians,  and  so  forth,  had  become 
permanent  inhabitants  of  the  soil  which  had  been 
invaded  by  their  ancestors,  sword  in  hand ;  when 
all  at  once  the  spirit  of  migration  and  plunder, 
which  had  led  them  to  their  new  homes,  was  again 
kindled  in  their  hearts  at  the  expiration  of  the 
eleventh  century,  in  another  form  and  by  other 
causes.  Europe  now  sent  back  to  southwestern 
Asia  the  devastating  swarms  which  it  had  re¬ 
ceived  from  the  northern  portion  of  this  continent, 
seven  hundred  years  ago,  but  with  very  different 
and  unequal  success  ;  for  as  many  torrents  of 
blood  the  barbarians  had  been  obliged  to  shed  for 
the  purpose  of  founding  perpetual  kingdoms  in 
Europe,  as  many  did  it  cost  their  Christian  de¬ 
scendants  to  conquer  a  few  cities  and  fastnesses  in 
Syria,  which  they  were  to  lose  again  forever,  two 
hundred  years  later. 

The  frantic  folly  which  gave  rise  to  the  cru¬ 
sades,  and  the  acts  of  violence  by  which  the  reali¬ 
zation  of  this  undertaking  was  accompanied,  are 
not  inviting  to  an  eye  bounded  by  the  horizon  of 
the  present.  But  if  we  contemplate  this  event  in 
its  connection  with  the  centuries  that  preceded 
and  followed  it,  its  origin  seems  too  natural  to  ex¬ 
cite  our  amazement,  and  its  results  appear  too 
beneficent,  not  to  induce  us  to  regard  the  crusades 
with  feelings  of  satisfaction.  Looking  at  their 
causes,  we  find  that  this  expedition  of  the  Chris¬ 
tians  to  the  Holy  Land  is  such  a  spontaneous,  such 
an  inevitable  result  of  their  age,  that  any  intelli¬ 
gent  reader  of  history,  acquainted  with  the  his¬ 
torical  premises  of  those  great  events,  must  have 
imagined  them  as  the  necessary  developments  of 
previously-operating  causes.  Looking  at  their 
results,  wre  4find  that  the  Crusades  constitute  the 
first  blow  by  which  superstition  itself  began  to 
mend  the  evils  which  it  had  inflicted  upon  hu¬ 
manity  for  so  many  years.  N o  historical  problem 

*  This  Essay  formed  part  of  the  introductory  treatiso 
printed  in  the  first  volume  of  tho  first  part  of  the  his- 
torical  memoirs  published  by  the  author. 


MIGRATIONS,  CRUSADES,  ETC. 


377 


has,  perhaps,  been  solved  more  satisfactorily  than 
this  one ;  none  concerning  which  the  Supreme 
Mind  that  weaves  the  thread  of  universal  history, 
has  furnished  a  more  satisfactory  justification  to 
human  reason. 

From  the  unnatural  and  enervating  repose  into 
which  ancient  Rome  had  plunged  the  various 
peoples  upon  whom  it  had  imposed  its  yoke  ;  from 
the  effeminate  bondage  in  which  it  stifled  the  most 
active  energies  of  millions  of  human  beings,  we 
behold  the  human  race  pssing  through  the  lawless 
and  tumultuous  freedom  of  the  middle-ages,  in 
order  to  finally  find  rest  in  the  happy  mean  be¬ 
tween  the  two  extremes,  and  combine  liberty  with 
order,  repose  with  action,  variety  with  agreement, 
in  harmonious  alliance. 

It  can  scarcely  be  considered  questionable 
whether  the  prosperity  that  we  enjoy,  at  least  ap- 
proximatively,  is  an  advantage  over  the  flourish¬ 
ing  condition  that  may  have  been  the  lot  of  hu¬ 
manity  at  any  previous  period,  and  whether  we 
have  actually  gone  ahead  of  the  best  times  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  Greece  and  Rome  could  at 
most  produce  excellent  Romans  or  Greeks ;  the 
nation,  even  during  the  acme  of  its  power,  never 
rose  to  the  dignity  of  excellent  men.  To  ■  the 
Athenian,  the  world  outside  of  Greece  was  a 
barbarous  wilderness ;  and  it  is  well  known,  that 
this  point  entered  largely  into  his  definition  of  hap¬ 
piness.  The  Romans  had  punished  themselves 
with  their  own  weapons,  since  they  had  converted 
every  actor  upon  the  stage  of  the  world  into 
a  Roman  citizen ,  or  a  Roman  slave.  Not  one  of 
our  governments  has  to  bestow  a  Roman  citizen¬ 
ship  ;  in  return,  we  possess  a  good  which  no 
Roman,  who  desired  to  remain  one,  was  permitted 
to  know — a  good  which  has  been  granted  to  us  by 
a  hand  that  did  not  take  from  one  what  it  gave  to 
another,  and  never  takes  back  what  it  once  has 
given  ;  we  possess  human  freedom ;  a  good  which 
differs  most  essentially  from  the  citizenship  of  a 
Roman  in  this,  that  its  worth  increases  in  propor¬ 
tion  as  those  who  share  it  with  us,  increase  in  num¬ 
bers  ;  a  good  which,  not  being  dependent  upon  the 
changeable  form  of  a  political  constitution,  or 
upon  the  chances  of  a  revolution,  rests  upon  the 
firm  foundation  of  reason  and  equity. 

The  gain  is  therefore  evident,  and  the  question 
is  simply,  was  there  not  a  nearer  road  to  this  end  ? 
Might  not  this  salutary  change  have  developed 
itself  with  less  violence  out  of  the  Roman  form 
of  government,  and  was  it  necessary  that  the 
human  race  should  have  passed  through  the  sad 
period  from  the  fourth  to  the  sixth  century  ? 

Reason  has  no  abiding  place  in  a  world  of 
anarchy.  Ever  aspiring  after  harmony,  it  prefers 
the  risk  of  unsuccessfully  defending  order  to  doing 
without  it  in  a  spirit  of  indifference. 

Were  the  migrations  and  the  middle  ages  that  fol¬ 
lowed  the  necessary  conditions  of  our  social  pro- 
gess  ? 

Asia  may  furnish  some  disclosures  in  this  re¬ 
spect.  Why  was  it  that  no  Grecian  republic 
started  up  in  the  wake  of  Alexander’s  armies  ? 
Why  do  we  behold  Sina  doomed  to  a  perpetual 
childhood  ?  Because  Alexander  effected  his  con¬ 
quests  with  a  spirit  of  humanity  ;  because  the  small 
band  of  his  Greeks  disappeared  among  the  millions 


of  the  great  king ;  because  the  hordes  of  the  Mant- 
choo  were  imperceptibly  lost  in  the  boundless  wil¬ 
derness  of  Sina.  They  only  subjugated  the  men  ;  the 
laws  and  customs,  the  religion  and  government  re¬ 
mained.  For  despotic  governments  there  is  no  sal 
vation  except  in  their  ruin.  Humane  conquerors 
lead  colonists  to  them,  feed  the  sickly  body,  but  all 
they  can  do  is  to  perpetuate  its  disease.  If  the 
pestiferous  country  was  not  to  poison  the  healthy 
conqueror  ;  if  the  German  in  Gaul  was  not  to  be 
converted  into  a  Roman,  as  the  Greek  in  Babylon 
degenerated  into  a  Persian,  it  was  necessary  to 
break  the  form  that  might  have  held  out  danger¬ 
ous  incentives  to  his  imitative  genius,  and  upon 
the  new  stage  where  he  was  destined  to  act,  he 
had  to  remain  in  every  respect  the  stronger  party. 

From  the  Scythian  wilderness  a  barbarous  race 
is  poured  forth  over  the  WTest.  Its  course  is 
marked  with  blood.  Cities  are  reduced  to  ashes 
by  its  fury  which  destroys  with  equal  frenzy  the 
handiwork  of  man  and  the  fruits  of  the  field  :  the 
plague  and  starvation  complete  what  had  been 
left  intact  by  fire  and  sword;  but  life  is  extin¬ 
guished  only  that  a  higher  life  may  take  root  among 
the  ruins.  We  will  not  lay  to  its  charge  the  cadavers 
it  has  piled  up,  nor  the  cities  it  has  reduced  to 
ashes.  They  will  be  built  up  more  beautifully  by 
the  hands  of  freedom,  and  they  will  be  inhabited 
by  a  better  race.  All  the  arts  of  beauty  and 
pomp,  of  luxury  and  refinement,  perish  ;  costly 
monuments  that  seem  erected  for  eternity,  crumble 
in  the  dust,  and  a  mad  rage  is  permitted  to  over¬ 
turn  the  delicate  machinery  of  an  order  insti¬ 
tuted  by  the  power  of  mind  ;  but  even  in  this 
wild  tumult  the  hand  of  order  is  busy,  and  trea¬ 
sures  which  are  designed  for  coming  generations, 
are  involuntarily  saved  from  the  destructive  wrath 
of  the  present.  Gloom  is  now  spread  over  this 
wide  scene  of  conflagration,  and  the  miserable 
and  exhausted  remnant  of  its  inhabitants  has 
equally  little  resistance  and  attractions  to  offer  to 
a  new  conqueror. 

The  stage  is  cleared,  a  new  race  occupies  it, 
that  had  grown  up  quietly  and  unconsciously  in 
the  northern  forests  to  a  vigorous  colony  of  the  ex¬ 
hausted  West.  Rude  and  barbarous  are  its  laws 
and  customs  ;  but  in  their  rude  manner  they  honor 
human  nature,  which  a  despot  no  longer  honors  in 
his  refined  slaves.  Firm,  as  if  still  upon  Sabean 
ground,  and  untempted  by  the  gifts  which  are  of¬ 
fered  him  by  the  subdued  Roman,  the  Frank  re¬ 
mains  faithful  to  the  laws  that  made  him  con¬ 
queror  ;  too  proud  and  too  wise  to  accept  instru¬ 
ments  of  happiness  from  the  hands  of  the  unfor¬ 
tunate.  Upon  the  ashes  of  Roman  pomp  he 
spreads  his  nomadic  tents  ;  he  plant  his  iron  spear, 
which  is  his  highest  good,  upon  the  conquered 
soil,  in  front  of  the  tribunals  of  judges,  and 
Christianity  itself  has  to  gird  the  sword,  if  it 
desires  to  tame  the  savage  temper. 

All  foreign  hands  now  leave  the  son  of  Nature 
to  his  destiny.  The  bridges  between  Byzantium 
and  Massilia,  between  Alexandria  and  Rome,  are 
broken,  the  timid  merchant  hastens  homeward, 
and  the  land-uniting  ship  rides  dismasted  at  an¬ 
chor.  A  wilderness  of  waters  and  mountains,  a 
night  of  wild  customs,  is  rolled  before  the  gates 
of  Europe,  the  whole  continent  is  closed. 


378 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


A  long,  tedious,  arduous,  and  memorable  strug¬ 
gle  now  commences  :  the  rude  Germanic  spirit 
struggles  with  the  charms  of  a  new  sky,  with  new 
pascions,  with  the  silent  power  of  example,  with 
the  remains  of  Rome-,  which  beset  him  in  the  new 
country  with  a  thousand  snares  ;  and  woe  unto 
the  successor  of  a  Clodian  who  fancies  himself  a 
Trajanus  upon  Traja'nus’  imperial  stage.  A  thou¬ 
sand  blades  are  pointed  at  his  breast,  to  remind 
him  of  the  Scythian  wilderness.  Rudely  the  love 
of  dominion  is  met  by  freedom,  insolence  by  firm¬ 
ness  ;  cunning  seeks  to  insnare  boldness,  the 
frightful  right  of  might  returns,  and  for  centuries 
the  sword  is  seen  smoking  with  human  gore.  A 
gloomy  night  which  obscures  every  understand¬ 
ing,  is  hovering  around  Europe,  and  only  a  few 
sparks  fly  up  to  render  the  universal  darkness  still 
more  terrible.  Eternal  order  seems  to  have 
abandoned  the  helm  of  the  world,  or  at  least, 
seems  to  have  sacrificed  the  present  generation  in 
order  to  reach  a  distant  goal.  But,  inspired  with 
an  equal  share  of  maternal  affection  for  all  his 
children,  the  Eternal  Ruler  leads,  for  the  time 
being,  the  exhausted  and  the  weak  to  the  foot  of 
the  altar,  and  fortifies  the  heart  with  the  faith  of 
resignation  against  a  wretchedness  which  he  is 
unable  to  spare  them.  He  places  the  public 
morals  under  the  guardianship  of  a  barbarous 
Christianity,  allowing  the  men  of  the  middle 
ages  to  lean  on  this  feeble  crutch,  which  their 
more  vigorous  descendants  will  find  broken  into 
fragments.  But  states  and  citizens  warm  up  in 
this  long  war ;  the  German  mind  battles  vigor¬ 
ously  against  the  heart-insnaring  despotism  that 
crushed  the  Roman  who  became  prematurely  ex¬ 
hausted ;  the  fountain  of  liberty  gushes  forth  in 
living  streams,  and  unconquered  and  well  'pre¬ 
served  the  later  generations  reach  the  beautiful 
age,  where  the  united  labor  of  fortune  and  men  is 
to  marry  the  light  of  thought  with  the  firmness 
of  resolution,  intelligence  with  heroism.  While 
Rome  brought  forth  Scipios  and  Fabii,  she 
lacked  the  sages  who  could  fix  limits  to  heroic 
virtue  ;  when  the  sages  flourished,  despotism  had 
stifled  the  republic,  and  their  wisdom  was  lost  on 
the  enervated  age.  Nor  did  Grecian  virtue  con¬ 
tinue  to  the  enlightened  period  of  Pericles  and 
Alexander  ;  and  when  Harun  taught  his  Arabs  to 
think,  the  fire  of  energy  was  extinguished.  A 
better  genius  it  was  that  watched  over  young  Eu¬ 
rope.  The  wars  of  the  middle  ages  had  prepared 
a  healthy  and  vigorous  race  for  the  sixteenth  cen¬ 
tury,  and  had  brought  up  manly  champions  for 
the  reign  of  reason  which  now  unfolded  her  banner. 

In  what  other  part  of  the  earth  has  the  head 
inflamed  the  hearts,  and  has  truth*  armed  the 
arm  of  the  brave  ?  In  what  other  parts  have  ar¬ 
guments  suggested  by  reason,  become  the  ral¬ 
lying  cry  in  murderous  battles?  Where  has  the 

Or  what  was  supposed  to  be  truth.  We  need  hardly 
remark  in  this  place  that  the  main  point  was  not  the 
value  of  the  material  that  was  gained,  but  the  trouble 
caused  by  the  labor  that  was  undertaken ;  the  industry 
that  was  employed,  and  not  the  result  that  was  obtained. 
Whatever  it  was  for  which  the  battle  was  waged,  it  was 
a  battle  for  reason;  for  reason  had  enlightened  the  com¬ 
batants  concerning  their  right  to  fight,  and  for  his  right 
it  was  that  the  battle  was  really  fought. 


voice  of  self-love  been  reduced  to  silt  ice  bv  the 

* 

superior  force  of  conviction  ?  Where  has  man 
risked  his  dearest  good  to  preserve  the  nobler 
portion  of  his  soul?  The  most  exalted  efforts  of 
Grecian  and  Roman  virtue  have  never  reached 
beyond  the  range  of  civil  duties,  or  at  most  only 
in  a  single  sage,  whose  very  name  is  the  reproach 
of  his  age;  the  highest  sacrifice  which  was  made 
by  the  nation  in  the  period  of  its  heroism,  was 
made  for  the  country.  Only  at  the  close  of  the 
middle  ages,  we  see  in  Europe  an  enthusiasm  that 
sacrificed  even  the  fatherland  to  a  higher  idol  of 
the  reason.  And  why  does  this  phenomenon  oc¬ 
cur  here  only,  and  even  here  only  once  ?  Because 
it  was  only  in  Europe,  and  here  only  at  the  close 
of  the  middle  ages,  that  energy  of  the  will  coin¬ 
cided  with  the  light  of  the  understanding,  that  a 
manly  race’  was  led  into  the  arms  of  wisdom. 

Throughout  the  domain  of  history,  we  observe 
striking  inequalities  between  the  development  of 
states  and  that  of  minds.  States  are  like  annual 
plants,  that  bloom  during  a  short  summer,  and 
perish  from  an  excess  of  sap  ;  enlightenment  is  a 
plant  of  slow  growth,  which  requires  a  favorable 
sky,  a  good  deal  of  nursing,  and  a  long  series  of 
vernal  seasons,  in  order  to  reach  the  period  of 
maturity.  Whence  this  difference?  Because 
states  are  confided  to  the  government  of  passion 
that  finds  fuel  in  every  breast ;  whereas  enlighten¬ 
ment  is  the  business  of  the  understanding ,  that 
develops  itself  only  by  external  aid,  and  of  fortu¬ 
nate  discoveries,  which  are  only  slowly  accumu¬ 
lated  by  time  and  accidents.  How  often  may  the 
former  plant  blossom  and  fade  before  the  other 
begins  to  ripen?  How  improbable  it  is  that 
states  should  be  waiting  for  the  advent  of  enlight¬ 
enment,  and  the  late  reason  should  still  meet  the 
early  liberty?  Once  only  in  the  whole  course  of 
human  history,  has  Providence  undertaken  the 
solution  of  this  problem,  and  we  have  seen  how  it 
was  solved.  By  the  long  wars  of  the  middle  ages, 
the  political  life  in  Europe  was  kept  in  vigor 
until  sufficient  material  had  been  accumulated 
to  secure  the  unfolding  of  the  moral  power.* 

-x-  Freedom  and  culture,  howsoever  inseparably  united 
both  are  in  their  highest  fullness,  which  they  can  only 
reach  by  this  union,  yet  it  is  equally  difficult  to  unite 
them  during  their  period  of  growth.  Repose  is  the  con¬ 
dition  of  culture,  but  nothing  is  more  dangerous  to 
liberty  than  repose.  All  the  refined  nations  of  antiquity 
have  purchased  the  brilliancy  of  their  civilization  at  the 
price  of  freedom,  because  they  received  their  repose  from 
their  oppressors.  Civilization  became  their  ruin,  because 
it  had  arisen  from  a  ruinous  source.  If  the  new  race  of 
men  was  to  be  spared  this  sacrifice;  in  other  words,  if 
freedom  and  civilization  were  to  become  united  among 
them,  they  had  to  obtain  repose  through  an  entirely  dif¬ 
ferent  channel  than  the  channel  of  despotism.  The 
only  possible  channel  was  that  of  legality,  and  man,  in 
a  state  of  freedom,  must  be  his  own  lawgiver.  A  free 
man  will  only  enact  such  laws  as  are  conformable  to  his 
intelligence  of  their  usefulness  or  suggested  by  the  evil 
consequences  of  their  opposite.  The  former  motive  pre* 
supposed  the  existence  of  that  which  was  first  to  take 
place  and  to  be  obtained;  hence  he  can  only  be  induced 
by  the  evil  consequences  of  anarchy  to  enact  suitable 
laws.  Anarchy  is  of  short  duration,  and  by  a  speedy 
transition  leads  to  arbitrary  power.  Long  before 
reason  should  have  established  laws,  anarchy  would 
have  ended  in  despotism.  If  reason  was  to  find 


MIGRATIONS,  CRUSALES,  ETC. 


379 


In  Europe  alone  we  find  states  that  are  at  the 
same  time  enlightened,  civilized,  and  not  subjected 
to  despotism  ;  everywhere  else  barbarism  is  united 
to  freedom,  and  bondage  to  culture.  But  Europe 
alone  has  struggled  through  a  series  of  warlike 
ages,  which  were  brought  about  by  the  desolating 
destruction  in  the  fifth  and  sixth  centuries.  It  is 
not  the  blood  of  their  ancestors  or  the  character 
of  their  race  that  preserved  our  forefathers  from 
the  yoke  of  oppression,  for  their  equally  free-born 
brethren,  the  Turcomans  and  Mantchoo  have 
bent  their  necks  under  the  weight  of  despotism. 
It  is  not  the  European  soil  and  climate  that 
spared  them  this  cruel  fate,  for,  upon  the  same 
soil  and  under  the  same  sky,  Gauls  and  Bretons, 
Etrurians  and  Lusitanians  have  borne  the  yoke  of 
the  Romans.  The  merciless  sword  of  the  Van¬ 
dals  and  Huns  which  mowed  down  the  people  of 
the  West,  and  the  vigorous  race  which  came  upon 
the  stage  unconquered  after  a  thousand  years  of 
battle,  these  are  the  creators  of  our  present  hap¬ 
piness  ;  thus  it  is  that  we  trace  the  spirit  of  order 
in  the  two  most  terrible  events  recorded  in  his¬ 
tory.  i 

I  believe  it  unnecessary  to  apologize  for  this 
long  digression.  The  great  epochs  of  history  are 
too  closely  united  to  make  the  explanation  of  one 
without  the  other  possible  ;  the  crusades  begin  the 
solution  of  a  problem  which  the  migration  of  the 
nations  had  set  before  the  philosophical  student 
of  history. 

It  was  in  the  thirteenth  century  that  the  Genius 
of  the  world,  who  had  been  perfecting  his  crea¬ 
tions  in  the  dark,  removed  the  curtain  in  order  to 
show  us  a  portion  of  his  work.  The  gloomy  mist 
with  which  the  European  sky  had  been  overcast 
for  a  thousand  years,  now  began  to  scatter,  and  a 
clear  sky  showed  itself.  The  combined  wretched¬ 
ness  of  ecclesiastical  uniformity ,  and  political  dis¬ 
cord,  of  the  hierarchy  of  the  church,  and  the 
feudal  institutions,  having  reached  the  climax  of 
its  desolations  at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century, 
had  to  prepare  its  own  grave  in  the  tumult  of  the 
holy  wars. 

A  fanatical  zeal  bursts  the  closed  West,  and  the 
full-grown  son  steps  out  of  the  paternal  abode, 
lie  meets  new  people,  rejoices  in  his  liberty  and 
courage  on  the  Bosphorus,  blushes  in  Byzantium 
at  his  rudeness,  his  barbarism  and  ignorance,  and 
in  Asia  is  startled  by  his  poverty.  The  annals  of 
Europe  relate  to  us  what  he  there  took  and  brought 
home;  if  we  possessed  a  history  of  the  orient,  it 
would  inform  us  what  he  paid  and  left  behind  as  a 
compensation.  Does  it  not  seem  as  though  the  he¬ 
roic  spirit  of  the  Franks  had  breathed  a  passing 
life  into  dying  Byzantium  ?  Unexpectedly  it  makes 
a  new  effort  under  its  Comneni,  and,  fortified  by 
the  short  visit  of  the  Germans,  it  perished  with  a 
noble  spirit. 

At  the  crusader’s  back,  the  merchant  recon¬ 
structs  his  bridge,  and  prudent  commerce  fortifies 
and-  perpetuates  the  bond  between  the  East  and 
the  West,  which  a  warlike  enthusiasm  had  hastily 
restored.  The  Levantine  ship  again  greets  her 

time  for  the  establishment  of  laws,  the  period  of  anarchy 
had  to  be  jjrvlomjed,  which  actually  took  place  in  the 

l^vidle  ages. 


familiar  waters,  and  her  rich  cargo  invites  the  in¬ 
dustry  of  Europe.  Soon  she  will  be  able  to  do 
without  the  uncertain  guidance  of  Arcturus,  and, 
led  on  by  the  more  reliable  needle,  will  boldly  and 
confidently  trust  herself  to  unknown  seas. 

The  European  brings  Asiatic  customs  back  to 
his  home ;  but  here  his  forests  no  longer  know 
him  ;  other  flags  are  waving  from  his  castles. 
Impoverishing  himself  in  his  own  country,  in  or¬ 
der  to  shine  on  the  shores  of  the  Euphrates,  he 
finally  abandons  the  adored  idol  of  his  indepen¬ 
dence  and  his  hostile  rule,  and  permits  his  serfs  to 
redeem  themselves  for  gold.  Voluntarily  he  offers 
his  arm  to  the  bonds  that  adorn  him,  and  tame 
him  who  had  been  indomitable.  The  majesty  of 
kings  becomes  more  exalted  from  the  moment  that 
the  slaves  of  the  field  are  elevated  to  the  rank 
of  men;  a  new  and  fruitful  country,  the  institu¬ 
tion  of  citizenship,  is  saved  from  the  ocean  of  de¬ 
vastation  and  misery. 

He  alone  who  had  been  the  soul  of  the  enter¬ 
prise,  and  had  caused  the  whole  of  Christianity  to 
work  for  his  greatness,  the  Romish  hierarch,  sees 
his  hopes  disappointed.  Grasping  at  a  phantom 
in  the  East,  he  sacrificed  a  crown  in  the  West 
The  weakness  of  kings  was  his  strength  ;  anarchy 
and  civil  wars  the  arsenal  where  he  obtained  his 
thunder-bolts.  Even  now  he  continues  to  hurl 
them,  but  now  he  is  opposed  by  the  fortified  power 
of  the  kings.  No  excommunication,  no  heaven 
barring  interdict,  no  praise  of  consecrated  duties, 
is  again  able  to  sever  the  bonds  that  unite  the 
subject  to  his  legitimate  ruler.  In  vain  his  im¬ 
potent  wrath  struggles  against  the  age  that  built 
up  his  throne  and  now  drags  him  from  its  lofty 
height !  Superstition  had  engendered  this  phan¬ 
tom  of  the  middle-ages,  and  discord  had  fed  it. 
Though  it  stood  upon  feeble  ground,  yet  it  started 
up  rapidly  and  terribly  in  the  eleventh  century ; 
no  eye  had  seen  its  like.  On  beholding  this  enemy 
of  the  holiest  freedom,  who  would  have  suspected 
that  he  was  sent  to  assist  it  ?  When  the  struggle 
between  kings  and  their  nobles  broke  out,  the 
Romish  hierarch  threw  himself  between  the  un¬ 
equal  combatants,  arresting  the  dangerous  deci¬ 
sion,  until  a  better  champioh  arose  in  the  third 
estate,  who  put  down  this  creature  of  the  moment. 
Fattened  by  confusion,  he  now  wastes  away  under 
the  new  regime  of  order  ;  an  offspring  of  the 
night,  he  vanishes  in  the  light  of  day.  Did  the 
dictator  disappear  who  hastened  to  Rome’s  as¬ 
sistance  against  Pompey  ?  Or  Pisistratus  who 
put  down  the  factions  in  Athens?  Rome  and 
Athens  were  plunged  into  bondage  by  their  civil 
wars,  the  new  Europe  was  raised  by  them  to  free¬ 
dom.  Why  was  Europe  more  fortunate  ?  Because 
here  an  evanescent  phantom  effected  that  which 
was  achieved  by  a  permanent  power  in  those  re¬ 
publics  ;  because  here  an  arm  was  found  suffi¬ 
ciently  powerful  to  arrest  oppression,  but  too 
weak  to  practice  it. 

How  differently  does  man  sow,  and  how  differ¬ 
ent  is  the  harvest  he  reaps  !  To  bind  Asia  to  his 
foot-stool,  the  Holy  Father  sacrifices  a  million  of 
his  heroic  sons  to  the  sword  of  the  Saracens,  but 
|  with  them  he  loses  the  most  powerful  supporters 
;  of  his  See.  The  nobles  dream  of  new  pretensions, 

|  and  new  crowns,  whereas  they  bring  back  more 


sso 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


obedieni  hearts  before  the  thrones  of  their  rulers. 
Forgiveness  of  sins  and  the  joys  of  paradise  are 
sought  by  the  pious  pilgrim  at  the  holy  sephulchre, 
and  to  him  alone  more  is  given  than  was  promised. 
He  finds  Ins  humanity  back  again  in  Asia,  and 
from  this  continent  he  brings  back  the  seed  of 
liberty  to  his  oppressed  brethren, — an  infinitely 
more  important  acquisition  than  the  keys  of  Jeru¬ 
salem,  or  the  nails  of  the  Redeemer’s  cross. 


SURVEY  OF  THE  CONDITION  OF  EUROPE 

AT  THE  TIME  OF  THE  FIRST  CRUSADE. 

A  FRAGMENT.* 

In  the  eleventh  century,  the  West  of  Europe, 
although  cut  up  into  a  number  of  states,  affords  a 
very  uniform  spectacle.  Taken  possession  of  by 
nations  that  stood  upon  the  same  level  of  culture 
at  the  time  they  made  their  conquests,  that  be¬ 
longed  to  the  same  race  of  men,  and  lived  in  the 
same  circumstances,  it  would  have  been  necessary 
that  the  western  countries  should  have  offered  a 
great  variety  of  soil  and  climate  to  the  new 
settlers,  if,  in  the  course  of  time,  important  dis¬ 
tinctions  were  to  develop  themselves  among  them. 

But  the  fury  of  desolation  which  marked  the 
conquests  of  these  nations,  reduced  to  the  same 
level  all  the  countries  that  were  the  theatre  of 
their  exploits,  no  matter  what  people  inhabited 
them,  or  what  a  degree  and  extent  of  culture  they 
had  reached  ;  for  the  conquerors  trampled  down 
and  extirpated  whatever  they  found,  and  realized 
a  condition  of  things  which  changed  the  aspect  of 
the  conquered  provinces  so  completely,  that  every 
trace  of  their  past  development  had  been  utterly 
wiped  out.  Although  the  climate,  the  condition 
of  the  soil,  neighborhood  and  geographical  posi¬ 
tion,  preserved  a  certain  distinction  ;  although  the 
remaining  traces  of  Roman  civilization  in  the 
southern  countries,  the  influence  of  the  cultivated 
Arabs  in  the  southwestern,  the  seat  of  the  hie¬ 
rarchy  in  Italy,  and  the  frequent  intercourse  with 
the  Greeks  in  the  same  country,  could  not  fail  to 
exercise  some  influence  upon  their  inhabitants, 
yet  these  causes  acted  too  imperceptibly,  too 
slowly,  and  too  feebly,  to  extinguish,  or  to  effect 
perceptible  changes  in,  the  character  of  the 
nations  that  settled  in  these  new  homes.  Hence 
it  is  that  the  historian  discovers  in  the  remotest 
corners  of  Europe,  in  Sicily  and  Britannia,  on  the 
Danube  and  Eider,  on  the  Ebro  and  Elbe,  a  general 
uniformity  of  constitution  and  customs,  which  is 
the  more  remarkable  since  it  co-exists  with  the 
greatest  independence,  and  an  almost  entire 
absence  of  mutual  intercourse.  In  spite  of  the 
centuries  that  have  passed  over  the  heads  of  these 
nations  ;  in  spite  of  the  changes  which  so  many  new 
situations,  a  new  religion,  new  languages,  new 
arts,  new  objects  of  desire,  new  comforts  and  luxu¬ 
ries,  must  have  occasioned  in  their  internal  condi- 

*  This  Essay  was  published  in  the  first  volume  of  tho 
Historical  Memoir,  but  was  discontinued  on  account  of 
the  sickness  with  which  the  author  was  afflicted  at  that 
time. 


tion,  yet  the  same  social  structure  that  was 
erected  by  their  forefathers,  has  still  been  pre¬ 
served  in  its  main  features.  To  this  day,  they 
have  preserved  their  wild  independence  which  they 
enjoyed  in  their  Scythian  country,  and  have  ex¬ 
tended  throughout  the  European  provinces  like  a 
vast  camp,  prepared  for  attack  or  defense ;  even 
to  this  vast  political  arena  they  have  transferred 
their  political  system,  carrying  their  northern 
superstition  to  the  very  bosom  of  Christianity. 

Monarchies,  after  the  Roman  or  Asiatic  model, 
and  republics  fashioned  after  the  Grecian  style, 
have  disappeared  alike  from  the  political  stage. 
In  their  places,  we  see  military  aristocracies,  mon¬ 
archies  without  obedience,  republics  without 
safety,  and  even  without  liberty,  large  states  cut 
up  into  a  hundred  smaller  opes,  without  any  internal 
agreement,  without  external  firmness  and  protec¬ 
tion,  badly  cohering  in  their  own  elements,  and 
still  more  feebly  among  each  other.  There  are 
kings ,  a  contradictory  mixture  of  barbaric  lead¬ 
ers  and  Roman  emperors,  which  latter  title  is 
conferred  upon  one  of  those  kings,  without,  how¬ 
ever,  conferring  the  ancient  power ;  there  are 
magnates,  everywhere  the  same  as  regards  actual 
power  and  pretensions,  although  they  are  differ¬ 
ently  named  in  different  countries  ;  priests,  issuing 
orders  sword  in  hand ;  a  militia  of  the  state,  yet 
not  controlled  or  paid  by  the  state  ;  finally,  serfs 
belonging  to  the  soil  that  is  not  owned  by  them  ; 
nobility  and  clergy,  partial  freemen  and  serfs. 
Municipalities  and  free  citizens  have  not  yet  arisen. 

In  order  to  explain  this  altered  form  of  European 
states,  we  have  to  go  back  to  remote  periods,  and 
trace  their  origin. 

When  the  northern  nations  took  possession  of 
Germany  and  the  Roman  empire,  they  were  com¬ 
posed  of  none  but  freemen,  who  had  voluntarily 
joined  the  alliance  that  went  in  search  of  con¬ 
quests,  and  who,  sharing  alike  the  labors  and 
dangers  of  the  war,  had  a  like  title  to  the  lands 
that  were  to  be  the  rewards  of  the  campaign. 
Single  bands  obeyed  the  orders  of  a  chieftain  ; 
many  chieftains  and  their  bands  obeyed  a  general 
or  prince,  who  led  the  army.  Though  equally  free, 
there  were  three  distinct  orders  or  classes,  and  it 
was  in  accordance  with  this  classification,  or  per¬ 
haps  proportionately  to  the  bravery  shown  in 
battle,  that  the  conquered  lands  and  men  were 
distributed.  Each  freeman  had  his  share ;  the 
captain’s  share  was  larger  ;  the  general  had  the 
largest  portion  :  but  the  lands  remained  free,  like 
those  who  owned  them ;  what  was  allotted  to  one, 
remained  his  forever,  and  with  complete  independ¬ 
ence.  It  was  the  reward  of  his  labor,  and  the  ser¬ 
vice  that  entitled  him  to  it,  had  already  been  per¬ 
formed. 

The  sword  had  to  defend  what  the  sword  had 
conquered  ;  and  a  single  man  was  as  incapable  of 
protecting  the  conquered  property  as  he  would 
have  been  incapable  of  acquiring  it  alone.  The 
warlike  league  must  therefore  hold  together,  even 
in  peace  ;  the  captains  and  generals  remained  in 
command,  and  the  accidental  and  temporary 
league  of  bands  now  became  an  organized  nation 
of  settlers,  ready  for  battle  in  case  of  need,  as 
they  had  been  at  the  time  of  their  warlike  inva¬ 
sion. 


EUROPE  DURING  THE  FIRST  CRUSADE. 


881 


The  possession  of  lands  was  attended  with  an 
inseparable  obligation  of  submitting  to  the  army - 
ban ,  *n  other  words,  of  joining  the  general  league 
which  defended  the  whole,  provided  with  an  equip¬ 
ment,  and  accompanied  by  a  number  of  followers 
proportionate  to  the  extent  of  the  lands  he 
possessed  ;  an  obligation  that  was  agreeable  and 
honorable  rather  than  oppressive,  because  it  was 
conformable  to  the  warlike  inclinations  of  these 
nations,  and  was  attended  with  important  advan¬ 
tages.  A  landed  estate  and  a  sword,  a  freeman  and 
his  lance,  were  considered  inseparable.  When 
first  taken  possession  of,  the  conquered  lands  were 
no  wilderness.  Howsoever  cruelly  the  sword  of 
these  barbarous  conquerors,  and  of  their  prede¬ 
cessors,  the  Vandals  and  Huns,  had  raged  among 
the  inhabitants,  yet  it.  had  been  impossible  to 
extirpate  them  entirely.  Many  of  them  were 
comprehended  in  the  distribution  of  booty  and 
lands,  and  it  was  their  fate  now  to  cultivate,  in  the 
capacity  of  serfs,  the  fields  they  had  formerly 
owned  as  masters.  The  same  lot  fell  upon  the 
large  number  of  prisoners  whom  the  conquering 
bands  had  taken  on  their  expeditions,  and  now 
carried  off  as  serfs.  The  state  now  was  composed 
of  freemen  and  slaves,  of  owners  and  owned. 
This  second  class  owned  no  property,  and  conse¬ 
quently  had  none  to  protect ;  for  this  reason  it 
never  carried  a  sword  ;  it  had  no  vote  in  political 
meetings.  The  sword  ennobled,  because  it  symbol¬ 
ized  liberty  and  property. 

The  distribution  of  lands  resulted  unequally, 
because  it  was  decided  by  lot,  and  because  the 
captain  had  obtained  a  larger  portion  than  the 
common  man,  the  general  a  larger  portion  than 
the  rest.  Hence  his  income  was  larger  than  he 
needed  ;  he  had  an  abundance  which  he  might  em¬ 
ploy  for  the  gratification  of  his  sensual  delights. 
The  highest  ambition  in  those  times  consisted  in 
being  accompanied  by  select  bands,  and  in  being 
feared  by  the  neighbor  ;  a  numerous  band  of  war¬ 
like  followers  was  the  most  magnificent  exhibition 
of  wealth  and  power,  and  the  most  infallible  means 
of  increasing  both.  The  excess  of  land  could  not 
be  invested  more  profitably  than  in  purchasing 
warlike  companions  capable  of  spreading  a  halo 
around  their  leader,  of  helping  him  to  defend  his 
own,  of  avenging  his  insults,  and  in  fighting  by  his 
side  in  battle.  For  this  reason  the  captain  and 
the  prince  alienated  certain  pieces  of  land,  and 
ceded  the  usufruct  thereof  to  less  opulent  owners 
of  estates,  who  had  to  bind  themselves  in  return  to 
certain  warlike  services  that  had  nothing  to  do 
.  with  the  defense  of  the  state,  and  only  concerned 
the  person  of  the  lending  owner.  If  the  latter 
was  no  longer  in  need  of  such  services,  or  if  the 
recipient  was  no  longer  able  to  render  them,  the 
usufruct  of  the  lands  ceased.  This  system  of  lend- 

#  t/ 

ing  lands  was  conditional  and  changeable,  a  mutual 
agreement,  made  either  for  a  fixed  number  of  years, 
or  for  life,  and  ending  at  death.  A  piece  of  property 
lent  in  this  way  was  termed  a  benefice  ( beneficium ) 
in  contradistinction  to  free  property  (allodium), 
which  was  not  possessed  through  the  bounty  of 
another  person,  under  certain  conditions  or  for  a 
time,  but  by  right,  without  any  other  obligation 
than  the  army-ban,  and  forever.  In  the  Latin  of 
those  times,  such  a  benefice  was  termed  feud  urn, 


perhaps  because  the  recipient  had  to  render  faith 
( fidem )  to  the  lender  in  return  for  the  land  ;  in 
German  lehen  (borrowed  land),  because  the  land 
was  lent,  not  given  in  perpetuity.  Every  one  who 
owned  property  had  a  right  to  lend  it ;  the  rela¬ 
tion  of  feudal  lords  and  vassals  was  not  suspended 
by  any  other  agreement.  Even  kings  were  in¬ 
vested  with  land  by  their  subjects.  Such  bor¬ 
rowed  land  might  be  lent  further,  and  the  vassal 
of  one  might  be  the  feudal  lord  of  another,  but 
the  supreme  feudal  authority  of  the  first  lender  ex¬ 
tended  throughout  the  whole  line  of  vassals,  were 
it  ever  so  long.  No  serf,  for  instance,  could  be 
manumitted  by  his  immediate  feudal  chief,  unless 
the  supreme  feudal  lord  gave  his  consent. 

The  ecclesiastical  government  of  the  Christian 
church  having  been  introduced,  together  with 
Christianity,  among  the  new  European  nations, 
the  bishops,  the  deans  and  the  cloisters  soon  foupd 
means  to  operate  upon  the  superstition  of  the 
masses  and  the  generosity  of  kings.  Rich  dona¬ 
tions  were  made  to  the  churches,  and  the  vastest 
estates  were  sometimes  cut  up  for  the  purpose  of 
numbering  the  saint  of  some  cloister  among  one’s 
heirs.  It  was  firmly  believed  that,  by  making  a 
present  to  God’s  servants,  the  present  was  made 
to  God  himself ;  but  he  too  had  to  submit  to  the 
obligation  that  was  coupled  with  the  possession 
of  landed  estate  in  every  instance ;  like  every 
other  vassal  he  had  to  furnish  his  quota  of  men  in 
case  he  was  summoned  to  do  so,  and  the  worldly 
rulers  demanded  that  the  first  in  rank  should 
likewise  be  the  first  on  the  spot.  Since  every 
thing  that  was  given  to  the  church  was  ceded  to 
it  forever  and  irrevocably,  the  estates  of  the 
church  were  distinguished  from  common  fiefs  that 
were  only  granted  for  a  certain  period,  after  the 
lapse  of  which  they  were  to  return  to  the  lender. 
On  the  other  hand  they  partook  of  the  character  of 
common  fiefs  in  this,  that  they  were  not  trans¬ 
mitted  from  father  to  son  like  allodial  estates,  be¬ 
cause  the  sovereign  intervened  at  the  decease  of 
the  present  owner,  and  exercised  his  sovereign  au¬ 
thority  by  the  investiture  of  the  new  bishop.  It 
might  therefore  be  said  that  the  estates  of  the 
church  were  allodial  property  as  far  as  the  estates 
themselves  were  concerned,  which  never  went  back 
to  the  original  lender,  and  benefices  with  regard 
to  the  actual  owner,  who  was  not  hereditary  but 
elective.  He  obtained  the  estate  as  a  fief,  and 
owned  it  as  allodial  property. 

There  was  a  fourth  kind  of  property  that  was 
received  as  a  fief,  and  which  involved  feudal  ob¬ 
ligations.  The  army-leader,  who  may  now  be 
called  a  king,  upon  his  permanent  soil,  had  a  right 
to  appoint  chiefs  for  the  people,  to  settle  disputes, 
to  commission  judges,  and  to  maintain  public  order 
and  tranquillity.  He  retained  this  right  and  this 
duty  even  in  peace,  after  hehad  effected  his  conquest, 
because  the  nation  kept  up  its  warlike  organiza¬ 
tion.  He  therefore  appointed  captains  over  the 
provinces,  whose  business  it  was  at  the  same  time 
to  lead  the  armed  force  furnished  by  his  pro¬ 
vince  for  warlike  purposes  ;  and,  inasmuch  as  he 
could  not  be  present  everywhere  for  the  purpose 
of  settling  disputes  and  pronouncing  sentence, 
hehad  to  appoint  representatives  in  the  various 
districts,  who  executed  the  supreme  judicial  power 


382 


MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 


in  his  name.  He  appointed  dukes  over  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  margraves  over  the  border-districts,  counts 
over  the  counties  or  Gauen,  cent-graves  over 
smaller  districts,  and  so  forth,  and  these  offices 
were  distributed  upon  the  same  terms  as  feudal 
property.  They  were  as  little  hereditary  as  feudal 
estates,  and,  like  these,  could  be  transferred  by 
the  sovereign  from  one  person  to  another.  Not 
only  offices,  but  certain  revenues,  such  as  fines, 
duties,  and  the  like,  were  granted  as  fiefs. 

What  the  king  did  in  the  Empire,  that  was  done 
by  the  high  clergy  in  their  domain.  The  posses¬ 
sion  of  lands  obliged  them  to  warlike  and  judi¬ 
cial  functions  that  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
dignity  and  purity  of  the  ecclesiastical  vocation. 
Hence  they  were  forced  to  transfer  these  duties 
to  other  parties  who  were  invested,  in  return  for 
such  services,  with  the  usufruct  of  certain  landed 
property,  judicial  fines  and  other  revenues.  An 
archbishop,  bishop,  or  abbot,  was  in  his  domain, 
that  which  the  king  was  in  the  state.  He  held 
advocates  or  bailiffs,  officers  and  vassals,  tribu¬ 
nals  and  a  treasury;  even  kings  did  not  deem  it 
beneath  their  dignity  to  become  the  vassals  of 
their  bishops  and  prelates  who  did  not  fail  to 
point  this  out  as  an  advantage  which  the  clergy 
had  a  right  to  claim  over  the  worldly  authority. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  the  popes  did  not  hesitate  to 
designate  the  man  whom  they  had  crowned  as 
Emperor,  as  their  lieutenant.  By  keeping  the 
double  relation  of  kings  as  barons  and  as  chiefs 
of  the  Empire  steadily  in  view,  these  apparent 
contradictions  can  easily  be  reconciled. 

The  dukes,  margraves,  and  counts,  whom  the 
king  appointed  as  military  chieftains  and  judges 
of  the  provinces,  required  a  certain  amount  of 
military  power,  in  order  to  be  prepared  for  the 
external  defense  of  the  provinces,  in  order  to 
maintain  their  authority  against  the  unruly  spirit 
of  the  barons,  and  enforce  obedience  to  their  laws 
and  submission  to  their  judicial  verdicts  by'force 
of  arms,  if  necessary.  With  the  office  itself  no 
power  was  granted  ;  the  royal  officer  had  to  ob¬ 
tain  this  by  such  means  as  he  could  make  avail¬ 
able.  On  this  account,  the  less  opulent  freemen 
remained  excluded  from  such  offices  as  became 
the  exclusive  property  of  a  small  number  of  high 
barons  who  owned  a  sufficient  amount  of  allodial 
estates,  and  could  equip  a  sufficient  number  of 
vassals  to  maintain  themselves  with  their  own 
means.  This  was  especially  necessary  in  border- 
countries,  or  in  countries  where  a  powerful  and 
warlike  nobility  resided.  It  became  more  neces¬ 
sary  from  year  to  year,  in  proportion  as  the  decay 
of.  the  royal  authority  led  to  anarchy,  private 
feuds  became  prevalent,  and  the  love  of  pillage 
was  encouraged  by  lawlessness  ;  hence  the  clergy 
who  were  principally  exposed  to  these  robberies, 
looked  for  their  vassals  and  warlike  guardians 
among  the  more  powerful  barons.  The  high  vas¬ 
sals  of  the  crown  were  at  the  same  time  rich  ba¬ 
rons  or  owners  of  land,  and  had  vassals  under 
them,  whose  arm  they  could  depend  upon.  They 
were  vassals  of  the  crown,  and  feudal  lords  of 
their  own  under-vassals;  the  former  relation  made 
them  dependent,  whereas  the  latter  excited  in 
them  the  spirit  of  arbitrary  power.  Upon  their 
estates  they  ruled  like  sovereign  princes  ;  but  by 


their  feudal  relations  their  hands  were  tied  ;  the 
former  were  transmitted  from  father  to  son,  the 
latter  went  back  to  the  feudal  lord  at  the  death 
of  their  occupant.  Such  a  contradictory  relation 
could  not  last  long.  The  powerful  crown-vassal 
soon  showed  a  disposition  to  convert  the  fief  into 
allodial  property,  to  rule  with  unlimited  power 
on  his  own  estates,  as  well  as  on  his  feudal  do¬ 
main,  and  to  secure  its  possession  to  his  descen¬ 
dants  by  the  legitimate  right  of  inheritance.  In¬ 
stead  of  representing  the  king  in  the  duchy  or 
county,  he  aimed  at  representing  himself,  and  he 
had  dangerous  means  at  hand  to  accomplish  his 
purpose.  The  very  resources  which  he  obtained 
from  his  allodial  estates  ;  the  warlike  army  of 
vassals  that  he  was  able  to  muster,  and  which 
enabled  him  to  serve  the  crown,  made  him  both 
a  dangerous  and  unsafe  instrument  of  its  power. 
If  he  possessed  many  allodial  estates  in  the  pro¬ 
vince  which  he  held  as  a  fief,  or  where  he  filled 
judicial  functions  (from  which  cause  the  fief  had 
been  chiefly  granted  to  him),  the  largest  number 
of  freemen  who  resided  in  this  province,  generally 
were  his  dependents.  Either  they  held  land  from 
him  in  fief,  or  else  they  had  to  connive  at  his 
doings  lest  this  powerful  neighbor  should  become 
dangerous  to  them.  As  a  judge  of  their  dis¬ 
putes,  he  frequently  controled  their  prosperity, 
and  as  the  king’s  governor  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  either  oppress  or  relieve  them.  If  the  kings 
omitted  to  remind  the  people,  by  which  name  we 
always  have  to  understand  the  arm-bearing  free¬ 
men  and  the  inferior  owners  of  estates,  of  their 
authority  by  frequent  journeys  through  the  pro¬ 
vinces,  by  the  exercise  of  their  supreme  judicial 
power  and  other  means  ;  or  if  they  were  pre¬ 
vented  by  enterprises  out  of  the  empire,  how  could 
it  be  otherwise  than  that  the  high  barons  should 
finally  appear  to  the  inferior  freemen  as  the  only 
hand  from  which  they  might  expect  punishments 
or  rewards ;  and,  inasmuch  as  in  every  system 
where  subordination  is  a  characteristic  feature, 
the  nearest  apprehension  is  felt  most  keenly,  the 
high  nobility  could  not  fail  soon  to  acquire  over 
the  lower  an  influence  that  must  place  the  whole 
power  of  the  latter  at  the  disposal  of  the  former. 
Hence,  in  case  of  a  dispute  between  the  king  and 
his  vassal,  the  latter  might  depend  much  more 
certainly  upon  the  assistance  of  his  under-vassals 
than  the  king,  and  this  advantage  enabled  him  to 
bid  defiance  to  the  crown.  Now  it  was  too  late, 
or  too  dangerous  to  snatch  the  fief  from  him  or 
from  his  heir,  since  he  might  have  defended  it,  in 
case  of  need,  with  all  the  power  of  the  province; 
and  thus  the  monarch  had  to  be  content,  if  the 
two  powerful  vassals  still  left  him  the  shadow  of 
the  supreme  feudal  authority,  and  condescended 
to  receive  the  investiture  of  an  estate  that  he 
had  appropriated  to  himself  by  his  own  power. 
All  that  has  been  said  here  of  the  crown-vassals, 
is  likewise  applicable  to  the  officers  and  vassals 
of  the  clergy  who  occupied  the  same  position  as 
the  kings  in  this,  that  powerful  barons  held  feudal 
property  under  them. 

In  this  way  offices  obtained  by  investiture,  and 
feudal  estates,  wrere  gradually  converted  into  he¬ 
reditary  possessions,  and  vassals  were  distin* 
guished  from  real  owners  only  by  the  appearance 


AGE  OF  FREDERICK  I. 


SS3 


of  vassalage,  the  semblance  of  which  alone  re¬ 
mained.  Many  feudal  estates  and  offices  became 
hereditary  for  the  reason  that  the  causes  which 
had  induced  the  investiture  of  the  father,  still 
continued  with  the  son  and  grandson.  If  the 
German  king  invested  a  Saxon  magnate  with  the 
Duchy  of  Saxony,  because  he  owned  a  number  of 
allodial  estates  in  this  province  and  was  especially 
able  to  protect  it,  the  same  reason  applied  to  the 
son  of  the  magnate  who  inherited  those  estates. 
If  this  succession  had  been  repeated  a  number  of 
times,  it  became  a  custom  which  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  overturn  without  an  extraordinary 
occasion,  or  without  the  use  of  force.  Even  at 
later  periods,  it  is  true,  such  fiefs  were  taken 
back,  but  from  the  manner  in  which  this  is  related 
by  historians,  we  have  a  right  to  infer  that  such 
acts  were  exceptions  rather  than  the  rule.  It 
should  be  added,  that  this  change  took  place  in 
different  countries  sooner  or  later,  more  or  less 
universally. 

After  the  fiefs  had  been  converted  into  heredi¬ 
tary  possessions,  the  relation  of  the  sovereign  to 
the  nobility  underwent  material  changes.  As 
long  as  the  sovereign  could  take  back  the  fief  in 
order  to  grant  it  again  to  whomsoever  he  pleased, 
the  inferior  nobility  was  frequently  reminded  of 
the  throne,  and  he  was  less  firmly  attached  to  his 
immediate  liege,  because  the  monarch’s  arbitrary 
power  and  the  death  of  the  liege  might  sever  the 
bond  at  any  time.  But  as  soon  as  the  hereditary 
character  of  the  fief  became  an  established  fact, 
the  vassal  saw  that  he  was  working  for  his  own 
descendants  by  attaching  himself  firmly  to  his 
liege-lord.  As  the  bond  between  the  powerful 
vassals  and  the  crown  became  relaxed  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  fiefs  becoming  hereditary,  so  it  be¬ 
came  more  firmly  established  between  the  vassals 
and  their  tenants.  Finally,  the  only  bond  be¬ 
tween  the  large  fiefs  and  the  crown,  was  the  per¬ 
son  of  the  crown-vassal,  who  very  frequently  had 
to  be  asked  a  number  of  times  before  he  showed 
himself  willing  to  render  the  services  which  his 
office  bound  him  to  discharge. 


GENERAL  SURVEY 

OF  THE 

MOST  MEMORABLE  POLITICAL  EVENTS 

AT  THE  TIME  OF  FREDERICK  L* 

The  violent  struggles  of  the  empire  against  the 
church,  which  rendered  the  reigns  of  Henry  IV. 
and  V.  so  stormy,  had  finally,  in  the  year  1122, 
terminated  in  a  passing  peace.  The  compact 
which  Henry  V.  had  concluded  with  Pope  Calix- 
tus  IT.  seemed  to  have  extinguished  the  smoul¬ 
dering  fire  which  some  unforeseen  event  might 
again  have  fanned  into  a  flame.  Through  the 
consistent  policy  of  Gregory  VII.  and  his  suc¬ 
cessors,  ecclesiastical  and  temporal  interests  had 

*  This  Essay  may  be  found,  unfinished,  in  the  third 
volume  of  the  Historical  Memoirs,  first  division.  The 
subject  was  not  continued,  in  consequence  of  the  illness 
of  which  the  auihor  was  suffering  at  that  lime. 


become  perfectly  distinct  from  each  other,  and 
the  church  formed  within  the  state  a  separate  and 
even  hostile  system.  Even  the  precious  right  of  * 
the  throne  to  reward  deserving  servants  by  con¬ 
ferring  upon  them  the  episcopal  dignity,  and  to 
attach  them  by  such  distinctions  to  their  own 
persons  as  friends,  had  been  lost  by  the  emperors, 
even  in  appearance,  in  consequence  of  the  elec¬ 
tive  franchises  granted  by  the  emperors.  No¬ 
thing  remained  to  them  of  this  precious  privilege 
except  to  invest  the  bishop  elect,  previous  to  his 
consecration,  with  his  temporal  dignity,  by  means 
of  the  sceptre.  The  ring  and  crosier,  the  conse¬ 
crated  emblems  of  the  episcopal  office,  must  no 
longer  be  touched  by  the  unchaste  and  blood¬ 
stained  hand  of  a  layman.  It  was  only  when  the 
chapter  could  not  agree  upon  the  election  of  a 
bishop,  that  the  emperors  still  reserved  to  them¬ 
selves  the  exercise  of  their  power,  and  the  dis¬ 
agreements  of  the  electors  afforded  them  frequent 
opportunities  to  do  so.  But  even  this  scanty  rem¬ 
nant  of  imperial  power  was  a  stumbling-block  to 
the  ambition  of  the  popes,  and  the  servant  of  the 
servants  of  God  made  it  his  most  important  busi¬ 
ness  to  degrade  by  his  side  the  Lord  of  the  world 
as  deeply  as  possible. 

The  most  dangerous  position  in  the  Christian 
church  was  undoubtedly  the  throne  of  Germany  ; 
against  this  institution  the  papal  power  con¬ 
tended  with  all  the  thunders  it  could  dispose  of, 
with  all  the  snares  of  its  secret  policy.  The  con¬ 
stitution  of  Germany  facilitated  the  pope’s  triumph 
over  the  emperor,  which  became  all  the  more 
brilliant  the  more  effulgent  the  imperial  dignity 
had  become.  Every  German  prince  who  had 
been  elected,  to  the  throne  of  Germany,  became 
the  pope’s  enemy  on  this  very  account.  He 
might  have  looked  upon  himself  as  a  victim 
adorned  to  die.  With  the  imperial  purple  he  had 
to  assume  duties  that  were  incompatible  with  the 
pope’s  plan  of  aggrandizing  himself,  and  upon 
whose  fulfillment  he  staked  his  imperial  honor 
and  his  authority  in  the  empire.  His  imperial 
dignity  imposed  upon  him  the  duty  of  maintain¬ 
ing  his  dominion  over  Italy,  and  even  within  the 
walls  of  Rome  ;  in  Italy  the  pope  was  unwilling 
to  tolerate  a  master,  the  Italians  rejected  equally 
foreign  as  well  as.priestly  power.  He  had  there¬ 
fore  to  choose  between  sacrificing  the  privileges 
of  the  imperial  throne,  or  battling  against  the 
pope,  and  renouncing  peace  to  the  last  day  of  his 
life. 

It  is  worth  our  while  to  inquire  why  even  the 
most  politic  emperors  so  obstinately  insisted 
upon  enforcing  the  claims  of  Germany  upon  Italy, 
notwithstanding  it  had  become  evident  by  abun¬ 
dant  experience  that  the  trifling  benefit  did  not 
justify  the  extraordinary  sacrifices  ;  notwith¬ 
standing  every  Italian  expedition  was  impeded 
by  the  Germans  themselves,  and  the  worthless 
crowns  of  Lombardy  and  the  empire  had  to  be 
acquired  at  such  an  enormous  price.  The  uniform¬ 
ity  of  this  conduct  cannot  be  satisfactorily  ac¬ 
counted  for  upon  the  score  of  ambition  ;  very 
probably  the  recognition  of  their  authority  by 
the  Italians  had  a  marked  influence  upon  their 
authority  in  Germany,  and  they  may  have  need¬ 
ed  this  moral  assistance  when  they  ascended 


384 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  throne  by  election,  without  being  supported 
by  hereditary  right.  Be  the  profits  what  they 
would,  the  income  from  the  conquered  provinces 
was  scarcely  sufficient  to  meet  the  expenses  of 
the  expedition,  and  these  sources  of  revenue 
ceased  as  soon  as  the  sword  was  returned  to  the 
scabbard. 

Ten  elgftors,  who  now  for  the  first  time  were 
constituted  a  special  committee  among  the  princes 
of  the  empire,  met  after  the  demise  of  Henry  V., 
for  the  purpose  of  electing  an  emperor.  Three 
princes,  who  were  at  that  time  the  most  powerful 
in  Germany,  were  proposed  as  candidates  :  Duke 
Frederick  of  Swabia,  son-in-law  of  the  late  em¬ 
peror  ;  Margrave  Leopold  of  Austria,  and  Lothar, 
Duke  of  Saxony.  But  the  fate  of  the  two  pre¬ 
ceding  emperors  had  surrounded  the  imperial 
name  with  so  many  terrifying  difficulties,  that 
Leopold  and  Lothar  begged  the  electors  on  their 
knees  and  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  to  keep  them 
clear  of  this  dangerous  honor.  Duke  Frederick 
alone  remained;  but  an  indiscreet  expression  used 
by  the  prince  seemed  to  imply  that  he  regarded 
his  relationship  to  the  late  emperor  as  conferring 
upon  him  a  legitimate  claim  to  the  imperial  dignity. 
Three  times  in  succession  the  sceptre  of  the  empire 
had  descended  from  the  father  to  the  son,  and  there 
was  danger  lest  the  elective  franchise  of  the  mag¬ 
nates  of  the  empire  should  be  superseded  by  an 
hereditary  right  of  succession  to  the  throne.  But 
in  such  a  case  the  freedom  of  the  German  princes 
was  gone  ;  a  firm  hereditary  throne  would  resist 
the  attacks  which  rendered  it  so  easy  for  turbu¬ 
lent  vassals  to  shake  the  ephemeral  structure  of  an 
elective  empire.  The  artful  policy  of  the  popes 
had  only  recently  directed  the  attention  of  the 
princes  to  this  feature  of  public  law,  and  had  en¬ 
couraged  them  to  maintain  their  privileges  which 
perpetuated  the  disorder  in  Germany,  though  the 
power  of  the  popes  was  strengthened  thereby. 
The  slightest  regard  had  to  relationship  in  the 
election  of  a  new  emperor,  might  again  endanger 
the  elective  franchise,  and  renew  the  abuse  from 
which  the  country  had  just  been  delivered.  These 
considerations  were  uppermost  in  the  minds  of 
the  electors  when  Duke  Frederick  preferred  his 
claims  of  hereditary  succession  to  the  imperial 
throne.  It  was  therefore  determined  to  bid  de¬ 
fiance  to  hereditary  right  by  a  decisive  blow,  so 
much  more  as  the  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  who 
directed  the  business  of  election,  sought  to  gra¬ 
tify  a  personal  revenge  under  cover  of  the  public 
welfare.  Lothar  of  Saxony  was  unanimously 
elected  to  the  imperial  throne  ;  upon  the  should¬ 
ers  of  the  princes  he  was  carried  into  the  assem¬ 
blage  amid  tumultuous  applause,  and  was  at  once 
recognized  by  most  of  the  estates  of  the  empire. 
After  some  hesitation  the  election  was  likewise 
confirmed  by  Duke  Henry  of  Bavaria,  Frederick’s 
brother-in-law,  and  by  his  bishops.  Finally  Duke 
Frederick  himself  made  his  appearance  in  order 
to  acknowledge  the  newr  emperor. 

Lothar  was  as  well-intentioned  as  he  was  brave 
and  statesmanlike.  His  conduct  under  the  two 
previous  reigns  had  gained  for  him  the  universal 
respect  of  Germany.  Since  he  had  defended  the 
liberty  of  the  country  in  several  battles  against 
Iienry  IV.  there  was  so  much  less  danger  of  his 


being  tempted  to  oppress  the  country  while  seated 
upon  the  throne.  For  more  safety  he  was  bound 
by  oath  to  observe  a  certain  compact  which  con¬ 
fined  his  power  in  ecclesiastical  as  well  as  in 
temporal  things  within  very  narrow  limits.  Al¬ 
though  Lothar  had  been  urged,  apparently  against 
his  inclination,  to  accept  the  imperial  crown,  yet  in 
order  to  ascend  the  throne  he  actually  degraded 
its  majesty. 

However  much  this  prince  had  exerted  himself 
whilst  duke,  to  diminish  the  imperial  authority, 
yet  the  purple  changed  his  sentiments.  He  had 
an  only  daughter,  who  inherited  his  large  estates 
in  Saxony,  and  by  whose  hand  he  might  elevate 
his  future  son-in-law  to  the  rank  of  a  powerful 
prince.  Since  he  was  no  longer  permitted,  in  his 
capacity  of  emperor,  to  govern  the  duchy  of  Sax¬ 
ony,  he  was  enabled  to  add  this  important  fief  to 
his  daughter’s  dowry.  Not  content  with  this 
arrangement,  he  selected  for  his  son-in-law  the 
powerful  Duke  Henry  of  Bavaria,  who  united  in 
his  own  hand  the  duchies  of  Bavaria  and  Saxony. 
Lothar,  who  had  selected  Henry  as  his  successor 
on  the  throne,  and  wdio  sought  to  put  down  the 
house  of  Swabia  and  Franconia  which  was  alone 
capable  of  holding  the  dangerous  power  of  that 
prince  in  check,  betrayed  most  plainly  his  inten¬ 
tion  of  aggrandizing  the  imperial  power  at  the 
expense  of  the  Estates. 

Henry  of  Bavaria  who  had  become  the  son-in- 
law  of  the  emperor,  changed  his  political  system 
in  accordance  with  his  new  relations.  Having 
been  heretofore  a  zealous  partisan  of  the  Hohen- 
staufen,  to  whom  he  was  related,  he  now  joined 
the  party  of  the  emperor  who  sought  to  destroy 
the  former.  Frederick  of  Swabia,  and  Conrad  of 
Franconia,  who  were  brothers,  representing  the 
house  of  the  Hohenstaufen,  grandsons  of  the  em¬ 
peror  Henry  IV.,  and  the  natural  heirs  of  his  son, 
had  appropriated  all  the  hereditary  estates  of  the 
Salian-Franconian  dynasty,  among  which  there 
were  several  that  had  been  received  in  exchange 
for  portions  of  the  imperial  domain,  or  that  had 
been  confiscated  from  estates  placed  under  the 
ban  of  the  empire.  Soon  after  his  coronation, 
Lothar  promulgated  a  decree  declaring  all  such 
lands  escheated  to  the  imperial  fisc. 

The  Hohenstaufian  brothers  not  minding  Lo- 
thar’s  decree,  he  indicted  them  as  disturbers  of 
the  public  peace,  and  marched  an  imperial  army 
against  them.  A  new  civil  war  devastated  Ger¬ 
many  which  had  scarcely  commenced  to  recover 
from  the  distress  caused  by  previous  conflicts. 
The  city  of  Nuremberg  was  besieged  by  the  em¬ 
peror,  although  in  vain,  because  the  Hohenstaufen 
hastened  to  the  rescue.  Spire,  the  sacred  soil 
where  the  bones  of  the  Franconian  emperors 
repose,  was  likewise  garrisoned. 

Conrad  of  Franconia  attempted  a  much  bolder 
enterprise.  He  was  beguiled  into  accepting  the 
title  of  King  of  Germany,  and  hastened  to  Italy 
with  an  army  in  order  to  dispute  the  rank  against 
his  rival  who  had  not  yet  been  crowned.  The  city 
of  Milan  opened  to  him  her  gates  without  oppo¬ 
sition,  and  Anselmo,  who  officiated  as  the  arc! 
bishop  ot  this  cathedral,  placed  the  Lombardian 
crown  upon  Conrad’s  head,  in  the  city  of  Monza. 
I  In  Tuscany  he  was  recognized  by  the  powerful 


AGE  OF  FREDERICK  I. 


385 


nobility  of  this  state  as  their  king1.  But  Milan’s 
recognition  alienated  all  the  states  that  were  op¬ 
posed  to  this  city;  and  since  his  opponent  was 
moreover  favored  by  Pope  Honorius  II.,  who  ex¬ 
communicated  him,  his  main  object,  the  imperial 
crown,  remained  unattained,  and  he  left  Italy  as 
speedily  as  he  had  entered  it.  In  the  mean  while 
Lothar  had  laid  siege  to  the  city  of  Spire  and  took 
it,  after  Frederick  had  vainly  endeavored  to  relieve 
the  place,  in  spite  of  the  brave  defense  of  the 
citizens  whom  the  presence  of  the  Duchess  of 
Swabia  inflamed  to  the  most  heroic  resistance. 
The  united  power  of  the  emperor  and  that  of  his 
son-in-law  was  too  much  for  the  Hohenstaufen. 
Their  fortified  arsenal,  the  city  of  Ulm,  having 
been  conquered  and  laid  in  ashes  by  the  Duke  of 
Bavaria,  and  the  emperorhimself  rfiarching  against 
them  with  an  army,  they  finally  resolved  to  sub¬ 
mit,  At  the  diet  of  Bamberg,  Frederick  threw 
himself  at  the  emperor’s  feet  and  was  pardoned  ; 
Conrad  was  similarly  pardoned  at  Mulhausen, 
both  on  condition  that  they  should  accompany  the 
emperor  to  Italy. 

A  few  years  previous,  Lothar  had  undertaken 
his  first  expedition  to  Italy,  where  his  presence 
had  become  necessary  in  consequence  of  an  im¬ 
portant  split  in  the  Roman  church.  Honorius  II. 
having  died  in  the  year  1130,  it  had  been  agreed, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  feuds  that  were  expected 
to  arise  from  the  divided  state  of  public  opinion, 
to  intrust  the  election  of  a  new  pope  to  eight 
cardinals.  Five  of  these  elected  in  secret  caucus 
Cardinal  Gregory,  a  former  monk,  who  gave  him¬ 
self  the  name  Innocent  III.  Not  satisfied  with 
this  election,  the  remaining  three  raised  a  certain 
Peter  Leonis,  the  grandson  of  a  christened  Jew, 
to  the  papacy.  He  was  known  by  the  name 
Anaclete  II.  Both  popes  endeavored  to  obtain 
partisans.  On  the  side  of  the  latter  were  the 
remaining  clergy  of  the  Roman  diocese,  and  the 
nobles  of  the  city;  moreover  he  managed  to  win 
over  to  his  side  the  Italian  Normans,  terrible  ad¬ 
versaries  who  resided  in  the  vicinity  of  Rome. 
Innocent  fled  from  the  city  where  his  opponent 
had  the  upper  hand,  and  confided  his  person  and 
his  cause  to  the  orthodoxy  of  the  king  of  France. 
The  opinion  of  a  single  individual,  the  abbot 
Bernhard  of  Clairvaux,  who  declared  the  cause 
of  pope  Innocent  as  the  most  righteous,  was  suf¬ 
ficient  to  procure  for  him  the  homage  of  France. 
He  was  brilliantlv  received  in  this  kingdom  whose 
citizens  overwhelmed  him  with  the  most  generous 
liberality.  The  weight  of  Bernhard's  recommend¬ 
ation  which  had  laid  the  French  nation  prostrate 
at  his  feet,  likewise  subjected  England  to  his 
authority,  and  the  German  emperor  Lothar  was 
easily  persuaded  that  the  Holy  Ghost  had  presided 
at  Innocent’s  election.  A  personal  interview  with 
this  emperor  at  Liege  resulted  in  the  latter  lead¬ 
ing  the  pope  back  to  Rome  at  the  head  of  a  small 
army. 

The  opposition-pope  Anaclete  wielded  the  sceptre 
in  this  city.  The  people  and  nobility  were  deter¬ 
mined  to  defend  themselves  to  the  utmost.  Every 
palace,  every  church  was  a  citadel ;  every  street 
was  a  battle-field  ;  every  weapon  which  happened 
to  be  within  the  reach  of  enraged  passion,  was 
made  available.  Every  passage  had  to  be  opened 
Vox..  II.— 25 


with  the  sword,  and  Lothar’s  feeble  army  was  in¬ 
sufficient  to  conquer  a  city  where  every  house  was 
ready  to  become  the  tomb  of  the  stranger.  It  was 
the  custom  to  perform  the  coronation  of  the  em¬ 
peror  in  the  cathedral  of  St.  Peter,  and  whatever 
was  customary,  was  sacred  in  Rome  ;  but  this  ca¬ 
thedral  as  well  as  the  castle  del  Angelo,  was  in 
possession  of  the  enemy  who  could  not  be  driven 
away  by  Lothar’s  limited  numbers.  After  a  long 
delay  it  was  finally  resolved  to  crown  the  emperor 
in  the  church  of  St.  John  Lateran. 

The  reader  may  remember  that  the  emperor 
marched  to  Rome  on  behalf  of  the  pope  ;  he  de¬ 
manded  his  coronation  not  as  a  suppliant,  but  as 
the  protector  of  the  pope  who  could  never  have 
executed  this  ceremony  but  for  Lothar’s  powerful 
arm.  Nevertheless  Innocent  showed  all  the  papal 
headstrongness  of  a  Hildebrand  ;  in  the  midst  of 
rebellious  Rome,  behind  the  emperor’s  shield  who 
defended  him  against  the  murderous  fury  of  his 
antagonists,  he  dictated  terms  to  his  protector. 
Lothar’s  predecessor  had  reclaimed  as  an  imperial 
fief  the  entensive  domain  which  Mathilde,  mar¬ 
gravine  of  Tuscia,  had  bequeathed  to  the  Romish 
See,  and  in  the  convention  which  terminated  the 
dispute  concerning  the  investiture  of  bishops, 
Pope  Calixtus  II.  had  omitted  all  allusion  to  this 
secret  sore,  in  order  not  to  place  new  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  a  reconciliation  with  the  emperor. 
Innocent  now  brought  up  these  claims  of  the 
Papal  See  to  Mathilde’s  inheritance,  and,  finding 
the  emperor  inexorable,  took  at  least  measures 
to  secure  them  for  his  successors.  The  pope 
granted  the  possession  of  Mathilde’s  estates  by 
investiture,  caused  the  emperor  to  take  the  oath 
of  allegiance  to  the  .  Papal  See  regarding  them, 
and  took  care  to  perpetuate  this  act  of  vassalage 
by  a  painting,  which  was  not  very  flattering  to  the 
imperial  name. 

It  was  not  the  Roman  soil,  not  the  sight  of  the 
solemn  monuments  that  might  remind  one  of 
Rome’s  imperial  greatness  ;  it  was  not  the  stirring 
memory  of  his  ancestors,  or  the  soul-fettering  pre¬ 
sence  of  an  assembly  of  Roman  prelates  who  might 
have  been  the  witnesses  and  judges  of  his  conduct ; 
it  was  not  this  that  inspired  the  pope  with  firm¬ 
ness  and  courage  ;  even  whilst  a  fugitive  upon 
German  soil,  he  had  not  denied  the  Romish  spirit. 
Even  at  Liege,  where  he  presented  himself  before 
the  emperor  as  a  suppliant;  where  he  admitted 
his  obligations  to  this  emperor  for  a  recent  favor, 
and  expected  another  still  greater  favor  of  this 
monarch,  he  had  obliged  him  to  take  back  a  mo¬ 
dest  request  to  have  the  right  of  investiture  re¬ 
stored  to  the  crown.  Contrary  to  the  express 
compact  which  secured  the  peace  between  the 
Church  and  the  Empire,  the  pope  had  consecrated 
the  Archbishop  of  Treves  before  this  prelate  had 
been  invested  by  the  emperor  with  the  temporal 
dignity  of  his  office.  In  the  very  heart  of  Ger¬ 
many,  where  the  pope  did  not  even  possess  the 
shadow  of  authority  without  the  emperor’s  express 
consent,  he  had  dared  to  iniringe  upon  the  pri¬ 
vileges  of  the  crown. 

From  such  conduct,  the  spirit  that  animated  'the 
Papal  See,  and  the  unshakable  firmness  with 
which  every  pope  sought  to  favor  the  papal  in¬ 
terest  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  personal  relations,  are 


386 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


strikingly  evident.  Emperors  and  kings,  enlight¬ 
ened  statesmen  and  unyielding  warriors  were 
known  to  yield  to  the  urgent  necessity  of  circum¬ 
stances  and  to  violate  their  principles ;  a  pope 
was  seldom  or  never  known  to  be  guilty  of  such 
inconsistencies.  Even  while  wandering  about  in 
a  state  of  destitution,  deprived  of  every  foot  of 
land  in  Italy,  without  friends,  and  depending  upon 
the  charity  of  strangers,  he  held  on  firmly  to  the 
privileges  of  his  See  and  of  the  Church.  Whereas 
every  other  political  power  has  at  times  suffered 
through  the  unfitness  of  those  who  had  the  public 
business  in  charge,  the  Church  and  her  chief  were 
scarcely  ever  affected  by  such  weaknesses.  How¬ 
soever  the  popes  may  have  differed  in  tempera¬ 
ment,  mode  of  thinking  and  capacity,  they  pursued 
the  same  policy  with  unwavering  firmness  and 
uniformity.  Their  office  did  not  seem  to  be  af¬ 
fected  by  their  capacity,  their  temperament  or 
mode  of  thinking  ;  their  personality  was  absorbed 
as  it  were  by  the  papal  character,  and  the  passions 
were  extinguished  by  the  triple  crown.  Although 
the  chain  of  succession  was  broken  at  the  death 
of  every  pope,  and  had  to  be  reunited  by  the  as¬ 
cension  of  a  new  one;  although  no  known  throne 
changed  its  occupant  as  often  or  as  tumultuously 
as  the  Papal  See,  yet  this  was  the  only  Christian 
throne  that  never  seemed  vacated,  because  only 
the  popes  died,  but  the  spirit  that  animated  them 
was  immortal. 

Scarcely  had  Lothar  left  Italy,  when  Innocent 
was  again  obliged  to  yield  the  field  to  his  adver¬ 
saries.  Accompanied  by  St.  Bernhard,  he  fled  to 
Pisa,  where  he  solemnly  cursed,  in  public  council, 
ooth  the  opposition-pope  and  his  partisans.  This 
anathema  was  especially  directed  against  King 
Roger  of  Sicily,  who  powerfully  seconded  the 
cause  of  Anaclete,  and  raised  the  courage  of  his 
partisans  by  the  rapid  progress  which  the  King’s 
arms  made  in  Lower  Italy. 

The  history  of  Sicily  and  Naples,  and  that  of 
the  Normans, — the  new  possessors  of  this  country, 
— being  intimately  connected  with  the  history  of 
that  century,  and  inasmuch  as  Otto  von  Freysin- 
gen  and  Anna  Comnena  have  directed  our  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  Norman  conquests,  it  is  in  keeping 
with  the  object  of  this  essay  to  go  back  to  the 
origin  of  this  new  power,  and  to  give  a  brief  his¬ 
tory  of  its  progress. 

The  south  and  west  of  Europe  had  scarcely 
recovered  from  the  violent  convulsions  that 
fashioned  their  new  political  existence,  when  the 
north,  in  the  ninth  century,  again  filled  the  south 
with  anxiety.  These  new  swarms  of  barbarians 
were  poured  forth  by  the  islands  and  shore-lands 
that  are  now  swayed  by  the  Danish  sceptre.  They 
were  called  Normans,  men  of  the  north  ;  the 
Western  Ocean  hastened  and  concealed  their  sur¬ 
prising  and  terrifying  advent.  As  long  as  the 
genius  of  Charlemagne  watched  over  the  empire 
of  the  Franks,  the  enemy  who  menaced  its  safety 
was  not  even  suspected.  Numerous  fleets 
guarded  every  port,  and  the  mouth  of  every  river  ; 
his  strong  arm  offered  equal  resistance  to  the 
Arabian  pirates  in  the  south  and  to  the  Normans  ! 
in  the  west.  But  this  protecting  wall  which  en¬ 
circled  all  the  coasts  of  the  Frankish  Empire, 


having  fallen  under  his  weak  sons,  the  enemy  in¬ 
vaded  the  defenseless  country  like  a  devastating 
torrent.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the  Aquitanian 
shore-lands  experienced  the  rapacious  greed  of 
these  foreigners ;  suddenly,  as  if  spit  up  from  the 
abyss,  they  appeared,  and  as  suddenly  the  bound¬ 
less  ocean  shielded  them  again  from  persecution. 
Bolder  bands,  who  did  not  find  any  booty  on  the 
pillaged  coasts,  navigated  along  the  banks  of  the 
rivers,  and  carried  off  every  species  of  moveable 
property ;  the  oxen  harnessed  to  the  plow,  the 
workmen  on  the  field,  and  hosts  of  human  beings, 
were  carried  off  into  bondage.  The  wealth  of 
the  interior  excited  their  cupidity  more  and  more, 
the  feeble  resistance  increased  their  boldness,  and 
the  short  respite  which  they  allowed  to  the  in¬ 
habitants,  brought  them  back  more  numerously 
and  more  greedily  than  ever. 

No  help  could  be  expected  against  these  ever- 
returning  enemies,  from  a  vacillating  throne  that 
had  been  disgraced  by  a  succession  of  impotent 
shadows,  in  the  place  of  kings,  the  worthless  de¬ 
scendants  of  Charlemagne.  Instead  of  the  bar¬ 
barians  being  received  with  iron,  they  were  bought 
off  with  gold,  and  the  future  peace  of  the  king¬ 
dom  was  risked  in  order  to  gain  a  little  rest.  The 
feudal  anarchy  had  loosened  the  band  that  might 
have  united  the  nation  against  a  common  enemy, 
and  the  bravery  of  the  nobles  was  used  for  the 
ruin  instead  of  for  the  protection  of  the  state. 

One  of  the  boldest  leaders  of  the  barbarians, 
Rollo,  had  taken  the  city  of  Rouen,  and,  deter¬ 
mined  to  maintain  his  conquests,  had  made  this 
place  his  fortified  arsenal. 

Weakness,  and  an  urgent  necessity,  led  Charles 
the  Simple,  under  whose  sway  France  was  now 
languishing,  to  the  expedient  of  laying  this  bar¬ 
barian  leader  under  obligations  toward  himself 
by  the  bonds  of  gratitude,  of  parentage,  and  reli¬ 
gion.  He  offered  him  his  daughter  as  a  wife,  and 
gave  him  as  a  dowry  the  shore-lands  that  were 
most  exposed  to  the  devastations  of  the  Nor 
mans.  A  bishop  conducted  the  business  ;  all  that 
the  Norman  was  expected  to  do,  was  to  embrace 
the  Christian  religion.  Rollo  convoked  his  cor¬ 
sairs,  and  left  the  settlement  of  his  scruples  to 
their  judgment.  The  offer  was  too  seductive  not 
to  overcome  their  northern  superstition.  Any 
religion  was  acceptable  that  did  not  extinguish 
bravery.  The  greatness  of  the  gain  hushed  every 
objection  of  the  conscience.  Rollo  received  bap¬ 
tism,  and  one  of  his  companions  was  sent  to  kiss 
the  king’s  foot,  agreeably  to  the  act  of  homage. 

Rollo  deserved  to  be  the  founder  of  a  state  ;  his 
laws  effected  a  marvelous  change  among  this  na¬ 
tion  of  pirates.  They  threw  away  their  oars,  in 
order  to  seize  the  plow,  and  the  new  home  became 
dear  to  them  as  soon  as  they  had  commenced  to 
reap  a  harvest.  The  uniformity  and  gentle  rhythm 
of  rural  life  gradually  quieted  the  spirit  of  rest¬ 
lessness  and  pillage,  and  tamed  the  naturally 
fierce  temper  of  this  people.  The  Normandy 
flourished  under  Rollo’s  laws,  and  it  had  to  be  a 
barbarian  conqueror  who  taught  the  descendants 
of  Charlemagne  to  resist  their  vassals,  and  to 
render  their  people  happy.  Since  Normans 
watched  the  west  shore  of  France,  the  country 


AGE  OF  FREDERICK  I. 


387 


need  no  longer  apprehend  an  invasion  of  Norman 
hordes,  and  the  degrading  expedient  suggested 
by  weakness,  became  a  blessing  to  the  kingdom. 

The  warlike  spirit  of  the  Normans  did  not  de¬ 
generate  in  their  new  country.  This  province  of 
France  became  the  seminary  of  brave  youths  who 
issued  forth  at  different  periods  in  two  heroic 
swarms,  immortalizing  themselves  at  two  oppo¬ 
site  extremities  of  Europe,  and  founding  brilliant 
empires.  Norman  knight-errants,  in  search  of 
fortune,  subjected  lower  Italy  and  the  island  of 
Sicilv  to  their  dominion,  and  founded  a  mon- 
arc'ny  which  caused  both  Rome  and  Byzantium 
to  tremble.  A  Norman  duke  it  was  who  con¬ 
quered  the  British  islands. 

Among  all  the  provinces  of  Italy,  Apulia,  Ca¬ 
labria,  and  the  island  of  Sicily  had  been  the  most 
unfortunate.  Here,  under  the  favored  sky  of 
Gracia  Major,  where  Grecian  culture  flourished 
even  at  the  earliest  period,  where  the  Hellenian 
settlements  were  kindly  nursed  by  a  genial  cli¬ 
mate;  in  the  blessed  isle,  where  the  youthful  re¬ 
publics  of  Agrigent,  Gela,  Leontium,  Syracuse, 
Selinus,  Himera,  prided  themselves  in  their  play¬ 
ful  freedom,  anarchy  and  desolation  had  built  up 
their  throne  at  the  end  of  the  tenth  century. 

We  are  taught  by  a  sad  experience  that  the 
passions  and  vices  of  men  are  nowhere  more  li¬ 
centious  ;  that  there  is  nowhere  more  misery 
than  in  the  happy  regions  which  Nature  has  en¬ 
dowed  with  paradisiacal  bliss.  Even  in  the  earliest 
periods  the  love  of  plunder  and  conquest  made 
this  blissful  isle  the  object  of  its  fierce  desires  ; 
not  only  was  the  most  horrid  tyranny  brought 
forth  under  its  life-quickening  sky ;  but  the  sea 
which  had  made  this  isle  the  centre  of  commerce, 
invited  the  hostile  fleets  of  the  Mamertians,  the 
Carthaginians  and  Arabs  to  its  coasts.  A  suc¬ 
cession  of  barbarous  nations  had  invaded  this 
tempting  region.  The  Greeks,  expelled  from 
upper  and  central  Italy  by  the  Longobards  and 
Franks,  had  saved  a  shadow  of  po\Ver  in  these 
parts.  The  Longobards  had  spread  as  far  as 
Apulia,  and  the  Arabian  corsairs  had  con¬ 
quered  for  themselves  homes  in  this  isle,  sword  in 
hand.  A  barbarous  mixture  of  idioms  and  cus¬ 
toms,  of  dress  and  manners,  oflaws  and  religions, 
testified  even  now  of  their  pernicious  presence. 
Here  the  Longobardian,  the  Justinian  and  the 
Mohammedan  law  ruled  in  the  courts.  The  same 
pilgrim  who  had  eaten  his  morning-meal  in  the 
refectory  of  a  convent,  had  to  crave  the  hospi¬ 
tality  of  a  Moslem  at  supper.  The  successors  of 
St.  Peter  had  not  delayed  in  extending  their 
pious  arm  after  this  promised  land.  Some  Ger¬ 
man  emperors  had  caused  the  imperial  crown  to 
be  acknowledged  in  this  part  of  Italy,  and  had 
inarched  through  some  districts  with  their  con¬ 
quering  bands.  Against  Otto  II.  the  Greeks 
formed  an  alliance  with  the  hated  Arabs,  which 
became  pernicious  to  this  conqueror.  Calabria 
and  Apulia  returned  under  Greek  supremacy;  but 
from  the  citadels  that  still  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  Saracens,  armed  bands  frequently  rushed 
forth,  assisted  by  other  Arabian  swarms  from 
adjacent  Sicily,  who  indiscriminately  pillaged 
Greeks  and  Romans.  Under  cover  of  the  pre¬ 
vailing  anarchy,  every  one  appropriated  what  he 


could  lay  his  hands  upon,  and  for  this  purpose 
leagued  himself  according  as  his  interest  might 
dictate,  with  Mohammedans,  Greeks  or  Romans. 
Some  cities,  such  as  Gaeta  and  Naples,  were 
governed  by  republican  principles.  Several  Lon¬ 
gobardian  houses,  seemingly  dependent  upon  the 
Romish  or  Greek  empire,  exercised  sovereign 
power  in  Benevento,  Capua,  Salerno,  and  other 
districts.  The  number  and  variety  of  chiefs,  the 
sudden  changes  of  boundaries,  the  distance  and 
weakness  of  the  Greek  court,  secured  them  im¬ 
punity  ;  national  differences,  religious  hatred,  the 
love  of  plunder,  and  the  desire  of  dominion,  un¬ 
restrained  by  law,  perpetuated  anarchy  upon  this 
soil,  and  fed  the  torch  of  unceasing  war.  The 
people  knew  not  to-day  who  would  be  their  mas¬ 
ter  to-morrow,  and  the  sower  was  uncertain  who 
would  reap  his  harvest. 

This  was  the  lamentable  condition  of  lower 
Italy  in  the  ninth,  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries, 
whereas  Sicily  enjoyed  a  less  turbulent  bondage, 
under  the  Arabian  rule.  The  spirit  of  pilgrimage, 
which  became  active  in  the  west  toward  the  end 
of  the  tenth  century,  about  the  time  when  the 
last  judgment  was  expected  to  take  place,  led,  in 
the  year  983,  some  sixty  Norman  pilgrims  to  Je¬ 
rusalem.  On  their  return  home  they  landed  at 
Naples  and  appeared  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sa¬ 
lerno  at  a  period  when  the  city  was  besieged  by 
an  Arabian  army  and  the  inhabitants  were  en¬ 
gaged  in  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  enemy  by  buying 
him  off  with  gold. 

It  was  very  reluctantly  that  these  warlike  pil¬ 
grims  had  exchanged  the  cuirass  for  the  pilgrim’s 
pouch  ;  the  old  spirit  of  battle  was  kindled  anew 
at  the  sight  of  war.  It  seemed  to  them  that 
vigorous  blows  upon  the  heads  of  the  infidels 
were  as  good  a  preparation  for  the  day  of  judg¬ 
ment  as  a  pilgrimage  to  the  holy  sepulchre. 
They  offered  their  arm  to  the  besieged  Christians, 
and  it  may  readily  be  supposed  that  the  unex¬ 
pected  help  was  not  refused.  Accompanied  by  a 
small  number  of  Salernians,  the  brave  band  threw 
themselves  at  night  upon  the  hostile  camp  where 
the  Saracens,  not  expecting  an  attack,  were  rev¬ 
eling  in  their  debauch.  Every  thing  yielded  be¬ 
fore  the  assault.  The  Saracens  make  a  hasty 
retreat  to  their  ships,  abandoning  their  whole 
camp.  Salerno  had  not  only  saved  her  treasures, 
but  conquered  moreover  the  enemy’s  booty ;  it 
was  the  work  of  sixty  brave  Normans.  Such  an 
important  service  merited  the  most  distinguished 
gratitude,  and  satisfied  with  the  liberal  reward  ol 
the  prince  of  Salerno,  the  heroic  band  returned 
home. 

This  adventure  was  not  kept  secret  in  Nor¬ 
mandy.  The  beautiful  sky  and  the  productive 
soil  of  Naples,  the  unceasing  war  which  kept  the 
soldier  busy  and  in  power,  the  wealth  of  the  feeble 
which  became  his  easy  prey  :  all  this  was  pic¬ 
tured  in  glowing  colors  to  the  ears  ot  a  warlike 
youth.  Yery  soon  fresh  bands  of  Normans  land¬ 
ed  in  lowrer  Italy,  the  paucity  of  whose  numbers 
was  compensated  by  their  bravery.  The  mild 
climate,  the  rich  pastures,  the  precious  booty,  of¬ 
fered  irresistible  attractions  to  a  people  that  was 
not  able  to  forget  its  piratical  trade  so  readily 
in  its  new  homes.  The  invaders  were  at  any 


388 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


body’s  service  who  chose  to  hire  them  ;  they  had 
come  for  the  purpose  of  fighting,  and  it  was  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  them  for  whose  cause 
they  fought.  They  protected  the  Greek  subjects 
against  the  tyranny  of  their  governors  ;  they  as¬ 
sisted  the  Longobilrdian  princes  in  resisting  the 
claims  of,  the  Greek  court;  even  the  Saracens 
wore  repelled  by  Normans  whom  the  Greeks  hired 
for  such  a  purpose,  Romans  and  Greeks  indis¬ 
criminately  had  cause  alternately  to  fear  and  to 
praise  the  arm  of  these  strangers. 

In  the  city  of  Naples,  a  duke  had  seized  the 
reins  of  government,  who  was  greatly  benefited  by 
the  bravery  of  the  Normans,  against  a  prince  of 
Capua.  In  order  to  attach  these  useful  adven¬ 
turers  to  himself  more  and  more  firmly,  and  to 
secure  to  himself  their  valiant  arm,  he  gave  them 
land  between  Capua  and  Naples,  where  they 
founded  the  city  of  A  versa,  in  the  year  1029,  their 
first  fortified  possession  upon  Italian  soil,  which 
they  had  conquered  by  bravery,  but  not  by  force, 
and  which  was  probably  the  only  rightful  property 
they  possessed. 

The  Norman  adventurers  increased  in  numbers, 
as  soon  as  a  city  inhabited  by  their  own  people 
opened  to  them  its  hospitable  gates.  Three  bro¬ 
thers,  William  with  the  Iron  Arm,  Hunfred  and 
Dragon,  took  leave  of  nine  other  brothers  and  of 
their  father  Tancred  of  Hauteville,  in  order  to  try 
the  fortune  of  arms  in  the  new  colony.  Their 
bellicose  impatience  did  not  wait  long.  The  Greek 
governor  of  Apulia  resolved  to  effect  a  landing  in 
Sicily,  and  the  brave  hordes  were  invited  to  share 
the  dangers  of  the  campaign,  A  Saracen  army 
was  defeated  and  the  leader  was  slain  by  Iron 
Arm.  The  strong  aid  of  the  Normans  caused 
the  Greeks  to  hope  for  the  recovery  of  the  whole 
island  ;  but  their  ingratitude  toward  their  pro¬ 
tectors  deprived  them  even  of  the  small  territory 
which  they  still  held  on  the  continent  of  Italy. 
Their  vengeance  having  been  roused  by  the  per¬ 
fidious  governor,  the  Normans  turned  against  him¬ 
self  the  arms  they  had  wielded  so  triumphantly 
in  his  favor.  The  Greek  possessions  were  at¬ 
tacked.  and  the  whole  of  Sicily  was  conquered  by 
only  four  hundred  Normans.  The  unexpected 
booty  was  shared  with  a  barbarian  honesty.  With¬ 
out  asking  leave  of  the  Apostolic  See,  or  of  the 
German  or  Greek  Emperor,  the  victorious  band  pro¬ 
claimed  Iron  Arm  as  Count  of  Apulia;  every 
Norman  warrior  obtained  some  town  or  village  as 
a  reward  in  the  conquered  country. 

The  unexpected  fortune  of  the  emigrant  sons  of 
Tancred  soon  excited  the  jealousy  of  the  nine  who 
had  remained  behind.  The  youngest  of  these  nine, 
Guiscard  the  Cunning,  had  grown  up  to  manhood, 
and  he  saw  his  future  greatness  loom  up  in  the  dis¬ 
tance.  With  two  other  brothers  he  sailed  to  the 
promised  land  where  principalities  were  acquired 
with  the  sword.  The  German  emperors,  Henry 
II.  and  III.,  were  quite  willing  that  these  heroes 
should  spill  their  blood  in  freeing  Italy  from  the 
hated  presence  of  foreign  invaders.  The  empe- 
Jrors  fancied  that  what  the  Greeks  lost  was  a  gain 
to  themselves,  and  they  rejoiced  in  seeing  the 
brave  Normans  enrich  themselves  with  Grecian 
plunder.  But  in  proportion  as  they  increased  in 
cumber  and  met  with  success,  their  plans  of 


conquest  became  vaster,  and,  after  having  sub¬ 
dued  the  Greeks,  they  showed  a  desire  to  attack 
the  Latin  powers.  These  enterprising  neighbors 
alarmed  the  pope.  The  duchy  of  Benevento, 
which  Henry  III.  had  made  a  present  of  to  Pope 
Leo  IX.  not  long  ago,  wras  threatened  by  the 
Normans.  The  pope  invoked  the  aid  of  this 
powerful  emperor  against  them  ;  but  the  emperor 
unable  to  subdue  these  warriors,  contented  him¬ 
self  with  transforming  them  into  vassals  of  the 
empire  whose  bravery  was  to  serve  as  a  bulwark 
against  Greeks  and  infidels.  Leo  IX,  employed 
against  them  the  never-failing  arms  of  the  Apos¬ 
tolic  See.  The  pope  hurled  his  anathemas  against 
them,  a  holy  war  was  declared,  and  the  soldiers 
of  the  church  were  headed  by  the  pope  and  his 
bishops.  But  the  Normans  feared  the  strength 
of  this  army  no  more  than  they  did  the  sacred¬ 
ness  of  its  leaders.  Accustomed  to  conquer  in 
smaller  numbers,  they  attacked  the  enemy  with¬ 
out  fear,  cut  down  the  Germans,  dispersed  the 
Italians,  and  took  the  pope  himself  prisoner. 
They  treated  the  successor  of  St.  Peter  with  the 
greatest  respect,  approached  him  on  their  knees, 
but  all  this  did  not  shorten  his  captivity. 

The  occupation  of  Apulia  was  soon  followed  by 
the  conquest  of  Calabria,  and  of  the  territory  of 
Capua.  The  policy  of  the  court  of  Rome,  which, 
after  several  fruitless  attempts,  renounced  the 
prospect  of  driving  the  Normans  out  of  their  pos¬ 
sessions,  at  last  adopted  the  wiser  method  of 
using  them  as  instruments  of  increasing  the  papal 
power.  In  a  convention  made  with  Robert  Guis¬ 
card  at  A'malf,  Pope  Nicolas  II.  confirmed  this 
conqueror  in  the  enjoyment  of  Calabria  and  Apu¬ 
lia  as  papal  fiefs,  freed  him  from  the  ban  of  the 
church,  and  presented  to  him  the  banner  as  his 
supreme  liege.  If  it  was  lawful  for  any  power 
to  reward  Norman  bravery  with  these  principali¬ 
ties,  it  was  certainly  not  lawful  for  the  head  of 
the  church.  Robert  had  not  taken  possession  of 
any  domain-  belonging  to  the  first  finder ;  the 
provinces  he  had  conquered  by  the  sword,  had 
been  snatched  from  the  Greek,  or,  if  you  please, 
from  the  German  empire.  But  the  successors  of 
St.  Peter  have  reaped  at  all  times  in  the  public 
confusion.  The  feudal  dependence  of  the  Nor¬ 
mans  upon  the  court  of  Rome  was  advantageous, 
not  only  to  themselves,  but  likewise  to  the  latter. 
The  injustice  of  their  conquests  was  now  covered 
by  the  cloak  of  the  church  ;  the  feeble  and 
scarcely-felt  dependence  upon  the  papal  See  with¬ 
drew  them  from  the  much  more  oppressive  yoke 
of  the  German  emperors,  and  the  pope  had  con¬ 
verted  his  most  terrible  enemies  into  faithful  sup¬ 
porters  of  his  See. 

Sicily  was  still  divided  among  the  Greeks  and 
Saracens,  but  this  rich  island  soon  began  to  ex¬ 
cite  the  cupidity  of  the  Norman  conquerors. 
This,  too,  was  conferred  by  the  pope  upon  his 
new  clients,  for  he  did  not  hesitate  to  draw  me¬ 
ridians  over  the  globe,  and  to  grant  even  un¬ 
known  continents.  With  the  banner  that  had 
been  consecrated  by  the  holy  father,  the  sons  of 
Tancred,  Guiscard  and  Roger,  went  over  to  Sicily 
and  conquered  this  island  in  a  short  time.  Re¬ 
serving  their  religion  and  laws,  the  Greeks  and 
Arabs  did  homage  to  Norman  rule,  and  the  new 


AGE  OF  FREDERICK  I. 


889 


conquest  was  left  to  Roger  and  his  descendants. 
The  subjugation  of  Sicily  was  soon  followed  by 
the  taking  of  Benevento  and  Salerno,  and  by  the 
expulsion  of  the  dynasty  ruling  in  the  latter 
place.  This  event,  however,  interrupted  the  short 
peace  with  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  kindled  a 
violent  struggle  between  Robert  Guiscard  and  the 
pope.  Gregory  VII.,  the  most  despotic  of  all 
the  popes,  was  unable  to  intimidate  or  to  con¬ 
quer  a  few  Norman  noblemen,  vassals  and  neigh¬ 
bors  of  his  See.  They  defied  his  anathemas,  the 
frightful  effects  of  which  had  prostrated  an  he¬ 
roic  and  powerful  emperor;  the  very  insolence  by 
which  this  pope  increased  the  number  of  his  ene¬ 
mies,  and  .rendered  their  hatred  against  him  im¬ 
placable,  made  it  so  much  more  important  for 
him  to  have  a  friend  close  to  his  doors.  *  In 
order  to  bid  defiance  to  kings  and  emperors,  he 
had  to  cajole  a  lucky  adventurer  in  the  south  of 
Italy.  Very  soon  he  needed  his  saving  arm  in 
the  city  of  Rome.  Besieged  in  his  Castle  del  An¬ 
gelo  by  Germans  and  Romans,  he  calls  the  duke 
ot  Apulia  to  his  assistance.  At  the  head  of  his 
Normans  and  of  his  Greek  and  Arabian  vassals, 
he  succeeds  in  freeing  the  head  of  the  Latin 
church.  Weighed  down  by  the  aversion  of  his 
age,  whose  peace  was  ruined  by  his  love  of  do¬ 
minion,  this  pope  followed  his  preservers  to  Na¬ 
ples,  and  died  at  Salerno,  under  the  protecting 
shield  of  ITauteville’s  sons. 

The  same  Norman  prince,  Robert  Guiscard, 
who  struck  terror  into  the  minds  of  Italians  and 
Sicilians,  attacked  the  Greeks  in  Dalmatia  and 
Macedonia,  and  even  penetrated  to  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  of  their  capital.  The  feeble  Greeks  called 
to  their  aid  against  him  the  arms  and  fleets  of 
the  republic  of  Venice  which  had  been  terribly 
roused  from  her  dreams  of  supremacy  on  the  waves 
of  the  Adriatic  Sea  by  the  rapid  progress  of  this 
new  Italian  power.  Upon  the  island  of  Cephalo- 
nia  his  conquering  ambition  was  arrested  by  death. 
His  possessions  in  Greece,  which  he  had  conquered 
with  his  sword,  were  inherited  by  his  son  Bohe- 
mund,  prince  of  Tarento,  who  equaled  him  in 
bravery,  and  surpassed  him  in  the  love  of  rule. 
He  it  was  who  shook  the  imperial  throne  of  By¬ 
zantium  ;  who  cunningly  rendered  the  fanaticism  of 
the  crusaders  subservient  to  his  projects  of  aggran¬ 
dizement  ;  who  conquered  for  himself  a  consider¬ 
able  principality  in  Antiochia,  and  alone  had  re¬ 
mained  free  from  the  pious  frenzy  which  possessed 
the  other  princes  of  the  holy  army.  The  Greek 
princess,  Anna  Comnena,  depicts  to  us  father  and 
son  as  bandits  without  conscience,  whose  whole 
virtue  resided  in  their  blades.  But  Robert  and 
Bohemund  were  the  most  terrible  enemies  of  her 
house  ;  hence  her  testimony  is  not  sufficient  to  con¬ 
demn  these  men.  This  same  princess  cannot  for¬ 
get  that  Bohemund,  a  simple  nobleman  and  fortune¬ 
hunting  knight,  should  have  had  the  boldness  of 
aspiring  to  a  matrimonial  union  with  the  imperial 
dynasty  of  Constantinople.  It  is  certainly  re¬ 
markable  that  the  sons  of  a  poor  nobleman  of 
France  should  have  left  their  homes  with  no  other 
means  than  their  own  swords,  that  they  should 
have  robbed  a  kingdom,  opposing  popes  and  em¬ 
perors  by  force  and  cunning,  and  should  have  re¬ 


tained  a  sufficient  surplus  of  power  to  shake 
foreign  thrones. 

Another  son  of  Robert,  named  Roger,  had  suc¬ 
ceeded  him  in  his  Calabrian  and  Apulian  posses¬ 
sions  ;  but  his  family  died  out  forty  years  after 
Robert’s  death.  The  Norman  states  on  the  con¬ 
tinent  of  Italy  were  now  taken  possession  of  by 
theSicilian  successors  of  his  brother.  Roger,  count 
of  Sicily,  no  less  brave  than  Guiscard,  but  other¬ 
wise  as  benevolent  and  gentle  as  the  latter  prince 
was  cruel  and  selfish,  had  the  glory  of  conquering 
for  his  descendants  a  brilliant  privilege.  At  a 
period  when  the  pretensions  of  the  popes  threat¬ 
ened  to  swallow  up  all  worldly  power,  when  they 
snatched  from  the  German  emperors  the  right  of 
investiture,  and  had  violently  separated  the  church 
from  thestate,  aNorman  nobleman  maintained  royal 
privileges  in  Sicily,  which  even  emperors  had  had 
to  give  up.  Count  Roger  extorted  from  the  pope, 
for  himself  and  his  successors,  the  right  to  exer¬ 
cise  upon  his  island  the  supreme  power  in  spiri¬ 
tual  things.  The  pope  was  hard  pressed  ;  in 
order  to  resist  the  German  emperor,  the  friend¬ 
ship  of  the  Norman  was  indispensable  to  him. 
He  therefore  was  sufficiently  cunning  to  yield  to  a 
neighbor  whom  it  would  have  been  madness  to  ir¬ 
ritate.  But  in  order  to  keep  this  concession  dis¬ 
tinct  from  the  other  royal  prerogatives,  and  to 
impart  to  it  the  character  of  a  papal  favor,  the 
pope  declared  the  prince  of  Sicily  his  legate  or 
spiritual  lieutenant  on  the  island.  Roger’s  suc¬ 
cessors  continued  to  exercise  this  right  as 
hereditary  legates  of  the  Romish  See,  and  the 
subsequent  monarchs  of  Sicily  claimed  it  ever 
afterward  as  the  prerogative  of  their  crown. 

Roger  the  Second,  son  of  the  former,  incorpo¬ 
rated  the  states  of  Calabria  and  Apulia  with  the 
county  of  Sicily.  This  extension  of  his  domi¬ 
nions  emboldened  him  to  place  the  royal  crown 
upon  his  head  in  Palermo.  All  that  was  re¬ 
quired  in  order  to  effect  this  result,  was  his  own 
determination,  and  a  sufficient  force  to  carry  it 
out  against  all  opposition.  But  the  same  politi¬ 
cal  superstition  that  had  disposed  the  father  and 
uncle  to  see  their  robbery  of  foreign  lands  sanctioned 
undercover  of  a  papal  donation,  induced  the  nephew 
and  son  to  resort  to  a  similar  consecration  oi  the 
new  dignity.  The  schism  which  had  broken  out 
in  the  church,  favored  Roger’s  intentions.  He 
laid  Pope  Anaclete  under  obligations  by  recogniz¬ 
ing  the  legitimacy  of  his  election  and  pledging 
himself  to  defend  it  with  his  sword.  In  return 
for  this  favor,  the  grateful  pope  confirmed  him  in 
his  new  dignity,  and  invested  him  with  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  Capua  and  Naples,  which  Roger  made  ar¬ 
rangements  to  unite  with  his  new  kingdom.  But 
he  could  not  befriend  one  pope  without  convert¬ 
ing  the  other  into  his  irreconcilable  enemy. 
Blessed  by  one  he  was  cursed  by  the  other;  his 
sword  probably  would  have  to  decide  whether  the 
curse  or  the  blessing  would  be  effectual. 

The  new  king  of  Sicily  had  need  of  all  his  dis¬ 
cretion  in  order  to  meet  the  tempest  that  was 
gathering  against  him  in  the  oriental  and  occi¬ 
dental  empires.  No  less  than  four  hostile  powers, 
each  of  whom  was  considerable,  had  combined  for 
his  ruin.  The  republic  of  Venice,  that  had 


390 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


already  equipped  fleets  against  Robert  Guiscard,  and 
assisted  the  Greek  empire  in  its  defense  against  this 
conqueror,  armed  likewise  against  his  nephew,  whose 
formidable  navy  contended  with  that  of  Venice 
for  the  supremacy  of  the  Adriatic  Sea.  Roger 
had  assailed  this  mercantile  power  on  its  most  vul¬ 
nerable  side,  by  inflicting  upon  it  the  loss  of  a 
large  sunTof  money,  in  the  shape  of  merchandize. 
The  Greek  Emperor  Kolojoannes  had  to  avenge  the 
loss  of  so  many  states  in  Greece  and  Italy,  and  the 
more  recent  robbery  of  Naples  and  Capua.  The 
two  courts  of  Venice  and  Constantinople  sent  am¬ 
bassadors  to  the  emperor  Lothar  for  the  purpose 
of  exciting  his  enmity  against  the  hated  robber  of 
their  provinces.  Pope  Innocent,  the  most  feeble 
of  Roger’s  enemies,  in  point  of  warlike  power, 
became  his  most  dangerous  adversary,  through  his 
bitter  and  active  hatred,  and  the  arms  of  the 
church,  which  he  yielded  with  terrible  effect.  The 
emperor  Lothar  was  persuaded  that  the  Norman 
empire  in  lower  Italy  and  the  assumption  by  Roger 
of  the  royal  office  in  Sicily,  were  incompatible 
with  the  supreme  jurisdiction  of  the  emperor  over 
these  provinces,  and  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the 
successor  of  the  Ottos,  to  oppose  the  diminution 
of  the  empire. 

By  these  arguments  Lothar  was  induced  to 
cross  the  Alps  a  second  time,  and  to  undertake 
an  expedition  against  Roger. 

His  army  now  was  more  numerous  ;  the  flower 
of  the  German  nobles  fought  for  him,  and  the 
brave  Guelphs  w7ere  on  his  side.  The  Lombardian 
cities,  accustomed  to  regulate  their  willingness  to 
submit  to  the  imperial  sceptre  by  the  power  of 
the  armies  that  marched  under  the  emperor’s 
banner,  did  homage  to  his  irresistible  sway. 
Milan  opened  her  gates  to  him  without  resist¬ 
ance.  He  assembled  a  Diet  on  the  Roncalian 
plain,  and  showed  to  the  Italians  their  master. 
He  then  divided  his  army,  one  part  penetrating 
into  Tuscany  under  the  command  of  Duke  Henry 
of  Bavaria,  and  the  other,  under  his  own,  march¬ 
ing  along  the  Adriatic  coast, straightway  to  Apulia. 
The  court  of  Constantinople  and  the  republic  of 
V'enice  had  contributed  men  and  money  to  this 
expedition.  The  city  of  Pisa,  which  was  even  at 
that  period  a  considerable  naval  power,  equipped 
a  small  fleet  which  was  to  follow  the  army  along 
the  shore  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  in  the 
attack  on  the  maritime  cities. 

The  Norman  power  in  Italy  seemed  lost.  Not 
without  sympathy,  we  behold  the  edifice  which 
had  been  reared  by  the  bravery  of  so  many 
heroes  and  had  been  so  visibly  protected  by  for¬ 
tune,  incline  to  its  ruin.  The  first  operations  of 
Lothar  were  crowned  with  success.  Capua  and 
Benevento  had  to  surrender.  The  Apulian  cities 
of  Truni  and  Bari  were  conquered.  The  fleet  of 
Pisa  subdued  Amalfi,  Lothar,  the  city  of  Saler¬ 
no.  One  pillar  of  the  Norman  power  after  the 
other  is  crushed  ;  driven  from  the  continent  of 
Italy,  the  new  king  had  to  seek  a  last  refuge  in 
his  island  of  Sicily. 

It  was  the  destiny  of  Tancred’s  house  that  the 
church  was  to  work  for  it,  with  or  without  her 
will.  Scarcely  had  Salerno  been  conquered  when 
Innocent  claimed  this  city  as  a  papal  fief.  A  sharp 


dispute  arose  on  this  subject  between  the  pope  and 
the  emperor.  A  similar  quarrel  sprung  up  with 
reference,  to  Apulia,  which  it  had  been  agreed 
should  be  governed  by  a  duke  whose  investiture 
was  disputed  by  Innocent  against  the  emperor. 
In  order  to  terminate  this  pernicious  discussion, 
which  had  already  lasted  thirty  days,  it  was  ar¬ 
ranged  that  both  the  pope  and  the  emperor  were 
simultaneously  to  touch  the  banner  with  which  the 
vassal  was  presented  during  the  act  of  investi¬ 
ture. 

During  this  contention  the  war  against  Roger 
ceased,  or,  at  any  rate,  w7as  carried  on  with  a  good 
deal  of  remissness.  This  active  prince  gained 
time  to  recuperate  his  strength.  Pisa,  dissatisfied 
with  the  pope  and  the  Germans,  conducted  its 
fleet  home  again.  The  time  of  service  of  the 
Germans  had  terminated  ;  they  had  squandered 
their  money,  and  the  inimical  influence  of  the 
Neapolitan  sky  commenced  to  devastate  their 
camp.  Their  growing  impatience  called  the  em¬ 
peror  from  the  arms  of  victory.  After  his  depar¬ 
ture  the  conquered  cities  were  lost  again  more 
speedily  than  they  had  been  won.  Already  in 
Bononia,  the  emperor  received  the  melancholy  in¬ 
telligence  that  Salerno  had  surrendered,  that 
Capua  had  been  retaken,  and  that  the  duke  of 
Naples  had  gone  over  to  the  Normans.  The  pos¬ 
session  of  Apulia  alone  was  maintained  by  the 
new  duke  of  this  province,  in  conjunction  with  a 
German  corps,  and  the  loss  of  this  domain  was 
the  price  which  Roger  had  to  pay  for  the  preser¬ 
vation  of  the  remainder  of  his  kingdom. 

After  the  death  of  Anaclete,  Innocent  who  had 
become  the  sole  chief  of  the  church,  convoked  a 
council  in  the  Vatican  that  annulled  all  the  de¬ 
crees  of  the  opposition-pope,  and  again  pro¬ 
nounced  the  ban  of  the  church  against  Roger. 
Following  Leo’s  example,  Innocent  marched 
against  the  Sicilian  prince  at  the  head  of  an  army, 
but,  like  his  predecessor  he  was  totally  defeated, 
and  was  moreover  taken  prisoner.  The  victori¬ 
ous  Roger  sought  to  conciliate  the  church,  which 
seemed  the  more  necessary  since  he  was  threatened 
with  a  new  attack  by  Constantinople  and  Venice. 
The  captive  pope  invested  him  with  the  kingdom 
of  Sicily,  and  his  two  sons  were  recognized  as  the 
dukes  of  Capua  and  Apulia.  Both  he  and  they 
had  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  pope, 
and  pay  an  annual  tribute  to  the  Roman  church. 
The  claims  of  the  German  empire  to  these  pro¬ 
vinces,  which  had  induced  the  emperor,  through 
the  pope’s  persuasion,  to  wage  wrar  against  Roger, 
were  not  even  touched  upon  in  this  convention  ;  so 
little  dependence  could  be  placed  by  the  German 
emperor  upon  the  honesty  of  the  popes  as  soon  as 
these  were  no  longer  in  need  of  the  imperial  assist¬ 
ance.  Roger  kissed  his  prisoner’s  slipper,  conducted 
him  back  to  Rome,  and  the  peace  between  the  Nor¬ 
mans  and  the  Apostolic  See  was  completed.  On  his 
return  to  Germany,  in  the  year  1137,  the  Emperor 
Lothar  had  ended  his  laborious  and  illustrious  career 
in  a  poor  hovel  between  the  rivers  Lech  and  Inn. 

This  emperor  had  undoubtedly  designed  to  make 
his  son-in-law,  Duke  Henry  of  Bavaria,  his  suc¬ 
cessor  on  the  throne.  He  probably  contemplated 
taking  the  necessary  steps  to  this  effect  even 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


391 


during  his  lifetime.  But  death  surprised  him 
before  he  had  even  commenced  to  move  in  the 
matter. 

Henry  of  Bavaria  had  treated  the  princes  of 
Germany  with  a  good  deal  of  pride,  and  had 
shown  toward  them  an  imperious  disposition  in 
the  Italian  campaign.  Even  now,  after  Lothar’s 
death,  he  was  not  very  anxious  to  obtain  their 
friendship,  and  they,  in  turn,  showed  no  signs  of 
electing  him  to  the  throne.  Quite  different  was 
the  conduct  of  Conrad  of  Hohenstaufen,  who  had 
been  present  during  the  Italian  campaign,  and 
had  won  the  German  princes,  and  more  especially 
the  Archbishop  of  Treves.  The  recent  stipula¬ 
tions  concerning  their  elective  franchises,  were 
moreover  too  vividly  remembered  by  the  princes, 
and  they  deemed  it  of  the  utmost  importance  to 
avoid  even  the  appearance  of  paying  the  least  at¬ 
tention  to  hereditary  rights.  Henry’s  relationship 
to  Lothar  was  therefore  an  additional  reason  why 
he  should  not  be  elected.  All  these  considerations 
were  heightened  by  the  fear  that  his  power,  when 
united  to  the  imperial  dignity,  might  crush  the 
liberties  of  the  German  empire. 

The  policy  of  the  German  princes  was  therefore 
reversed.  The  family  of  the  Guelphs,  to  which 
Henry  belonged,  and  which  had  been  elevated 
under  the  previous  reign,  had  to  be  put  down,  and 
the  house  of  Hohenstaufen,  which  had  been  slight¬ 
ed  by  the  former  emperor,  was  again  to  be  raised 
to  honor.  The  Archbishop  of  Meutz  had  just  died, 
and  the  election  of  a  new  archbishop  should  have 
preceded  that  of  the  emperor,  for  the  reason  that 
the  archbishop  acted  an  important  part  in  the 
election  of  an  emperor.  But  lest  the  large  retinue 
of  Saxon  and  Bavarian  bishops  and  worldly  vas¬ 
sals,  by  whom  Henry  would  be  surrounded  on  the 
day  of  election,  should  incline  the  majority  of  the 
electors  in  his  favor,  they  hastened,  even  at  the 
expense  of  regular  proceedings,  to  make  an  elec¬ 
tion  before  Henry’s  arrival.  Under  the  direction 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Treves,  who  was  particularly 
well  disposed  toward  the  Hohenstaufen,  the  elec¬ 
tion  was  held  at  Coblentz  in  the  year  1137.  Duke 
Conrad  was  elected,  and  his  coronation  took  place 
immediately  after  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  The  wheel 
of  fortune  had  turned  so  rapidly  that  Conrad, 
whom  the  pope  had  excommunicated  under  the 
previous  reign,  now  saw  himself  preferred  to  the 
son-in-law  of  an  emperor  who  had  done  so  much 
for  the  Papal  See.  Although  Henry  and  the 
other  princes  who  had  not  been  consulted  in  the 
election,  complained  of  this  irregularity,  yet  the 
general  dread  of  the  supremacy  of  the  Guelphian 
house,  and  the  circumstance  of  the  pope  declaring 
in  favor  of  the  Hohenstaufen,  induced  the  discon¬ 
tented  to  submit.  Henry  of  Bavaria,  who  had 
possession  of  the  insignia  of  the  empire,  delivered 
them  up  after  a  short  opposition. 

Conrad  understood  that  he  llhd  to  go  further. 
The  power  of  the  Guelphian  house  had  increased  so 
much  that  its  enmity  might  become  just  as  dan¬ 
gerous  to  the  peace  of  the  empire,  as  the  elevation 
of  this  house  to  the  imperial  throne  might  have 
proved  dangerous  to  the  franchises  of  the  Estates. 
AVith  such  a  vassal  by  his  side,  no  emperor  could 
govern  quietly,  and  the  empire  was  in  danger  of 
being  torn  by  civil  war.  It  therefore  seeming  ne¬ 


cessary  to  diminish  the  power  of  this  house,  Con 
rad  III.  labored  unceasingly  to  accomplish  this 
end.  He  invited  Henry  to  appear  before  the  Diet 
of  Augsburg,  in  order  to  clear  himself  of  the  ac¬ 
cusations  that  had  been  preferred  against  him. 
Henry,  deeming  it  inadvisable  to  appear,  was  put 
under  the  ban  of  the  empire,  after  many  fruitless 
negotiations,  at  a  Diet  held  in  the  city  of  Wurtz- 
burg;  at  another  Diet  held  in  Goslar,  his  two 
duchies,  Saxony  and  Bavaria,  were  taken  from 
him. 

These  speedy  sentences  were  executed  with 
equal  promptitude.  Bavaria  was  given  to  the 
Margrave  of  Austria,  and  Saxony  to  the  Margrave 
of  Brandeuburg,  Albert,  surnamed  the  Bear.  Ba¬ 
varia  was  abandoned  by  duke  Henry  without  re¬ 
sistance  ;  but  Saxony,  he  expected  to  save.  A 
warlike  nobility,  devoted  to  his  cause,  was  ready 
to  fight  for  him  ;  neither  Albert,  nor  the  emperor 
himself,  who  took  up  arms  against  him,  was  able 
to  take  this  duchy  from  him.  He  was  even  on  the 
point  of  reconquering  Bavaria,  when  death  called 
him  from  the  scene,  and  put  a  stop  to  the  civil  war. 
Bavaria  was  now  given  to  Henry,  the  brother  and 
successor  of  Margrave  Leopold  of  Austria,  who 
attempted  to  fortify  himself  in  the  possession  of  this 
duchy  by  a  matrimonial  alliance  with  the  widow  of 
the  late  duke,  a  daughter  of  Lothar.  The  duchy 
of  Saxony  was  restored  to  the  son  of  the  deceased 
duke,  who  afterward  distinguished  himself  as 
Henry  the  Lion,  and  renounced  Bavaria  in  return 
for  the  former  restoration.  By  this  arrangement, 
Conrad  hushed  the  storms  that  had  disturbed 
Germany,  and  threatened  to  disturb  it  much  more, 
until  he  finally  undertook  a  campaign  to  Italy, 
this  ruling  weakness  of  his  age,  which  involved 
him  in  ruin. 

Note. — A  continuation  of  this  treatise  has  been  fur¬ 
nished  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the  Historical  Memoirs 
(first  division)  by  the  privy  Counselor  Von  Woltmann, 
who,  while  professor  in  Jena,  joined  Schiller  in  1795,  in 
the  publication  of  the  first  division  of  this  memoir. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  DISTURBANCES  IN 
FRANCE. 

PRECEDING  THE  REIGN  OF  HENRY  IV., TO  THE 
DEATH  OF  CHARLES  IX.* 

The  reigns  of  Charles  VIII.,  Louis  XII.,  and 
Francis  I.,  had  prepared  a  brilliant  epoch  for 
France.  The  campaigns  which  these  princes  had 
undertaken  in  Italy,  had  rekindled  the  heroic 
spirit  of  the  French  nobility,  which  had  almost 
been  extinguished  by  the  despotism  of  Louis  XI. 
A  chivalric  enthusiasm  again  inflamed  the  hearts, 
and  was  supported  by  a  more  perfect  system  of 
military  tactics. 

In  warring  against  its  inexperienced  neighbors, 
the  nation  became  acquainted  with  its  own  power. 
The  monarchy  had  become  consolidated,  the  con¬ 
stitution  of  the  kingdom  had  assumed  a  more  re¬ 
s'-  From  the  Collection  of  Historical  Memoirs  ;  second 
division ;  first,  second,  third,  fourth,  fifth  and  eighth 
volumes. 


392 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


gular  form.  The  insolence  of  the  nobles,  which 
had  been  a  source  of  terror  heretofore,  had  ac¬ 
commodated  itself  to  the  restrictions  of  a  com¬ 
mon  obedience.  Regular  taxes  and  standing  ar¬ 
mies  fortified  and  protected  the  throne,  and  the 
king  was  something  more  than  an  opulent  noble¬ 
man  in  Ids  kingdom. 

It  wasln  Italy  that  the  power  of  this  kingdom 
was  seen  for  the  first  time.  In  this  country  the 
blood  of  its  heroic  sons  wras  indeed  shed  in  vain, 
but  Europe  could  not  refuse  the  tribute  of  admi¬ 
ration  to  a  nation  that  defended  itself  with  glory 
against  five  combined  enemies.  The  light  of  the 
fine  arts  had  shone  upon  Italy  not  long  previous, 
and  milder  customs  betrayed  their  ennobling  in¬ 
fluence.  Soon  their  power  over  the  insolent  con¬ 
querors  became  manifest ;  the  arts  of  Italy  sub¬ 
dued  the  genius  of  the  French,  as  the  arts  of 
Greece  had  formerly  subdued  its  Roman  conque¬ 
rors.  Soon  they  traveled  across  the  Alps  of 
Savoy,  which  warlike  legions  had  to  traverse  first. 
Protected  by  an  intelligent  king,  and  supported 
by  the  art  of  printing,  they  soon  spread  on  the 
grateful  soil  of  France.  The  dawn  of  civilization 
illumed  the  horizon  ;  France  hastened  with  rapid 
strides  toward  her.  The  new  opinions  broke  out 
and  sadly  arrested  this  fair  beginning.  The  spirit 
of  intolerance  and  sedition  extinguished  the 
feeble  glimmer  of  civilization,  and  the  torch  of 
fanaticism  set  the  world  in  a  blaze.  This  miser¬ 
able  country  was  more  deeply  than  ever  hurled 
back  again  into  its  former  barbarism,  the  victim 
of  a  long  and  pernicious  civil  war  which  had  been 
kindled  by  ambition,  and  was  fanned  by  religious 
frenzy  into  a  universal  conflagration. 

With  howsoever  keen  an  interest  the  new  ideas 
w'ere  embraced  by  one  half  of  Europe,  and  re¬ 
jected  by  another  ;  howsoever  powerful  a  motive- 
for  action  religious  fanaticism  is  in  itself:  yet  it 
was  particularly  worldly  passions  that  were  active 
in  this  great  event,  and  political  circumstances 
that  backed  up  the  contending  religions.  We 
know  that,  in  Germany,  Luther  and  his  doctrines 
were  favored  by  the  mistrust  of  the  Estates  in 
the  increasing  power  of  Austria  ;  the  hatred  of 
Spain,  and  the  dread  of  the  Inquisition,  increased 
the  number  of  Protestants  in  the  Netherlands. 
In  Sweden,  Gustavus  Vasa  extirpated  a  fearful 
faction  together  with  the  dominant  church,  and 
upon  the  ruin  of  this  church,  the  British  Eliza¬ 
beth  erected  more  firmly  the  superstructure  of 
her  unstable  throne.  A  succession  of  weak- 
minded  kings,  many  of  whom  were  not  of  age  ; 
a  wavering  political  system,  the  jealousy  and  ri¬ 
valry  of  the  magnates  of  the  kingdom,  who  de¬ 
sired  to  obtain  possession  of  the  government, 
helped  to'advance  the  new  religion  in  France. 

If  this  religion  is  now  prostrate  in  France,  and 
if  it  now  rules  in  one  half  of  Germany,  in  Eng¬ 
land,  in  the  North  and  Netherlands,  this  result 
cannot  be  traced  to  the  cowardice  or  indifference 
of  its  champions  ;  nor  is  it  owing  to  the  absence 
of  attempts  to  secure  the  supremacy  of  the  new 
creed.  A  violent  and  long-lasting  fermentation 
kept  the  fate  of  this  kingdom  in  suspense ;  for¬ 
eign  influence,  and  the  accidental  circumstance 
of  a  new  and  indirect  succession  to  the  throne, 
which  took  place  at  that  time,  hsd  to  decide  the 


destruction  of  the  Calvinistic  church  in  the 
French  kingdom. 

Already  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  new  doctrines  which  Luther  taught 
in  Germany,  found  their  way  to  the  French  pro¬ 
vinces.  Neither  the  censorship  of  the  Soi'bonne 
in  1521,  nor  the  decrees  of  the  parliament  of 
Paris,  nor  even  the  anathemas  of  the  bishops 
were  sufficient  to  arrest  the  rapid  favor  with 
which  these  doctrines  were  received  by  the  peo¬ 
ple,  by  the  nobility,  and  by  a  number  of  the  cler¬ 
gy.  The  vivacity  with  which  the  sanguine  and 
intelligent  people  of  France  treated  every  nov¬ 
elty,  characterized  the  proceedings  of  both  the 
partisans  and  the  adversaries  of  the  new  ideas. 
The  warlike  reign  of  Francis  I.,  and  his  under¬ 
standing  with  the  German  Protestants  did  not 
contribute  a  small  share  toward  securing  a  rapid 
circulation  of  Luther’s  innovations  among  the 
French  people.  In  vain  were  fire  and  sword  re¬ 
sorted  to  in  Paris ;  this  had  no  better  effect  than 
in  the  Netherlands,  in  Germany  and  England  ; 
the  wooden  piles  which  were  kindled  by  a  fanati¬ 
cal  spirit  of  persecution,  only  served  to  illumine 
the  heroic  faith  and  glory  of  its  victims. 

In  attacking  the  dominant  church,  the  Reform¬ 
ers  used  arms  that  were  far  more  effectual  than 
the  blind  zeal  of  the  superior  numbers  of  their 
opponents.  Taste  and  intelligence  fought  on  the 
side  of  the  former;  ignorance  and  pedantry  were 
the  weapons  of  the  latter.  The  immorality  and 
profound  ignorance  of  the  Catholic  clergy  offered 
vulnerable  weaknesses  to  the  attacks  of  the  Pro¬ 
testant  orators  and  authors  ;  it  was  impossible  to 
read  the  satires  which  these  adversaries  of  the 
ruling  church  launched  against  the  general  cor¬ 
ruption  of  her  servants,  without  being  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  a  reform  was  absolutely 
necessary.  The  reading  public  was  inundated, 
day  after  day,  with  writings  of  this  kind,  in  which 
the  ruling  vices  of  the  court  and  clergy  were  de¬ 
picted  with  more  or  less  truthfulness,  and  exposed 
to  the  indignation,  the  detestation,  and  ridicule  of 
the  people,  whereas  the  dogmas  of  the  new  church 
were  presented  with  all  the  gracefulness  of  style, 
with  all  the  charms  and  the  mighty  power  of  a 
beautiful  sublimity,  and  with  the  irresistible  fas¬ 
cinations  of  simple  and  unadorned  forms.  If 
these  masterpieces  of  eloquence  and  wit  were  de¬ 
voured  with  impatience,  the  absurd  or  pompous 
refutations  of  the  opposite  party  were  not  calcu¬ 
lated,  to  cause  any  other  feelings  than  those  of 
ennui.  In  a  short  time  the  reformed  religion  had 
conquered  the  most  enlightened  portion  of  the 
public,  which  constituted  an  undeniably  more 
brilliant  majority  than  the  numerically  superior 
crowd  that  favored  the  adversaries  of  the  former. 

The  continued  rage  of  persecution  finally 
obliged  the  oppressed  Protestants  to  appeal  to 
the  protection  oT  Queen  Margaret  of  Navarre, 
sister  of  Francis  I.  Taste  and  science  were  a 
sufficient  recommendation  in  the  eyes  of  this 
princess,  who,  appreciating  the  beautiful  and  the 
true,  was  easily  won  for  the  religion  of  her  favo¬ 
rites,  whose  talents  and  knowledge  she  respected. 
This  princess  was  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  circle 
of  learned  men,  and  the  freedom  of  thought 
which  ruled  among  this  company,  must  necessa- 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


393 


rily  favor  a  doctrine  whose  first  fruit  had  been  the 
emancipation  from  the  yoke  of  the  papal  hierar¬ 
chy  and  superstition.  At  the  court  of  this  queen 
the  oppressed  religion  found  an  asylum  ;  she 
saved  many  a  victim  from  the  bloody  spirit  of 
persecution,  and  the  still  feeble  number  clung  to 
this  feeble  branch  as  a  help  against  the  first  storm, 
which  otherwise  might  have  overwhelmed  the 
tender  flock  in  one  common  ruin.  The  alliance 
which  Francis  I.  had  concluded  with  the  Protes¬ 
tants  in  Germany,  did  not  modify  the  measures 
he  took  against  them  in  his  own  country.  In 
every  province,  the  sword  of  the  Inquisition  was 
drawn  against  them  ;  at  the  very  period  when  this 
equivocating  king  excited  the  princes  of  the 
Schmalkaldian  alliance  against  his  rival,  Charles 
V.,  he  permitted  the  blood-thirsty  fury  of  the  In¬ 
quisition  to  rage  against  their  brethren,  the  Wal- 
denses,  with  fire  and  sword.  Barbarous  and 
frightful,  writes  De  Thou,  was  the  sentence  that 
had  been  pronounced  against  them  ;  still  more 
barbarous  and  more  terrible  was  its  execution. 
Twenty-two  villages  were  laid  in  ashes,  with  a 
barbarity  that  would  have  shamed  the  most  bar¬ 
barous  hordes.  The  wretched  inhabitants,  sur¬ 
prised  at  night,  and  driven  from  mountain  to 
mountain  amid  the  glare  of  their  burning  homes, 
escaped  one  ambush  to  fall  into  another  one.  The 
plaintive  cries  of  the  old,  of  the  women  and  chil¬ 
dren,  far  from  softening  the  brutal  hearts  of  the 
soldiers,  served  only  to  reveal  to  these  inhuman 
tigers  the  track  of  the  fugitives,  and  to  betray 
the  victims  of  an  insatiable  and  diabolical  frenzy. 
More  than  seven  hundred  unfortunates  were  cru¬ 
elly  murdered  in  the  single  city  of  Cabri&res  ;  all 
the  females  of  this  place  were  suffocated  in  a 
burning  barn,  and  those  who  attempted  to  jump 
from  the  upper  windows  were  caught  on  pikes. 
Even  the  soil  which  the  industry  of  these  pious 
Protestants  had  converted  into  a  paradise,  was 
visited  with  destruction,  on  account  of  the  pre¬ 
tended  errors  of  its  cultivators.  Not  only  the 
houses  were  demolished  ;  the  trees,  even,  were  cut 
down,  the  crops  were  destroyed,  the  fields  laid 
waste,  and  the  smiling  country  was  transformed 
into  a  gloomy  desert. 

The  indignation  which  this  useless  and  unexam¬ 
pled  cruelty  excited,  gained  more  converts  for 
Protestantism  than  the  inquisitorial  zeal  of  the 
clergy  was  able  to  destroy.  Every  day  the  num¬ 
ber  of  the  Reformers  increased,  especially  since 
Calvin  had  set  up  a  new  religious  system  in  Ge¬ 
neva,  had  settled  the  wavering  doctrinal  opinions 
by  his  essay  concerning  the  instruction  in  Chris¬ 
tianity,  had  imparted  more  regularity  to  the  divine 
service,  and  had  united  under  a  definite  creed  the 
rather  loosely-eoherent  members  of  his  church. 
In  a  short  time,  the  more  simple  and  rigid  theo¬ 
logy  of  the  French  apostle  succeeded  in  supersed¬ 
ing  even  Luther,  and  his  doctrine  was  received 
with  so  niuch  more  favor  the  more  it  was  purified 
of  mysteries  and  troublesome  rites,  and  the  more 
it  surpassed  the  Lutheran  creed  in  separating 
itself  from  the  Popish  Church. 

The  carnage  among  the  Waldenses  brought  the 
Calvinists,  whose  indignation  now  knew  no  fear, 
to  light.  Not  content,  as  hitherto,  to  meet  under 
cover  of  the  night,  they  now  made  bold  to  scorn 


the  inquiries  of  the  authorities  by  public  conven¬ 
ticles,  and  to  sing  the  psalms  of  Marot  in  their 
crowded  assemblies,  even  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris. 
The  charm  of  this  novelty  soon  brought  all  Paris 
to  these  meetings,  and  the  graceful  harmony  of 
these  songs  converted  numbers  to  Calvin’s  views. 
This  bold  step  had  revealed  to  them  their  formi¬ 
dable  number,  and  very  soon  the  other  Protes¬ 
tants  of  the  kingdom  followed  the  example  of 
their  brethren  in  the  capital. 

In  vain  did  Henry  II.,  who  persecuted  the  Pro¬ 
testants  still  more  fiercely  than  his  father,  employ 
the  terrors  of  the  royal  authority  against  them.  In 
vain  the  king  increased  the  severity  of  the  edicts 
that  condemned  their  faith.  In  vain  this  prince 
degraded  himself  so  far  as  to  heighten  by  his  pre¬ 
sence  the  impression  made  by  their  execution,  and 
to  encourage  their  executioners.  The  wood-pile 
was  smoking  in  every  large  city  of  France,  but 
not  even  from  his  own  immediate  presence  the 
king  was  able  to  banish  the  Protestant  creed. 
This  doctrine  had  found  partisans  among  the 
army,  in  the  courts  of  justice,  even  at  his  own 
court  in  St.  Germain  ;  and  Francis  de  Coligny, 
Sir  Andelot,  who  was  a  colonel  in  the  infantry, 
declared  to  the  king  that  they  preferred  death  to 
visiting  a  mass. 

Frightened  by  the  constantly  increasing  danger 
which  threatened  the  religion  of  his  people,  and 
even  his  throne,  for  whose  preservation  he  was 
filled  by  the  enemies  of  Protestantism  with  the 
liveliest  apprehensions,  this  prince  abandoned 
himself  to  all  the  violent  measures  which  the  cu¬ 
pidity  of  his  courtiers,  and  the  impure  zeal  of  the 
clergy  could  contrive.  In  order  to  paralyze  the 
courage  of  the  new  party  by  a  decisive  blow,  he 
appeared  one  day  in  parliament,  and  caused  five 
members  of  this  court,  who  had  shown  themselves 
favorable  to  the  new  religion,  to  be  arrested,  with 
orders  to  convict  them  without  loss  of  time. 
From  this  moment,  the  new  sect  was  persecuted 
without  mercy.  The  nefarious  brood  of  secret 
spies  was  encouraged  by  bribes,  the  dungeons 
were  filled  with  the  victims  of  intolerance;  no¬ 
body  dared  raise  a  voice  in  their  favor.  In  1559, 
the  reformed  party  stood  on  the  brink  of  ruin  ;  a 
powerful  prince,  who  was  at  peace  with  Europe, 
and  the  supreme  ruler  in  his  kingdom,  and  who 
was  instigated  to  this  work  by  the  pope  and  by 
Spain,  had  vowed  its  extermination.  This  fatal 
result  was  prevented  by  an  unexpected  turn  of 
fortune.  The  irreconcilable  enemy  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  died  in  the  midst  of  his  preparations,  of 
a  wound  inflicted  by  a  splinter  from  a  broken 
lance,  which  flew  into  his  eye  during  a  tournament. 

This  sudden  demise  of  Henry  II.  initiated  the 
dangerous  disturbances  which  tore  the  kingdom 
for  half  a  century,  and  almost  completed  its  ruin. 
Henry  left  behind  him  his  consort  Catharine,  of 
the  ducal  house  of  the  Medici  of  Florence,  and 
four  sons,  the  eldest  of  whom,  named  Francis, 
had  scarcely  reached  his  sixteenth  year.  This 
king  being  already,  at  this  age,  married  to  the 
young  queen  of  Scotland,  Mary  Stuart,  the 
sceptre  of  two  kingdoms  was  united  in  two  hands 
that  were  not  yet  fit  to  govern  themselves. 
A  legion  of  ambitious  courtiers  sought  to  wield 
the  power  of  government  in  the  name  of  these 


394 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


young  rulers,  and  France  became  the  victim  of 
the  struggle  which  resulted  from  these  intrigues. 

It  was  especially  two  powerful  factions  that 
sought  to  control  the  young  couple  and  the  ad¬ 
ministration  of  public  affairs.  One  party  was 
headed  by  Anna  de  Montmorency,  the  Constable 
Df  France,  minister  and  favorite  of  the  late  king, 
whose  confidence  he  had  won  by  his  bravery  and 
by  an  incorruptible  patriotism.  He  wras  a  man 
of  unshakable  firmness,  equally  proof  against  the 
allurements  of  fortune  and  the  blows  of  adversity. 
He  had  exhibited  this  character  during  the  previ¬ 
ous  reigns,  when  he  bore,  with  equal  composure 
and  unwavering  courage,  the  vacillating  temper  of 
his  king,  and  the  changing  fortunes  of  war.  The 
soldier  and  the  courtier,  the  financial  agent  and 
the  judge,  all  trembled  before  his  penetrating 
glance,  which  no  false  appearances  could  deceive, 
before  this  spirit  of  order  which  was  unforgiving 
against  transgressors,  before  this  firm  virtue  which 
no  temptation  could  shake.  Grown  up  in  the 
rude  school  of  war,  and  accustomed  to  enforce 
absolute  obedience  as  the  commander  of  armies, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  accommodating  manners 
of  a  statesman  and  courtier,  that  win  by  yielding, 
and  rule  by  submission.  He  lost  the  greatness 
which  he  had  acquired  on  the  theatre  of  war,  in 
the  position  which  the  force  of  circumstances  as¬ 
signed  to  him,  and  which  ambition  and  patriotism 
commanded  him  to  fill.  Such  a  man  was  nowhere 
in  his  place  except  where  he  could  rule  ;  he  was 
well  capable  of  maintaining  his  position  as  a 
leader,  but  he  was  unable  to  conquer  it,  by  the 
cunning  arts  of  a  courtier. 

His  long  experience ;  the  services  he  had  ren¬ 
dered  to  the  kingdom,  and  which  envy  itself  dared 
not  question  ;  his  probity,  to  which  even  his  ene¬ 
mies  did  homage;  the  favor  of  the  late  monarch, 
and  the  splendor  of  his  house,  seemed  to  entitle 
the  constable  to  the  first  office  in  the  kingdom, 
and  to  silence  every  other  claim.  But  it  required 
a  peculiar  man  to  do  justice  to  the  greatness  of 
such  a  servant,  a  man  whose  love  for  the  public 
good  would  enable  him  to  overlook  a  rough  exte¬ 
rior.  Francis  II.  was  a  young  man,  to  whom  the 
throne  was  a  source  of  pleasure,  not  of  business, 
and  who  could  not  well  be  pleased  with  such  a 
rigid  controller  of  his  actions.  Montmorency’s 
virtue,  that  had  endeared  him  to  the  father  and 
grandfather,  was  objectionable  in  the  eyes  of  the 
frivolous  and  feeble-minded  son,  and  rendered  it 
easy  for  the  opposite  faction  to  triumph  over  this 
adversary. 

The  Guises,  a  branch  of  the  princely  house  of 
Lorraine,  were  the  soul  of  this  faction.  Francis 
of  Lorraine,  Duke  of  Guise,  and  uncle  of  the  reign¬ 
ing  queen,  united  in  his  person  all  the  qualities 
which  chain  the  attention  of  the  world,  and  gain 
dominion  over  men.  France  worshiped  him  as 
her  saviour,  as  the  restorer  of  her  honor  in  the 
eyes  of  Europe.  The  fortune  of  Charles  Y.  had 
failed  against  his  skill  and  courage  ;  his  resolute 
character  had  wiped  out  the  shame  of  former 
rulers,  and  had  taken  Calais,  the  last  place  which 
the  English  held  on  French  territory,  and  which 
had  been  in  their  possession  for  two  centuries. 
His  name  was  in  every  body’s  mouth;  every  heart 
admired  him.  To  the  far-reaching  glance  of  the 


statesman  and  commander,  he  joined  the  boldness 
of  a  hero  and  the  suppleness  of  the  courtier.  Both 
fortune  and  nature  had  marked  him  as  a  ruler. 
His  noble  form,  his  erect  and  kingly  gait,  his  open 
and  frank  mien  bribed  the  senses  even  before  he 
conquered  the  hearts.  The  splendor  of  his  rank 
and  power  was  heightened  by  an  hereditary  dig¬ 
nity  that  did  not  seem  to  require  any  external 
adornments  in  order  to  rule.  Condescending  with¬ 
out  degrading  himself ;  familiar  and  easy  with  the 
humblest,  without  exposing  the  secrets  of  his 
plans  ;  liberal  toward  his  friends,  and  generous  to¬ 
ward  the  disarmed  enemy,  he  seemed  to  make  an 
effort  to  reconcile  envy  with  his  greatness,  and 
the  pride  of  a  jealous  nation  with  his  power.  All 
these  advantages  were  means  to  gratify  an  insa- 
tiable  ambition  which  pursued  its  bold  plans  un¬ 
terrified  by  obstacles,  regardless  of  private  con¬ 
siderations,  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  thousands, 
favored  by  the  general  confusion,  and  armed  with 
the  frightful  engines  of  power.  The  same  ambi¬ 
tion.  assisted  by  similar  qualities,  ruled  the  Car¬ 
dinal  Lorraine,  brother  of  the  duke,  who  was  more 
powerful  by  his  science  and  eloquence  than  the 
duke  by  his  sword  ;  more  terrible  in  his  scarlet  robe 
than  the  duke  in  his  cuirass ;  who  armed  his  pri¬ 
vate  passions  with  the  sword  of  religion,  and 
covered  the  dark  projects  of  his  ambition  with  this 
holy  mantle.  Agreed  in  their  common  plans, 
these  two  brothers  shared  the  nation  between 
themselves,  that  writhed  in  their  fetters  even  be¬ 
fore  it  was  aware  of  its  bondage. 

These  two  brothers  found  it  easy  to  monopolize 
the  young  king,  who  was  completely  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  his  spouse  ;  they  found  it  more  difficult 
|  to  win  the  queen  dowager  to  their  plans.  The 
name  of  queen-mother  gave  her  power  at  a  divided 
court,  which  was  still  increased  by  her  natural 
mental  superiority  over  the  feeble  mind  of  her  son  ; 
a  deeply  scheming  genius,  fertile  in  resources,  and 
allied  to  a  boundless  love  of  rule,  might  make  her 
an  irreconcilable  enemy.  No  sacrifice  was  spared, 
no  humiliation  was  dreaded  to  obtain  her  favor. 
No  duty  was  so  sacred,  that  was  not  violated  if 
her  inclinations  had  to  be  flattered;  no  friendship 
was  so  firmly  knit,  that  was  not  torn,  if  her  ven¬ 
geance  had  to  be  gratified  ;  no  enmity  was  so 
deeply  rooted  that  was  not  extinguished,  if  her 
favorites  had  to  be  pleased.  At  the  same  time 
nothing  was  left  undone  which  might  alienate  the 
queen-mother  from  this  commander,  and  by  dint 
of  intrigues  all  intimacy  between  the  queen  and 
the  constable  was  indeed  prevented. 

In  the  mean  while  the  constable  had  moved 
heaven  and  earth  to  obtain  a  formidable  party  that 
might  be  able  to  overwhelm  the  house  of  Lor¬ 
raine.  Soon  after  Henry’s  death,  the  constable 
convoked  all  the  princes  of  royal  descent,  among 
whom  Anthony  Bourbon,  King  of  Navarre,  was 
conspicuous,  in  order  to  invite  them  to  occupy 
near  the  king  the  posts  to  which  they  were  entitled 
by  their  rank.  But  before  they  had  time  to  make 
their  appearance,  the  Guises  had  anticipated  them. 
The  king  declared  to  the  deputation  which  the  par 
liament  had  sent  in  order  to  congratulate  him  on 
his  ascension  to  the  throne,  that  henceforth  the 
princes  of  Lorraine  would  have  to  be  consulted  in 
every  affair  of  state.  The  duke  at  once  took  pos- 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


395 


session  of  the  command  of  the  army  ;  the  Cardinal 
Lorraine  selected  the  important  department  of 
the  finances  as  his  special  branch  of  government. 
Montmorency  was  coolly  sent  to  his  estates. 
Thereupon  a  convention  was  held  at  Vendome, 
by  the  dissatisfied  princes  of  the  blood,  which  the 
constable  directed,  although  absent,  and  where 
measures  against  the  common  enemy  were  con¬ 
certed.  In  accordance  with  their  plan,  the  King 
of  Navarre  was  sent  to  the  court  for  the  purpose 
of  attempting  a  final  negotiation  with  the  queen- 
mother  before  violent  measures  were  to  be  resorted 
to.  This  commission,  however,  was  confided  to  a 
messenger  whose  want  of  skill  could  not  fail  to  be 
defeated.  Anthony  of  Navarre,  to  whom  the 
Guises  showed  themselves  in  all  their  splendor, 
was  overawed  by  their  assumption,  and  left  Paris 
and  the  court,  without  having  been  able  to  accom¬ 
plish  any  thing. 

This  easy  triumph  emboldened  ■  the  brothers 
Lorraine,  who  now  began  to  set  all  bounds  at  de¬ 
fiance.  Having  control  of  the  public  revenues, 
they  had  spent  untold  sums  in  order  to  reward 
their  own  creatures.  Honors,  prebends,  pensions, 
were  lavished  with  a  liberal  hand.  But  this  liber¬ 
ality  only  served  to  feed  the  rapacity  of  the  fa¬ 
vorites,  and  to  increase  the  number  of  those 
who  were  left  unrewarded.  The  cupidity  which 
prompted  them  to  appropriate  to  their  own  use 
the  most  lucrative  resources  of  the  state;  the 
offensive  impudence  with  which  they  monopolized 
the  most  important  offices  at  the  expense  of  the 
highest  families  in  the  kingdom,  alienated  the 
public  mind  ;  but  nothing  revolted  French  pride 
more  than  the  cardinal’s  assumption  at  Fontaine¬ 
bleau.  To  this  spot,  where  the  court  happened 
to  reside,  the  presence  of  the  monarch  had  at¬ 
tracted  a  number  of  public  servants  who  had 
claims  against  the  government  for  back  pay,  or 
pensions,  or  desired  to  be  rewarded  for  the  services 
they  had  rendered  the  state.  The  cardinal  was 
incommoded  by  the  warmth  with  which  these  per¬ 
sons,  among  whom  the  most  meritorious  officers 
of  the  army  might  be  found,  pressed  their  claims. 
In  order  to  get  rid  of  them,  the  cardinal  had  a 
gallows  erected  near  the  royal  palace,  and  caused 
the  public  crier  to  announce  that  every  body,  of 
whatever  rank,  who  had  come  to  Fontainebleau 
for  the  purpose  of  presenting  a  petition  or  making 
any  request  whatsoever,  must  quit  the  place  within 
twenty-four  hours,  on  pain  of  being  hung.  No 
Frenchman  will  bear  such  treatment,  not  even  at 
the  hands  of  a  king.  Fontainebleau  was  evacuated, 
but  the  germ  of  dissatisfaction  was  transplanted  to 
every  corner  of  the  kingdom. 

Considering  the  advances  which  Calvinism  had 
made  in  the  kingdom  toward  the  end  of  Henry’s 
reign,  it  was  important  to  know  what  measures 
these  ministers  would  take  against  it.  By  con¬ 
viction  as  well  as  by  interest  zealous  partisans  of 
the  pope  ;  disposed  perhaps  even  at  this  early 
period  to  rely  upon  Spanish  help  ;  convinced  of 
the  necessity  of  winning  the  most  numerous  and 
most  powerful  portion  of  the  nation  by  a  genuine 
or  simulated  zeal  for  the  faith  :  they  could  not 
hesitate  regarding  the  part  that  had  to  be  taken 
under  these  circumstances.  Shortly  before  his 
demise,  Henry  II.  had  determined  on  extermin¬ 


ating  the  Protestants,  and  all  that  had  to  be  done 
in  order  to  attain  this  end,  would  be  to  let  the 
persecution  that  had  already  been  initiated,  run 
its  course.  The  interval  of  peace  which  the  death 
of  this  king  procured  for  the  Protestants,  was  not 
long.  The  spirit  of  persecution  was  rekindled  in 
all  its  fury,  and  the  princes  of  Lorraine  hesitated 
so  much  less  in  their  crusade  of  extermination  as 
it  was  directed  against  a  party  whom  their  own 
enemies  had  been  secretly  favoring  for  years. 

The  trial  of  the  celebrated  councilor  Anna  du 
Bourg  announced  the  bloody  measures  of  the  new 
government.  He  paid  for  his  pious  firmness,  at 
the  gallows  ;  the  other  four  councilors  who  had 
been  arrested  with  him,  experienced  a  milder  treat¬ 
ment.  This  unequivocal  public  measure  of  the 
princes  of  Lorraine  against  Calvinism,  afforded 
the  dissatisfied  magnates  a  desirable  opportunity 
to  arm  the  reformed  party  against  the  ministry,  to 
identify  the  cause  of  their  humbled  ambition  with 
the  cause  of  religion  and  the  welfare  of  the  whole 
Protestant  church.  Now  the  fatal  period  was 
inaugurated,  when  political  complaints  were  con¬ 
founded  with  the  interests  of  faith,  and  when  re¬ 
ligious  fanaticism  wras  armed  against  political 
oppression.  With  a  little  more  moderation  toward 
the  Calvinists,  the  Guises  might  have  easily  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  depriving  the  offended  magnates  of  the 
kingdom  of  a  formidable  support,  and  avoiding 
the  horrors  of  civil  war.  By  irritating  the  mal¬ 
content  and  the  Calvinists,  whose  number  had 
become  very  considerable,  they  compelled  both 
parties  to  seek  each  other,  to  devise  in  common 
the  means  of  gratifying  their  revenge  and  removing 
the  causes  of  apprehension,  to  combine  their 
grievances,  and  to  unite  in  one  formidable  party. 
Henceforth  the  Calvinists  looked  upon  the  princes 
of  Lorraine  as  the  oppressors  of  the  Protestant 
faith,  and  regarded  every  one  who  was  persecuted 
by  their  hatred,  as  a  victim  of  intolerance  that 
had  to  be  avenged.  Henceforth  the  Catholics 
beheld  in  these  same  princes  the  protectors  of 
their  church  ;  and  in  every  one  who  rose  against 
them,  a  Huguenot  who  sought  to  break  down 
the  orthodox  church.  Each  party  now  had  a 
leader,  each  ambitious  magnate  had  his  party. 
The  signal  for  a  general  dissolution  was  given, 
and  the  deceived  nation  was  involved  in  the  private 
quarrels  of  a  few  dangerous  citizens. 

The  Calvinists  were  headed  by  the  princes  of 
Bourbon,  Anthony  of  Navarre,  and  Louis,  Prince 
Conde,  together  with  the  illustrious  family  of  the 
Chatillons,  exalted  in  history  by  the  great  name 
of  Admiral  Coligny.  It  was  not  without  reluctance 
that  the  pleasure-loving  Prince  Conde  placed  him¬ 
self  at  the  head  of  a  party  against  the  Guises  ; 
but  their  excessive  pride,  and  a  succession  ot  af¬ 
fronts  had  finally  roused  his  slumbering  ambition 
from  an  indolent  sensuality  ;  the  urgent  solicita¬ 
tions  of  the  Chatillons  compelled  him  to  exchauge 
the  couch  of  pleasure  for  the  arena  of  politics  and 
war.  During  this  period  the  house  ot  Chatillons 
was  represented  by  three  incomparable  brothers, 
the  eldest  of  whom,  Admiral  Coligny,  served  the 
public  cause  by  his  talent  as  a  general,  by  his 
wisdom  and  his  persevering  courage  ;  the  second, 
Francis  Andelot,  by  his  sword;  and  the  third. 
Cardinal  Chatillons,  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  by  his 


396 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


skill  in  negotiations,  and  his  cunning.  A  rare 
harmony  of  sentiments  made  of  these  otherwise 
unequal  brothers  a  terrible  unit,  and  the  posts  of 
honor  which  they  filled,  the  alliances  which  they 
had  made,  the  respect  which  their  name  inspired, 
gave  to  the  enterprise  which  they  headed  a  char¬ 
acter  of  weight  and  importance. 

At  one  of  the  Prince  Conde’s  castles,  on  the 
frontier  of  Picardy,  the  malcontents  held  a  secret 
meeting,  where  it  was  decided  to  remove  the  king 
by  force,  and  to  seize  his  ministers,  dead  or  alive. 
Things  had  come  to  this  pass  that  the  person  of 
the  monarch  was  regarded  as  a  mere  chattel,  value¬ 
less  in  itself,  but  which  might  become  a  fearful 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  those  who  happened 
to  have  possession  of  it.  Since  this  bold  plot 
could  only  be  carried  out  with  arms  in  their 
hands,  the  conspirators  concluded  at  the  same 
time  to  equip  a  military  force  that  was  to  repair, 
in  small  detachments,  from  every  part  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  to  Blois,  where  the  court  was  expected  to 
pass  the  spring.  This  whole  undertaking  being 
cloaked  with  the  mantle  of  religion,  the  assistance 
of  the  Calvinists,  who  numbered  upward  of  two 
millions  in  the  kingdom,  was  firmly  depended 
upon.  Many  warm  Catholics  were  drawn  into 
the  conspiracy  under  pretext  that  it  was  directed 
against  the  Guises.  In  order  to  hide  the  Prince 
Conde,  who  deemed  it  advisable  to  remain  un¬ 
known  for  the  present  as  the  real  head  of  the  con¬ 
spiracy,  so  much  more  effectually,  a  visible  leader 
was  appointed  in  the  person  of  a  certain  Renau- 
die,  a  nobleman  from  Perigord,  whom  his  daring 
courage,  his  skill  in  the  managementof  dangerous 

ffiots,  his  indefatigable  activity,  his  political  re- 
ations,  and  his  connection  with  the  exiled  Calvin¬ 
ists,  rendered  peculiarly  adapted  to  this  office. 
On  account  of  a  crime  he  had  been  a  fugitive  for 
a  long  time,  and  had  learned  to  practice  for  his 
own  benefit  the  art  of  secrecy,  which  his  present 
commission  demanded  of  him.  The  whole  party 
knew  him  as  a  resolute  person  who  was  prepared 
for  every  bold  enterprise,  and  the  enthusiastic 
confidence  which  helped  him  to  overcome  every 
obstacle,  was  well  calculated  to  inspire  every 
member  of  the  conspiracy. 

The  preliminary  measures  were  concerted  with 
the  greatest  care ;  every  possible  mishap  was  cal¬ 
culated  in  advance,  in  order  to  trust  as  little  as 
possible  to  chance.  Renaudie  had  detailed  in¬ 
structions,  omitting  nothing  that  might  help  to 
secure  a  favorable  termination  to  the  enterprise. 
The  real  leader  of  the  plot  was  to  become  known, 
as  soon  as  the  moment  of  execution  should  have 
come.  In  the  year  1560,  Renaudie  assembled  his 
noblemen  at  Nantes,  in  Bretagne,  where  the  par¬ 
liament  happened  to  have  met  at  this  period,  and 
numbers  could  easily  be  assembled  under  cover  of 
a  series  of  entertainments  occasioned  by  the  nup¬ 
tials  of  several  magnates  of  the  kingdom.  Simi¬ 
lar  circumstances  were  employed  a  few  years  later 
by  the  Gueux  of  the  Netherlands,  for  the  purpose 
of  subduing  the  Spanish  minister  Granvella.  In 
a  speech  full  of  eloquence  and  fire,  which  has 
been  preserved  by  the  historian  De  Thou,  Renau¬ 
die  revealed  to  those  who  were  not  as  yet  aware 
of  it,  the  object  of  their  meeting,  and  sought  to 
excite  the  remainder  to  an  active  participation. 


Nothing  was  left  unsaid  in  order  to  heap  odium 
upon  the  Guises ;  all  the  troubles  that  had  af 
flicted  France  since  their  arrival  in  this  country, 
were  charged  upon  these  hated  enemies.  They 
were  accused  of  the  dark  project  of  removing 
the  princes  of  the  blood,  and  the  noblest  and 
most  meritorious  servants  of  the  king,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  the  young  king,  whose  frail 
person  was  very  unsafe  in  such  hands,  an  instru¬ 
ment  of  their  artful  designs,  and  elevating  them¬ 
selves  to  the  throne,  even  though  the  whole  royal 
family  should  have  to  be  extirpated.  In  this  sup¬ 
position  every  step  against  them  was  justified  by 
honor  and  patriotism.  “  As  far  as  I  am  con¬ 
cerned,”  concluded  the  orator  with  emphasis,  “  [ 
take  Heaven  to  witness  that  it  is  not  my  intention 
to  undertake  or  to  say  any  thing  against  the  king, 
the  queen-mother,  or  the  princes  of  his  house  ;  but 
I  swear  that  I  will  defend  the  majesty  of  the 
throne  and  the  freedom  of  my  country,  with  my 
last  breath  against  these  foreigners.” 

Such  a  declaration  could  not  fail  of  its  effect 
upon  men,  who,  irritated  by  private  grievances, 
and  carried  away  by  religious  zeal  and  the  wild 
enthusiasm  of  the  times,  were  prepared  for  the 
most  violent  measures.  All  repeated  this  oath, 
which  was  drawn  up  in  writing,  and  sealed  by 
joining  hands  and  embracing  each  other.  There 
is  a  remarkable  similarity  between  the  conduct 
of  the  conspirators  of  Nantes  and  the  confede¬ 
rates  of  Brussels.  There,  as  here,  it  is  the  legiti¬ 
mate  sovereign  whom  they  pretend  to  shield 
against  the  assumptions  of  his  ministers  ;  whereas 
the  truth  is,  that  the  conspirators  encroach  upon 
one  of  his  most  sacred  privileges, — the  appointing 
of  his  own  servants.  There,  as  here,  it  is  the  state 
that  they  pretend  to  fight  for;  whereas  it  is,  in 
reality,  to  be  abandoned  to  all  the  dangers  and 
horrors  of  a  civil  war.  Having  concerted  the 
necessary  measures,  and  the  city  of  Blois  having 
been  selected  as  the  place  where  the  blow  was  to 
be  struck  on  the  15th  of  -May,  1560,  the  conspira¬ 
tors  separated,  every  nobleman  going  to  his  pro¬ 
vince  for  the  purpose  of  equipping  the  necessary 
number  of  men.  All  this  was  done  with  perfect 
success,  nor  was  the  secret  divulged  by  any  of  the 
numerous  *  conspirators.  The  private  soldier 
bound  himself  to  the  captain  without  knowing 
the  enemy  against  whom  he  was  hired  to  fight. 
Small  detachments  already  began  to  arrive  from 
the  more  remote  provinces,  whose  numbers 
swelled  in  proportion  as  they  approached  more 
nearly  to  their  place  of  destination.  Troups  al¬ 
ready  began  to  assemble  in  the  centre  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  whilst  the  Guises  were  plunged  in  an  unsus¬ 
pecting  security  at  Blois,  where  they  had  accom¬ 
panied  the  king.  An  obscure  hint,  which  warned 
them  of  the  threatening  danger,  roused  them 
from  their  slumber,  and  caused  them  to  transport 
the  court  to  Amboise,  whose  citadel  it  was  hoped 
could  be  maintained  against  a  sudden  surprise. 

This  untoward  circumstance  did  not  alter  the 
nature  of  the  plot,  although  the  execution  might 
be  modified  to  some  extent.  Every  arrangement 
was  carried  out  without  impediment,  and  the 
Guises  owed  their  preservation  to  an  accident,  not 
to  their  own  vigilance,  or  to  the  treason  of  a  con¬ 
spirator.  Renaudie  himself  committed  the  indis- 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


397 


cretion  of  communicating  the  plot  to  a  lawyer  in 
Paris,  named  Avenelles,  who  was  a  friend  of  his, 
and  in  whose  house  he  resided.  This  man’s  timid 
conscience  would  not  permit  him  to  conceal  the 
conspiracy.  He  revealed  the  whole  to  a  secretary 
of  the  Duke  of  Guise,  and  was  at  once  sent  to 
Amboise,  in  order  to  repeat  his  statement  before 
the  duke.  As  great  as  the  carelessness  of  the 
ministers  had  been,  as  great  were  now  their  terror, 
mistrust,  and  confusion.  They  suspected  every 
body  near  them.  Even  the  dungeons  were  ex¬ 
amined,  with  a  view  of  discovering  traces  of  the 
plot.  The  Chatillons  being  suspected  of  compli¬ 
city,  they  were  invited  to  Amboise,  under  some 
pretext  or  other,  where  they  might  be  watched 
with  more  certainty.  Their  opinion  being  asked 
concerning  the  present  state  of  affairs,  Coligny 
did  not  hesitate  to  reproach  the  ministers  in  the 
most  violent  language,  and  to  defend  the  cause 
of  the  Protestants.  His  representations,  coupled 
with  the  present  apprehensions,  had  the  effect  of 
causing  the  promulgation  of  an  edict  securing 
freedom  from  persecution  to  all  Protestants,  ex¬ 
cept  to  their  ministers  and  to  those  who  had  been 
involved  in  actual  measures  against  the  public 
peace.  But  this  expedient  was  too  late,  and  the 
neighborhood  of  Amboise  became  crowded  with 
conspirators.  Conde  himself  made  his  appear¬ 
ance  in  this  city  with  a  numerous  retinue,  with 
whom  he  intended  to  assist  the  conspirators  at 
the  favorable  moment.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  a  number  of  them  were  to  present  themselves 
unarmed  at  the  gates  of  Amboise,  and,  in  case 
they  should  not  meet  with  any  resistance,  they 
were  to  take  possession  of  the  streets  and  walls 
of  the  fortress.  For  more  safety,  they  were  to  be 
assisted  by  a  few  squadrons  of  cavalry,  who  were 
to  hasten  to  their  assistance  in  case  any  resistance 
should  be  offered.  In  such  a  case,  the  bands  of 
infantry  that  were  hovering  in  the  neighborhood 
were  likewise  to  come  to  the  rescue.  While  all 
this  was  going  on  outside  the  fortress,  the  con¬ 
spirators  in  the  city,  most  of  whom  were  hidden 
among  the  retinue  of  the  Prince  Conde,  were  to 
seize  the  princes  of  Lorraine,  dead  or  alive.  At 
this  juncture,  the  Prince  Conde  was  to  proclaim 
himself  the  leader  of  the  revolutionists,  and  was 
to  seize  the  reins  of  government. 

This  whole  plan  having  been  communicated  to 
the  Duke  of  Guise,  he  was  enabled  to  defeat  it  by 
proper  measures..  He  caused  soldiers  to  be  en¬ 
listed,  and  sent  orders  to  the  governors  of  the 
different  provinces  to  arrest  all  armed  bands  that 
"were  marching  to  Amboise.  The  neighboring 
nobles  were  invited  to  arm  in  defense  of  the  king. 
Those  most  suspected,  were  removed  under  some 
trivial  pretext,  the  Chatillons  and  the  Prince 
Conde  were  kept  busy  in  Amboise  surrounded  by 
spies,  the  royal  guard  was  changed,  and  the  gates 
which  had  been  singled  out  as  the  points  of  at¬ 
tack,  were  barricaded.  Outside  of  the  city,  nu¬ 
merous  flying  detachments  dispersed  or  cut  down 
all  stray  partisans  of  the  plot,  and  every  one  who 
was  taken  alive,  was  hung. 

In  this  conjuncture  of  circumstances,  Renaudie 
arrived  before  Amboise.  One  band  of  conspira¬ 
tors  arrived  after  another,  the  misfortune  of  their 
predecessors  being  insufficient  to  frighten  back 


the  successively  arriving  detachments.  The 
leader  used  every  exertion  to  encourage  the  com¬ 
batants  by  his  presence,  to  collect  the  scattering 
forces,  to  arrest  the  fugitives.  Alone,  accompa¬ 
nied  by  a  single  man,  he  roved  through  the  fields, 
and,  being  met  by  a  troop  of  royal  horsemen,  was 
shot,  after  a  desperate  resistance.  His  body  was 
sent  to  Amboise,  where  it  was  tied  to  the  gallows, 
with  the  inscription:  “  Chief  of  the  rebels.'" 

Immediately  after  this  event,  an  edict  was  pro¬ 
mulgated  guaranteeing  amnesty  to  any  of  the 
conspirators  who  would  lay  down  their  arms  on 
the  spot.  Confiding  in  the  honesty  of  the  govern¬ 
ment,  many  returned,  but  soon  found  cause  to 
rue  this  step.  A  last  unsuccessful  attempt  which 
had  been  made  by  the  conspirators  to  take  Am¬ 
boise,  exhausted  the  patience  of  the  Guises,  and 
induced  them  to  take  back  the  royal  promise. 
The  governors  of  the  provinces  received  orders 
to  arrest  the  returning  noblemen,  and  in  the  city 
of  Amboise,  the  most  frightful  proceedings  were 
instituted  against  all  of  whom  the  Guises  en¬ 
tertained  the  least  suspicion.  Here,  as  in  other 
parts  of  the  kingdom,  the  blood  of  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  was  shed,  who  frequently  were  ignorant  of 
the  causes  of  their  condemnation.  Without 
trial,  they  were  thrown  into  the  river  Loire  with 
their  hands  and  feet  tied,  because  the  hands  of  the 
executioners  tired  of  doing  the  work  of  blood. 
A  few  of  the  more  prominent  leaders  were  re¬ 
served  for  judicial  trials,  in  order  to  palliate  the 
previous  carnage  by  these  mock  forms  of  justice. 

Whilst  the  conspiracy  was  terminating  in  this 
unfortunate  manner,  and  numbers  of  supposed 
accomplices  were  sacrificed  to  the  vengeance  of 
the  Guises,  the  Prince  Conde,  the  most  guilty  of 
the  conspirators,  and  the  invisible  manager  of  the 
plot,  acted  his  part  with  an  unexampled  dissimu¬ 
lation,  and  undertook  to  bid  defiance  to  the  suspi¬ 
cion  that  was  crushing  him  on  all  sides.  Relying 
upon  the  impenetrability  of  his  secret,  and  per¬ 
suaded  that  not  even  the  rack  could  extort  from 
his  partisans  a  confession  of  what  they  themselves 
were  ignorant  of,  he  demanded  an  audience  of  the 
king,  and  insisted  upon  being  permitted  to  justify 
himself  formally  before  the  world.  He  did  so  in 
presence  of  the  whole  court,  and  of  the  foreign 
ambassadors  who  had  been  expressly  invited  to 
this  scene,  with  the  noble  indignation  of  an  inno¬ 
cently-accused  man,  with  all  the  firmness  and 
dignity  which  the  consciousness  of  a  just  cause  is 
alone  capable  of  inspiring. 

“If,”  he  concluded,  “  any  one  should  be  bold 
enough  to  accuse  me  as  the  author  of  the  conspi¬ 
racy,  and  to  maintain  that  I  had  attempted  to 
excite  the  French  against  the  sacred  person  ot 
their  king,  I  herewith  renounce  the  privilege  of 
my  rank,  and  am  prepared  to  prove  to  him,  with 
my  sword,  that  he  is  a  liar.”  “And  I,”  replied 
Francis  Guise,  “  I  shall  never  suffer  such  a  black 
suspicion  to  dishonor  so  great  a  prince  ;  permit 
me  to  act  as  your  second  in  this  duel.”  This 
farce  terminated  one  of  the  bloodiest  conspira¬ 
cies  known  to  history,  no  less  remarkable  by  its 
object  and  by  the  great  destiny  it  involved,  than 
by  the  cunning  and  secrecy  with  which  it  was 
gotten  up. 

For  a  long  time,  the  opinions  concerning  the 


398 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


true  motives  and  the  object  of  this  conspiracy, 
remained  divided  ;  the  private  interest-  of  both 
parties  led  them  to  look  at  these  events  from  a 
false  point  of  view.  Whereas  the  Protestants 
gave  out  that  they  had  taken  up  arms  to  shake 
off  the  intolerable  tyranny  of  the  Guises,  and  that 
they  had-not  had  the  remotest  intention  of  forcing 
the  government  to  grant  them  religious  freedom  ; 
in  the  royal  letters,  on  the  contrary,  the  conspi¬ 
racy  was  represented  as  having  been  directed 
against  the  king  and  the  whole  royal  family,  and 
that,  the  object  of  the  conspirators  had  been  to 
overturn  the  monarchy  with  the  Catholic  religion, 
and  to  substitute  a  confederacy  of  republics  simi¬ 
lar  to  that  of  Switzerland.  It  appears,  however, 
that  the  better  portion  of  the  nation  entertained 
different  opinions  on  this  subject,  and  that  the 
Guises  resorted  to  this  explanation,  in  order  to 
turn  the  increasing  dissatisfaction  of  the  public 
into  another  channel.  Pity  for  the  unfortu¬ 
nates  whom  the  cruel  revenge  of  the  Guises  had 
murdered,  inclined  even  several  zealous  Catholics 
to  lessen  the  guilt  of  the  conspirators,  and  em¬ 
boldened  the  Protestants  to  confess  their  partici¬ 
pation  in  the  plot.  This  unfavorable  public 
opinion  reminded  the  ministers  more  forcibly  than 
could  have  been  done  by  open  rebellion,  of  the 
necessity  of  moderating  their  measures ;  thus  it 
happened  that  even  the  failure  of  the  plot  of 
Amboise  promised  to  the  Calvinists,  for  some 
time  at  least,  a  more  considerate  treatment. 

With  a  pretended  view  of  stifling  the  seeds  of 
discord,  and  tranquilizing  the  kingdom  by  peace¬ 
ful  means,  the  project  was  entertained  of  delibe¬ 
rating  with  the  chief  nobles.  For  this  purpose, 
the  ministers  called  the  princes  of  the  blood,  the 
high  nobility,  the  titled  knights,  and  the  chief 
magistrates,  to  Fontainebleau,  where  these  impor¬ 
tant  points  were  to  be  discussed.  This  assem¬ 
blage  neither  fulfilled  the  expectation  of  the  na¬ 
tion,  nor  the  wishes  of  the  Guises,  because  the 
Bourbons  were  too  distrustful  to  make  their  ap¬ 
pearance,  and  the  other  chiefs  of  the  malcontents, 
who  could  not  well  decline  the  invitation,  came  with 
a  numerous  retinue  of  armed  followers,  a  proceeding 
which  embarrassed  the  opposite  party.  The  sub¬ 
sequent  conduct  of  the  ministers  justified,  to 
some  extent,  the  suspicion  of  the  princes,  who 
looked  upon  this  assemblage  as  a  trap  set  by  the 
Guises,  where  they  might  catch  the  leaders  of  the 
malcontents  without  shedding  a  drop  of  blood. 
This  design  having  been  defeated  by  the  excellent 
precaution  of  the  opposition,  the  assembly  wasted 
its  time  in  useless  formalities,  and  empty  disputes, 
until,  finally,  the  subjects  under  discussion  were 
referred  to  a  Diet  that  was  to  be  held  in  a  short 
time  in  the  city  of  Orleans. 

Each  party,  full  of  distrust  in  the  other,  em¬ 
ployed  the  interval  in  preparing  the  means  of 
defense,  and  hastening  the  ruin  of  their  oppo¬ 
nents.  The  failure  of  the  plot  of  Amboise  was 
not  sufficient  to  arrest  the  intrigues  of  the  Prince 
Conde.  In  Dauphine,  Provence,  and  other  dis¬ 
tricts,  he  succeeded  in  instigating  the  Calvinists, 
and  causing  his  followers  to  take  up  arms.  On 
his  part,  the  Duke  of  Guise  caused  all  dubious 
places  to  be  occupied  with  troops,  changed  the 
commanders  of  fortresses,  and  spared  neither 


money  nor  trouble  to  remain  acquainted  with 
every  step  taken  by  the  Bourbons.  Some  of  their 
agents  were  indeed  discovered  and  placed  in 
irons ;  important  papers,  that  shod  light  on  the 
machinations  of  the  prince,  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  duke.  By  this  means,  he  obtained  knowledge 
of  the  pernicious  plot  which  Conde  contrived 
against  him,  and  intended  to  execute  at  the  Diet 
of  Orleans.  This  Diet  caused  much  uneasiness  to 
the  Bourbons,  for  they  risked  equally  much  by 
remaining  away  or  by  participating  in  the  delibe¬ 
rations.  If  they  refused  to  obey  the  repeated 
mandates  of  the  king,  they  had  to  fear  every  thing 
for  their  possessions;  if  they  appeared  at  the 
Diet,  they  had  to  fear  for  their  personal  safety. 
After  long  deliberations,  the  two  Bourbons  re¬ 
solved  to  repair  to  the  Diet. 

The  period  for  the  Diet  approached,  amid  the 
most  inauspicious  forebodings.  Instead  of  the 
mutual  confidence  which  was  so  necessary  in  or¬ 
der  to  unite  the  head  and  members  in  one  com¬ 
mon  bond,  and  preparing  the  way  for  a  permanent 
reconciliation  by  mutual  forbearance,  suspicion 
and  bitterness  filled  the  minds.  Instead  of  ap¬ 
pearing  with  peaceful  sentiments,  each  brought 
to  the  Diet  feelings  of  implacable  revenge  and 
dark  designs  against  the  assembly.  The  sanc¬ 
tuary  of  public  safety  and  peace  was  selected 
for  the  arena  of  treason  and  revenge.  The  dread 
of  intrigues,  which  the  Guises  never  ceased  to 
conjure  up  before  the  king,  poisoned  his  peace  of 
mind  ;  in  the  flower  of  his  age  he  faded  away,  saw 
his  nearest  relatives  turn  their  daggers  against 
him,  and  he  beheld  a  grave  opening  beneath  his 
feet,  amidst  the  universal  misery  of  the  nation. 
His  entry  into  the  city  of  Orleans  was  melancholy 
and  ominous  in  the  extreme;  every  manifestation 
of  joy  was  stifled  by  the  clangor  of  arms.  The 
whole  city  was  filled  with  soldiers,  who  at  once 
occupied  every  gate  and  avenue.  These  unusual 
precautions  spread  uneasiness  and  anxiety  every¬ 
where,  and  gave  rise  to  the  gloomiest  apprehen¬ 
sions  regarding  secret  designs. 

These  reports  reached  the  Bourbons  some  dis¬ 
tance  from  Orleans,  and  caused  them  to  waver 
for  a  time  in  their  determination  to  repair  to  the 
Diet. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  alter  their  plans,  even  if 
they  had  designed  to  do  so;  for  a  royal  corps  of 
observation  had  cut  off  all  retreat.  On  the  30th 
of  October,  1560,  they  arrived  at  Orleans,  in 
company  with  the  Cardinal  Bourbon,  their 
brother,  whom  the  king  had  sent  to  meet  them, 
and  to  assure  them  in  the  most  solemn  manner, 
of  his  sincere  intentions. 

The  reception  they  met  with  contradicted  these 
protestations.  The  coolness  of  the  Guises,  and 
the  embarrassed  manner  of  the  courtiers,  an¬ 
nounced  to  them  their  fall,  even  without  words. 
A  sombre  and  stern  expression  darkened  the 
countenance  of  the  king,  when  they  presented 
themselves  before  him  to  offer  him  their  saluta¬ 
tions  ;  very  soon  he  broke  out  in  the  bitterest  re¬ 
proaches  against  the  prince.  Every  crime  of 
which  he  had  been  accused,  was  enumerated  be¬ 
fore  him,  and  an  order  for  his  arrest  was  given, 
even  before  he  had  time  to  purge  himself  of  these 
charges. 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


399 


Such  a  rash  act  could  not  be  left  incomplete. 
Documents  which  testified  against  the  prisoner 
were  prepared,  and  every  deposition  had  been  col¬ 
lected  that  stamped  him  a  criminal  ;  nothing  was 
wanting  but  the  form  of  a  trial.  To  this  end,  a 
committee  was  appointed,  composed  of  members 
of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  and  presided  over  by 
the  Chancellor  d’Hopital.  In  vain  the  accused 
claimed  the  prerogative  of  his  birth,  according  to 
which  he  could  only  be  judged  by  the  king,  the 
peers,  and  the  parliament,  in  full  sitting.  He  was 
compelled  to  answer,  and  a  private  paper  which 
was  designed  for  his  advocate,  but  had  unfortu¬ 
nately  been  signed  by  the  prince,  was  artfully  in¬ 
terpreted  as  a  formal  judicial  defense.  The  inter¬ 
position  of  his  friends  and  family  remained  fruit¬ 
less ;  in  vain  his  spouse  fell  on  her  knees  before 
the  king,  who  saw  in  Conde  the  robber  of  his 
crown,  and  his  own  murderer  ;  in  vain  the  King 
of  Navarre  degraded  himself  before  the  Cruises, 
who  repelled  him  with  contempt  and  scorn. 
Whilst  he  was  pleading  for  his  brother,  the  dag¬ 
ger  of  a  murderer  was  suspended  over  his  head 
by  a  thin  hair.  In  the  monarch’s  own  apart¬ 
ments,  a  band  of  assassins  were  lying  in  wait,  who 
were  to  fall  upon  him  as  soon  as  they  should  hear 
the  king  break  out  in  violent  abuse  against  him. 
The  concerted  signal,  however,  was  not  given  ; 
Anthony  of  Navarre  walked  uninjured  out  of  the 
king’s  apartments,  who  was  mean  enough  to  plan 
an  assassination,  but  too  cowardly  to  have  it  exe¬ 
cuted  in  his  presence. 

Against  Conde,  the  Guises  acted  more  reso¬ 
lutely  ;  the  failing  health  of  the  king  bade  them 
make  haste.  Sentence  of  death  had  been  pro¬ 
nounced  against  him,  and  some  of  the  judges  had 
already  signed  it,  when  the  king  was  suddenly 
and  hopelessly  struck  down.  This  decisive  event 
startled  the  adversaries  of  the  prince,  and  roused  the 
courage  of  his  friends  ;  soon  the  condemned  ex¬ 
perienced  the  effects  of  this  change  in  his  prison. 
Separated  from  the  world  and  surrounded  by  hos¬ 
tile  guards,  he  awaited  in  this  dungeon  the  issue 
of  his  fate  with  admirable  equanimity  and  a 
cloudless  serenity  of  mind,  when  he  was  suddenly 
met  with  proposals  to  make  terms  with  the  Guises. 
“No  terms,”  he  repeated,  “except  with  the 
point  of  the  sword.”  The  sudden  death  of  the 
king  spared  him  the  cruel  fate  of  paying  for  this 
bold  speech  with  his  life. 

Francis  II.  had  ascended  the  throne  at  too 
>arly  an  age,  under  such  unfavorable  circum¬ 
stances,  and  in  such  a  feeble  state  of  health,  and 
had  been  removed  from  it  after  such  a  short 
period  of  time,  that  we  must  hesitate  to  accuse 
him  of  the  disorders  which  convulsed  his  short 
reign,  and  which  he  bequeathed  to  his  successor. 
A  passive  instrument  of  the  queen-mother  and  of 
his  uncles,  the  Guises,  he  appeared  upon  the  po¬ 
litical  stage  only  for  the  purpose  of  reciting 
parrot-fashion  the  part  which  he  had  been  taught ; 
it  was  asking  too  much  of  his  mediocre  talents  to 
tear  asunder  the  tissue  of  falsehoods  which  the  art¬ 
ful  cunning  of  the  Guises  had  woven  around  truth. 
Only  on  one  occasion  it  seemed  as  though  his  na¬ 
tural  good  sense  and  his  good-natured  disposition 
would  defeat  the  deceitful  arts  of  his  ministers. 
The  general  and  violent  indignation  which  broke 


out  during  the  conspiracy  of  Amboise,  could  not 
bekept  from  the  monarch’s  ears,  however  much  the 
Guises  endeavored  to  do  so.  His  heart  told  him  that 
this  universal  indignation  could  not  possibly  be 
meant  for  him  who  was  still  so  young,  and  was  not 
conscious  of  having  done  any  thing  to  merit  this 
detestation.  “  What  have  i  done  to  my  people,” 
he  inquired  of  his  uncles  in  a  tone  of  amaze¬ 
ment,  “  to  excite  their  hatred  ?  I  wish  to  hear 
their  grievances  and  to  right  the'm.  It  seems  to 
me,”  he  continued,  “  it  is  plain  that  all  this  is 
aimed  at  you.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me  for  a 
time,  that  I  might  know  which  of  us  is  the  cause 
of  this  trouble.”  But  the  Guises  did  not  feel  dis¬ 
posed  to  make  this  experiment,  and  this  flurry 
soon  passed  over  without  any  further  results. 

Francis  II.  had  died  without  issue,  and  the 
sceptre  was  transmitted  to  the  second  of  Henry’s 
sons,  a  prince  of  ten  years  whose  name  has 
become  infamously  immortal  by  the  carnage  of 
St.  Bartholomew  His  fatal  reign  commenced 
amid  portentous  signs.  A  near  relative  of  the 
monarch  on  the  threshold  of  the  scaffold,  another 
having  barely  escaped  from  the  daggers  of  as¬ 
sassins  :  one  half  of  the.  nation  engaged  in  hos¬ 
tile  antagonism  against  the  other,  and  a  portion 
already  armed  for  the  struggle ;  the  torch  of  fa¬ 
naticism  brandished  ;  the  murmuring  thunders  of 
civil  war  heard  in  the  distance;  the  whole  king¬ 
dom  on  the  road  to  ruin  ;  treason  in  the  bosom 
of  the  court,  discord  and  suspicion  among  the 
members  of  the  royal  family.  The  character  of 
the  nation  tainted  by  a  strange  and  terrible  min¬ 
gling  of  blind  superstition,  ridiculous  mysticism, 
and  free-thinking  :  of  brutality  and  refined  sen¬ 
suality  ;  here  the  minds  darkened  by  monkish 
fanaticism,  yonder  the  spirit  still  ingulfed  in  bar¬ 
barous  superstition,  both  extremes  of  insanity 
allied  in  a  fearful  union.  Among  the  magnates 
of  the  kingdom  we  see  hands  raised  to  murder  ; 
lips  habituated  to  perjury,  unnatural  and  revolt¬ 
ing  vices  which  threaten  to  poison  every  class  in 
the  nation.  The  throne  occupied  by  a  minor 
who  had  been  reared  in  the  Machiavelian  arts, 
growing  up  amidst  civil  storms,  educated  by 
fanatics  and  flatterers,  initiated  in  deception,  un¬ 
acquainted  with  the  obedience  of  a  happy  people, 
unpracticed  in  forgiving,  reminded  of  his  power  only 
bythe  terrible  rightof  punishing,  familiarized  with 
the  blood  of  his  subjects  by  war  and  executions  ! 
From  the  miseries  of  open  war  the  unfortunate 
country  was  hunted  into  the  frightful  desolation 
of  a  lurking  conspiracy  ;  the  anarchy  cf  a  regency 
was  superseded  by  a  short  and  frightful  repose, 
during  which  assassination  did  its  work.  The 
saddest  period  of  the  history  of  France  com¬ 
menced  with  the  ascension  of  Charles  IX.,  it 
lasted  during  the  lifetime  of  a  generation  and 
did  not  end  until  the  glorious  reign  of  Henry  of 
Navarre  dawned  upon  France. 

The  death  of  her  first-born,  and  the  tender 
age  of  Charles  IX.,  brought  the  queen-mother, 
Catharine  Medicis,  on  the  political  arena;  she 
inaugurated  a  new  political  s}7stem  and  brought 
new  misery  to  the  nation.  This  princess,  anx¬ 
ious  to  rule,  born  for  intrigue,  deeply  versed  in 
deception,  mistress  in  the  arts  of  dissimulation, 
had  impatiently  borne  the  fetters  which  the  exclu 


400 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sive  despotism  of  the  Guises  had  placed  upon  her 
ruling  passion.  Submissive  and  cajoling  as  long 
as  they  needed  the  queen’s  assistance  against 
Montmorency  and  the  princes  of  Bourbon,  they 
neglected  her  the  moment  they  felt  sure  of  their 
usurped  power.  To  be  superseded  in  her  son’s 
confident  by  foreigners,  and  to  see  the  most  im¬ 
portant  affairs  of  the  state  transacted  without 
her,  was  too  keen  an  affront  to  her  love  of  rule, 
to  be  borne  without  revenge.  It  was  her  ruling 
inclination  to  seem  important ;  her  happiness 
consisted  in  fancying  herself  necessary  to  every 
parly.  To  this  inclination  she  sacrificed  every¬ 
thing,  but  confined  her  actions  to  the  field  of 
intrigue,  where  her  talents  shone  with  brilliancy. 
Intrigue  was  important  to  her,  men  were  indiffer¬ 
ent.  Charged  with  the  troublesome  duty  in  her 
capacity  of  regent  of  the  empire  and  mother  of 
three  kings,  to  maintain  the  authority  of  her 
house  against  fierce  factions,  she  opposed  artful 
intrigue  to  the  insolence  of  the  magnates,  cunning 
to  violence.  Placed  between  the  contending  fac¬ 
tions  of  the  Guises  and  the  princes  of  Bourbon, 
she  followed,  for  a  long  time,  a  wavering  policy, 
being  incapable  of  pursuing  a  firm  and  resolute 
course.  Going  with  the  reformed  party,  whenever 
the  Guises  had  irritated  her,  she  did  not  blush  at 
using  them  as  her  tools  whenever  her  interest  dic¬ 
tated  such  a  proceeding.  In  such  a  case  she 
never  hesitated  to  divulge  the  secret  with  which 
she  had  been  intrusted  by  confiding  friends.  She 
knew  no  distinction  between  good  and  evil  ;  cir¬ 
cumstances  used  her  morality,  as  a  play-thing,  they 
found  her  equally  disposed  to  inhumanity  or  mild¬ 
ness,  to  humility  or  pride,  to  truth  or  falsehood. 
Every  other  passion  was  subordinate  to  her  ambi¬ 
tion,  even  revenge  had  to  yield  to  this  rule,  if  her 
interest  rendered  this  sacrifice  desirable.  A  ter¬ 
rible  character,  no  less  revolting  than  those  de¬ 
praved  monsters  of  history  who  are  depicted  upon 
her  pages  in  the  coarse  garb  of  their  horrid  exte¬ 
rior. 

Deficient  in  all  moral  virtues,  she  possessed 
however  all  the  talents  of  her  rank,  all  the  facul¬ 
ties  and  capacities  that  were  compatible  with  such 
a  character ;  but  she  degraded  these  qualities  by 
using  them  as  the  instruments  of  her  vices.  Ma¬ 
jesty  and  royal  graces  radiated  from  her ;  she 
was  splendid  and  tasteful  in  her  arrangements  ; 
every  eye  that  did  not  penetrate  to  her  soul,  was 
captivated  by  her ;  every  body  who  approached 
her  wTas  enchanted  by  the  gracefulness  of  her 
manners,  by  the  brilliancy  and  wit  of  her  conver¬ 
sation.  by  her  pleasing  kindness  !  Never  had  the 
French  court  possessed  the  brilliant  splendor 
which  Catharine  Medicis  imparted  to  it.  The 
refinements  of  Italy  were  transplanted  by  her  to 
French  soil ;  a  pleasant  levity  ruled  her  court 
even  amid  the  terrors  of  fanaticism  and  the 
wretchedness  of  civil  war.  Every  art  was  encour¬ 
aged  by  her,  every  distinction  admired  except  ser¬ 
vices  in  the  good  cause.  But  the  blessings  which 
she  carried  to  her  new  home,  hid  dangerous  poi¬ 
sons  that  infected  the  morals  of  the  nation,  and 
excited  a  dangerous  frenzy  in  the  minds.  The 
young  gentlemen  of  the  court,  freed  by  her  from 
the  old  restraints,  and  encouraged  in  the  ways  of 
licentiousness,  abandoned  themselves  without  re¬ 


serve  to  the  pursuits  of  pleasure ;  in  abandoning 
the  old  customs  and  fashion,  propriety  and  virtue 
were  likewise  sacrificed.  Deception  and  falsehood 
superseded  in  social  intercourse  the  noble  truth 
fulness  of  the  age  of  knighthood,  and  faith  and 
honesty,  these  precious  safeguards  of  a  state,  dis¬ 
appeared  from  public  as  well  as  from  private  life. 
She  extended  the  power  of  superstition  by  the 
taste  for  astrological  speculations  which  she  im¬ 
ported  from  her  native  country  ;  this  folly  of  the 
court  soon  communicated  itself  to  the  lower 
classes,  and  became  a  dangerous  instrument  in 
the  hands  of  fanaticism.  But  her  most  fatal  pre¬ 
sent  to  France  were  three  kings,  her  sons,  whom 
she  reared  in  her  own  spirit,  and  raised  to  the 
throne  with  her  own  maxims. 

By  the  laws  of  nature  and  succession,  Catha¬ 
rine  became  the  regent  of  the  kingdom  during  her 
son’s  minority,  but  the  circumstances  under  which 
she  took  possession  of  the  regency,  depressed  her 
courage.  The  Estates  were  assembled  in  the  city 
of  Orleans,  a  spirit  of  independence  had  become 
excited,  and  two  powerful  factions  were  arrayed 
against  each  other.  The  leaders  of  either  faction 
desired  to  rule  ;  there  was  no  royal  power  to  step 
between  them,  and  limit  their  ambition  ;  and  both 
factions  now  might  combine  for  the  purpose  of  ar¬ 
ranging  the  regency  that  was  to  supply  the  royal 
power,  so  as  to  suit  their  own  interests.  The  king 
was  still  alive  when  Catharine  saw  herself  assailed 
in  the  most  vehement  manner,  and  invited  to  the 
most  opposite  measures.  The  Guises,  fortified  by 
the  concurrence  of  the  Estates,  most  of  whom 
had  been  won  over  by  them,  urged  her  to  execute 
the  sentence  against  the  Prince  Conde,  and  to 
crush  by  this  single  blow  the  house  of  Bourbon, 
whose  formidable  influence  threatened  the  autho¬ 
rity  of  her  own  dynasty.  On  the  other  side,  An¬ 
thony  of  Navarre  besought  her  to  employ  the 
power  that  would  fall  to  her  lot,  for  his  brother’s 
deliverance,  by  which  means  she  would  secure  the 
submission  of  his  whole  party.  Neither  faction 
dreamed  of  disputing  the  rights  of  the  queen  to 
the  regency.  The  unfavorable  circumstances  in 
which  the  princes  of  Bourbon  were  placed  at  the 
time  when  the  king  departed  this  life,  may  have 
deterred  them  from  aspiring  at  this  high  honor, 
which  they  otherwise  might  have  done ;  on  this 
account,  they  preferred  remaining  quiet,  in  order 
not  to  encourage  the  ambition  of  the  Guises  by 
questioning  the  legitimacy  of  Catharine’s  own 
pretensions.  Nor  were  the  Guises  anxious  to  re¬ 
mind  the  nation  by  their  opposition  of  the  nearer 
rights  of  the  Bourbons.  By  tacitly  acknowledg¬ 
ing  the  rights  of  Catharine,  both  parties  excluded 
each  other  from  all  competition,  and  each  hoped 
to  gratify  its  ambitious  views  under  cover  of  the 
Queen. 

Catharine,  yielding  to  the  advice  of  the  discreet 
Chancellor  d’Hopital,  seized  the  prudent  plan  of 
not  abandoning  herself  to  any  party  against  the 
other,  and  to  control  both  by  observing  a  well- 
selected  position  of  neutrality.  By  snatching  the 
Prince  Conde  out  of  the  clutches  of  his  revenge¬ 
ful  opponents,  she  claimed  for  this  important 
service  the  gratitude  of  the  King  of  Navarre  ;  on 
the  other  hand  she  pledged  her  powerful  assist¬ 
ance  to  the  Lotharingian  princes,  if  the  Bourbons 


DISTURBANCES  IN'  FRANCE. 


401 


should  attempt  to  wreak  their  vengeance  upon 
them  for  the  insults  they  had  received  under  the 
previous  reign.  By  resorting  to  this  policy,  she 
found  herself,  shortly  after  the  decease  of  the 
king,  in  possession  of  the  regency,  without  oppo¬ 
sition  from  any  quarter,  and  even  without  the 
assistance  of  the  Estates  assembled  in  Orleans, 
who  were  passive  lookers-on  while  these  import¬ 
ant  events  were  transacted.  The  first  use  she 
made  of  the  regency,  was  to  restore  the  equili¬ 
brium  of  the  contending  factions  by  raising  the 
Bourbons.  Conde  went  out  of  prison  upon  honor¬ 
able  terms,  and  withdrew  to  his  brother’s  estates, 
there  to  await  the  day  of  revenge;  the  King  of 
Navarre  was  made  lieutenant-general  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  in  which  capacity  he  was  intrusted  with  an 
important  share  in  the  government  of  the  coun¬ 
try.  The  Guises  saved  their  future  hopes  by 
maintaining  themselves  at  court,  where  they  might 
be  used  by  the  queen  as  important  auxiliaries 
against  the  ambition  of  the  Bourbons. 

An  appearance  of  repose  now  returned,  but  a 
good  deal  was  wanting  to  restore  confidence 
among  parties  whose  feelings  had  been  so  deeply 
wounded.  A  suitable  person  to  effect  this  resto¬ 
ration  was  supposed  to  be  found  in  the  Con¬ 
stable  Montmorency,  whom  the  despotism  of  the 
Guises  had  kept  removed  from  the  former  reign, 
and  whom  a  change  of  government  now  restored 
to  his  former  position.  Full  of  an  honest  zeal 
for  the  welfare  of  the  country,  faithful  to  his  king 
as  well  as  to  his  faith,  Montmorency  was  the  man 
to  step  between  the  regent  and  her  minister,  to 
guarantee  their  reconciliation,  and  to  render  the 
private  ends  of  both  subordinate  to  the  interests 
of  the  state.  The  city  of  Orleans,  which  the 
Guises  had  filled  with  soldiers  for  the  purpose  of 
intimidating  their  opponents  and  controlling  the 
Diet,  showed  everywhere  traces  of  the  war,  when 
the  constable  arrived  and  dismissed  the  guard 
at  the  gates.  “  Henceforth,”  said  he,  “  my  master 
and  king  shall  travel  to  and  fro  in  his  kingdom 
without  a  body-guard,  and  in  perfect  security.” — 
“Fear  nothing,  Sire  !”  said  he,  addressing  the  young 
monarch,  bending  a  knee  before  him  and  kissing 
his  hand,  which  he  moistened  with  a  tear.  “  Do 
not  suffer  the  present  troubles  to  intimidate  you. 
I  and  all  your  good  subjects  will  give  our  lives  to 
preserve  your  crown  !  He  fulfilled  his  promise  in 
so  far  as  this,  that  he  placed  the  government  of 
the  country  upon  a  basis  of  legality,  and  helped 
to  fix  the  limits  of  power  between  the  queen  and 
the  King  of  Navarre.  The  Diet  of  Orleans, 
which  had  been  convoked  for  the  sole  reason  of 
entrapping  the  Princess  of  Bourbon,  and  remained 
idle  as  soon  as  this  design  was  defeated,  was  ad¬ 
journed  after  the  theatrical  exhibition  of  a  few 
useless  deliberations,  to  meet  again  in  the  month 
of  May  of  the  same  year.  Justified,  and  in  the 
full  splendor  of  his  former  influence,  the  Prince 
Conde  again  made  his  appearance  at  court,  in 
order  to  triumph  over  his  enemies.  In  the  con¬ 
stable,  his  party  obtained  a  powerful  accession  of 
strength.  Every  opportunity  was  sought  to  hu¬ 
miliate  the  former  ministers,  and  circumstances 
seemed  to  conspire  for  their  ruin.  Little  was 
wanting  to  place  the  regent  in  the  dilemma  of 
Vol.  II. — 26 


|  either  expelling  the  Lotharingians  or  abandoning 
the  regency. 

’The  queen’s  policy  indeed  succeeded,  in  this 
conflict,  in  maintaining  the  Guises,  because  she 
feared  every  thing  for  herself,  for  the  monarchy, 
and  even  for  her  religion,  if  she  should  sacrifice 
the  Guises  to  the  Bourbon  faction.  But  such  a 
feeble  and  vacillating  support  was  not  well  calcu¬ 
lated  to  quiet  the  Guises,  nor  could  their  ambition 
content  itself  with  the  subordinate  part  they  had 
now  to  act.  They  had  not  been  wanting  in  efforts 
to  be  able  to  do  without  the  queen,  and  the  hasty 
triumph  of  their  opponents  helped  to  increase 
their  own  party.  The  hatred  of  their  enemies, 
not  content  with  having  driven  them  from  the 
helm  of  government,  now  stretched  forth  its  hand 
after  their  riches,  and  demanded  an  account  of  the 
presents  and  pensions  which  the  Lotharingian 
princes  and  their  partisans  had  extorted  under 
the  previous  reigns.  This  demand  involved  not 
only  the  Guises,  but  also  the  Duchess  Yalentinois, 
the  Marshal  St.  Andre,  a  favorite  of  Henry  II.. 
and  unfortunately  the  constable  himself,  who  had 
used  Henry’s  liberality  for  his  own  purposes,  and 
whose  son  had  married  a  relative  of  the  duchess. 
Religious  zeal  was  the  only  weakness,  and  the 
greed  of  property  the  only  vice,  which  stained 
Montmorency’s  virtues,  and  which  exposed  him 
to  the  artful  intrigues  of  the  Guises.  These 
princes,  with  whose  interests  those  of  the  marshal 
and  of  the  duchess  became  identified,  improved 
this  circumstance  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  the 
constable  over  to  their  party.  They  succeeded 
in  this  plan  by  setting  the  double  machinery  of 
avarice  and  religious  fanaticism  in  motion  against 
him.  With  artful  cunning  they  depicted  the  at¬ 
tack  of  the  Calvinists  on  their  possessions  as  a 
step  intended  to  break  down  the  Catholic  faith, 
and  the  foolish  old  man  fell  into  this  trap  so  much 
more  readily  since  he  had  been  displeased  with 
the  favors  which  the  regent  had  publicly  accorded 
to  the  Calvinists  for  some  time  past.  This  con¬ 
duct  of  the  queen,  which  was  so  incompatible  with 
her  sentiments,  had  been  induced  by  the  Guises 
themselves  through  their  machinations  with  Philip 
II.,  King  of  Spain.  This  terrible  adversary  of 
France,  whose  insatiable  love  of  dominion  and 
desire  of  aggrandizement  devoured  foreign  states 
with  a  greedy  eye,  although  he  did  not  know  how 
to  maintain  his  own  possessions,  had  turned  his 
looks  for  a  long  time  previous,  to  the  internal  af¬ 
fairs  of  this  country,  had  beheld  the  storms  by 
which  it  was  shaken,  with  feelings  of  satisfaction, 
and,  by  means  of  his  purchased  tools,  had  kept  up 
the  hatred  of  the  faction  in  his  usual  crafty  man¬ 
ner.  Under  the  name  of  a  protector  he  exercised 
a  despotic  influence  over  France.  A  Spanish  am¬ 
bassador  dictated  within  the  walls  of  Paris  the 
conduct  which  the  Catholics  should  pursue  toward 
the  Protestants,  rejected  or  approved  of  the  meas¬ 
ures  of  the  former,  according  as  they  agreed  with 
his  master’s  interest,  and  acted  the  part  of  a  min¬ 
ister  publicly  and  without  blushing.  The  princes 
of  Lorraine  were  in  the  closest  intimacy  with  him, 
and  no  important  resolution  was  taken  by  them 
without  the  sanction  of  the  Spanish  court.  As 
soon  as  the  alliance  of  the  Guises  and  of  the  Mar- 


402 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


shal  St.  Andre  with  Montmorency,  which  is  known 
as  the  triumvirate,  had  been  completed,  they  are 
accused  of  having1  recognized  the  king  of  Spain 
as  their  chief,  who,  if  necessary,  was  to  support 
them  with  an  army.  Thus  it  happened  that  the 
combination  of  two  factions  who  had  been  antago¬ 
nistic  heretofore,  gave  rise  to  a  new  and  formidable 
power  in  the  kingdom,  which,  being  backed  by 
the  whole  Catholic  portion  of  the  nation,  en¬ 
dangered  the  equilibrium  that  Catharine  was  so 
anxious  to  realize  between  the  religious  sects. 
She  therefore  resorted  to  her  usual  means,  in¬ 
trigue,  in  order  to  keep  the  divided  minds  depend¬ 
ent  upon  her.  All  disputes  were  grafted  upon 
some  religious  foundation,  for  it  was  religion  that 
led  the  Catholics  of  the  kingdom  to  the  Guises, 
and  the  Protestants  to  the  Bourbons.  The  su¬ 
premacy  which  the  triumvirate  threatened  to 
acquire,  exposed  the  reformed  party  to  new  op¬ 
pressions  ;  the  resistance  of  the  latter  menaced 
the  whole  kingdom  with  civil  war,  of  which  some 
partial  rebellions  in  the  capital  and  in  some  of 
the  provinces  might  be  regarded  as  the  precursors. 
Catharine  made  every  effort  to  stifle  the  threaten¬ 
ing  flame,  and  she  succeeded  in  promulgating  an 
edict  which  indeed  freed  the  Protestants  from  the 
fear  of  being  executed  for  their  opinions,  but  de¬ 
nied  them  the  privilege  of  public  worship,  and  more 
especially  of  meeting  together,  which  they  had 
petitioned  for  as  a  precious  boon.  By  this  ar¬ 
rangement  the  reformed  party  did  not  gain  much, 
but  their  desperation  was  kept  subdued  for  the 
moment,  and  a  seeming  conciliation  was  effected 
between  the  leaders  of  this  party  at  court,  which 
showed  how  little  these  chiefs  of  the  Huguenots 
cared  about  the  fate  of  their  co-religionists  which, 
however,  was  the  constant  subject  of  their  con¬ 
versation.  The  greatest  difficulty  was  found  in  re¬ 
conciling  the  Prince  Conde  and  the  Duke  of  Guise, 
and  the  king  himself  was  appealed  to,  to  perfect 
this  work.  After  the  words,  gestures,  and  acts 
had  been  carefully  agreed  upon,  the  farce  was 
opened  in  presence  of  the  king.  “  Tell  us,”  said 
the  king  to  the  duke,  “  what  has  really  taken 
place  in  Orleans.”  Hereupon  the  duke  related  the 
events  in  such  an  artful  manner  that  the  duke  him¬ 
self  seemed  perfectly  innocent,  and  the  whole 
blame  was  laid  on  the  king.  “Whoever  it  be,” 
replied  Conde.  turning  himself  to  the  duke,  “who 
has  done  me  this  wrong,  I  declare  him  a  criminal 
and  a  villain.”  “  So  do  I,”  said  the  duke,  “  but  I 
Lave  nothing  to  do  with  it.” 

The  regency  of  Queen  Catharine,  was  the  pe¬ 
riod  of  negotiations.  What  these  did  not  accom¬ 
plish,  was  to  be  completed  by  the  Diet  of  Pontoise 
and  the  interview  at  Poissy,  both  of  which  were 
arranged  for  the  purpose  of  settling  the  political 
difficulties  of  the  nation  as  well  as  of  attempting 
an  approximation  of  the  religious  opinions.  The 
Diet  of  P ontoise.was  a  continuation  of  the  fruitless 
Diet  of  Orleans,  which  had  been  adjourned  to  May 
1561.  This  Diet  is  only  remarkable  by  a  violent 
onslaught  of  the  Estates  against  the  clergy,  who 
acceded  to  the  don  gratuit  (gratuitous  present) 
in  order  not  to  lose  two-thirds  of  their  posses¬ 
sions. 

The  friendly  conversation  which  the  leaders  of 
the  three  sects  had  in  the  town  of  Poissy,  not  far 


from  St.  Germain,  likewise  disappointed  the  pub¬ 
lic  expectations.  In  France  as  well  as  in  Ger¬ 
many,  a  general  council  had  been  demanded  for  a 
long  time  previous,  for  the  purpose  of  arranging 
the  divisions  of  the  church,  correcting  existing 
abuses,  reforming  the  morals  of  the  clergy,  and 
fixing  the  disputed  dogmas.  This  council  was 
convoked  in  Trent  in  the  year  1542,  and  was 
continued  for  several  years,  but  without  realizing 
the  expectations  the  public  had  entertained  of  it. 
In  1552,  the  council  broke  up  in  consequence  of 
the  war.  Since  then  no  pope  had  been  willing  to 
call  another  council  which  was  demanded  by  the 
public  voice,  until  the  excess  of  wretchedness 
which  the  continual  split  in  religious  matters, 
heaped  upon  the  people  of  Europe,  finally  deter¬ 
mined  France  to  insist  upon  a  council,  and  to 
compel  Pope  Pius  IV.  to  convoke  it.  The  de¬ 
lays  of  the  pope  had  suggested  to  the  French 
ministers  the  idea  of  conciliating  the  teachers  of 
the  three  religions  by  discussing  the  various  dog¬ 
mas  in  a  friendly  way,  and  showing  the  power  of 
truth  in  refuting  the  heretical  assertions.  A  main 
object  was  to  show  the  great  difference  between 
Lutheranism  and  Calvinism,  and  to  deprive  the 
partisans  of  the  latter  of  the  protection  of  the 
former,  which  rendered  the  Calvinists  so  formida¬ 
ble. 

This  is  said  to  have  been  the  chief  motive  which 
prompted  the  Cardinal  Lorraine  to  insist  upon 
the  discussion  which  could  at  the  same  time  give 
him  a  chance  to  shine  by  his  theological  science 
and  his  eloquence.  The  sittings  were  to  be  pub¬ 
lic,  in  order  to  enhance  the  brilliancy  of  the  vic¬ 
tory  which  the  true  church  would  gain  over 
the  false.  The  regent  herself  appeared  with  her 
son,  with  the  princes  of  royal  blood,  the  ministers 
of  the  state,  and  all  the  high  servants  of  the  crown, 
for  the  purpose  of  opening  the  sitting.  Five  car¬ 
dinals,  forty  bishops,  several  doctors,  among  whom 
Claude  D.  Espensa  was  prominent  on  account  of 
his  acuteness  and  learning,  presented  themselves 
on  behalf  of  the  B-oman  Catholic  church,  twelve 
eminent  theologians  conducted  the  discussion  on 
behalf  of  the  Protestants.  The  most  distinguished 
among  them  was  Theodore  Beza,  a  preacher  in 
Geneva,  of  subtle  mind  and  fiery  temperament,  a 
powerful  orator,  a  formidable  dialectician,  and  the 
most  skillful  combatant  in  this  struggle. 

Summoned  to  explain  the  dogmas  of  his  sect, 
Beza  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  kneeled  and 
prayed  with  his  hands  raised  toward  heaven. 
After  this  prayer  he  pronounced  his  confession  of 
faith,  supporting  it  by  every  argument  which  the 
shortness  of  the  time  would  allow  him  to  use,  and 
ended  with  a  touching  allusion  to  the  severity 
with  which  his  co-believers  had  been  persecuted 
in  the  kingdom  hitherto.  He  was  listened  to  in 
silence  ;  it  was  not  until  he  touched  upon  the 
bodily  presence  of  Christ  in  the  host,  that  an  in¬ 
voluntary  murmur  was  heard  in  the  assembly. 
After  Beza  had  finished,  the  Catholics  first  in¬ 
quired  of  each  other,  whether  they  should  deign 
to  reply  to  him  and  the  Cardinal  Lorraine  found 
it  difficult  to  obtain  the  consent  of  the  bishops  to 
such  a  proceeding.  At  last  he  got  up,  refuting 
in  a  speech  full  of  power  and  sophistical  cunning, 
the  most  important  dogmas  of  his  adversary,  es- 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


403 


pecially  the  doctrine  which  attacked  the  authority 
of  the  church  and  the  dogma  of  transubstantia- 
tion.  Regret  had  already  been  expressed  on  ac¬ 
count  of  the  king  having  been  admitted  to  a  dis¬ 
cussion^  where  the  most  sacred  articles  of  religion 
were  handled  with  so  much  freedom.  As  soon  as 
the  cardinal  had  ended  his  discourse,  the  bishops 
surrounded  the  king,  exclaiming:  “Sire,  this  is 
the  true  faith,  this  is  the  pure  doctrine  of  the 
church  ;  these  we  are  prepared  to  seal  with  our 
blood.” 

In  the  subsequent  sittings,  from  which  the  king 
was  carefully  excluded,  the  other  disputed  points 
were  considered,  and  the  dogma  concerning  the 
Lord’s  Supper  was  made  a  prominent  subject  in 
order  that  the  preacher  of  Geneva  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  explaining  himself  on  this  subject 
fully  and  clearly.  The  dogma  of  the  Lutherans 
on  this  point  differing  from  the  teachings  of  the 
reformed  party  more  than  from  the  doctrines  of 
the  Catholic  church,  it  was  hoped  that  the  two 
Protestant  sects  would  engage  in  a  war  of 
words  against  each  other.  But  now  a  serious 
conversation  that  was  to  induce  conviction,  was 
changed  to  a  sophistical  controversy,  where  the 
weapons  of  reason  were  superseded  by  the  tricks 
and  equivocations  of  logic.  A  more  select  com¬ 
mittee  of  five  doctors  on  each  side,  to  whom  the 
final  adjudication  of  the  controversy  was  intrusted, 
left  it  equally  undecided,  and  on  separating,  each 
party  claimed  the  victory. 

Th is  discussion  fulfilled  the  public  expectations 
as  little  as  a  similar  discussion  had  done  in  Ger¬ 
many;  the  consequence  of  which  was  that  parties 
fell  back  upon  the  former  political  intrigues  as 
the  most  efficient  means  of  settling  differences. 
The  court  of  Rome  showed  itself  especially  busy 
in  raising  the  power  of  the  triumvirate,  since  the 
salvation  of  the  Catholic  church  seemed  to  de¬ 
pend  upon  this  alliance.  To  this  end,  efforts  were 
made  to  win  over  the  King  of  Navarre,  and  to  se¬ 
parate  him  from  the  reformed  party  ;  a  project 
that  was  well  calculated,  if  we  consider  the  wav¬ 
ering  character  of  this  prince.  Anthony  of  Na¬ 
varre,  who  has  become  more  celebrated  by  his 
great  son,  Henry  IV.,  than  by  his  own  deeds,  had 
nothing  in  common  with  this  prince  except  his 
gallantry  and  his  warlike  bravery.  Unsteady, 
without  independence,  like  his  hereditary  throne 
quivering  between  two  powerful  neighbors,  his 
timid  policy  balanced  between  opposite  parties, 
his  faith  changed  from  one  church  to  the  other, 
his  character  hovered  between  vice  and  virtue. 
Having  been  all  his  lifetime  the  play-ball  of  other 
people’s  passions,  he  chased,  with  hopes  continu¬ 
ally  deceived,  a  deceitful  phantom  which  his  cun¬ 
ning  rivals  conjured  up  before  him.  Spain,  sus¬ 
tained  by  popish  intrigues,  had  snatched  a  consi¬ 
derable  portion  of  this  kingdom  from  the  house 
of  Navarre,  and  Philip  IT.,  who  was  not  disposed 
to  repair  an  injustice,  continued  to  keep  this  prey 
of  his  ancestors  from  the  legitimate  possessor  of 
the  country.  Anthony  of  Navarre  had  no  other 
weapons  with  which  to  oppose  such  a  powerful 
enemy,  except  his  weakness.  At  one  time  he 
hoped  to  recover,  by  a  pliant  temper  from  the 
equity  and  generosity  of  his  enemy,  what  he  found 
it  impossible  to  extort  from  his  fear :  at  other 


times,  if  this  hope  failed  him,  he  had  recourse  to 
France,  expecting  to  be  reinstated  in  his  posses¬ 
sions  by  the  help  of  this  power.  Disappointed  in 
all  his  hopes,  he  went  over  to  the  Protestant 
party,  and  left  it  again  without  hesitation,  as  soon 
as  a  ray  of  hope  penetrated  from  the  Catholic 
camp,  and  induced  a  belief  that  his  object  might 
perhaps  be  attained  by  their  intercession.  En¬ 
slaved  by  his  interested  and  timid  policy,  waver¬ 
ing  in  his  resolutions  as  well  as  in  his  hopes,  he 
never  belonged  entirely  to  the  party  whose  name 
he  had  embraced,  and  was  unable  to  secure  the 
gratitude  of  any,  even  with  his  blood,  for  the  rea¬ 
son  that  he  spilt  it  for  both. 

The  Guises  now  sought  to  operate  upon  this 
prince,  in  order  to  induce  him  to  join  the  trium¬ 
virate  ;  but  the  promise  of  restoring  Navarre  was 
too  stale  to  have  much  weight  with  this  prince 
who  had  been  so  frequently  deceived.  They  there¬ 
fore  resorted  to  a  new  plan,  which,  though  not 
less  baseless  than  the  former,  fulfilled  the  inten¬ 
tions  of  its  originator  most  fully.  Having  failed 
in  dazzling  the  mistrustful  prince  by  the  offer  of 
a  marriage  with  the  widowed  Queen  Mary 
Stuart,  and  the  prospective  possession  of  the  king¬ 
doms  of  Scotland  and  England,  which  was  in¬ 
volved  in  this  alliance,  Philip  II.  of  Spain  offered 
the  island  of  Sardinia  as  a  compensation  for  the 
lost  kingdom  of  Navarre.  At  the  same  time 
his  desire  for  this  island  was  excited  by  the  most 
brilliant  description  of  its  natural  beauties.  The 
not  very  distant  prospect  of  ascending  the  French 
throne,  was  displayed  before  him,  in  case  the 
reigning  dynasty  should  die  out  with  the  feeble 
sons  of  Henry  II.  ;  a  prospect  which  he  would 
forever  close  up  by  adhering  to  the  Protestant 
party.  Finally  his  vanity  was  appealed  to  by  the 
insinuation  that  he  did  not  gain  any  thing,  in  sa¬ 
crificing  such  great  advantages,  by  occupying  the 
first  place  in  a  party  whom  Conde  led  with  his 
powerful  will  and  intellect.  The  feeble  will  of 
Anthony  of  Navarre  was  unable  to  resist  such 
emphatic  arguments.  In  order  not  to  hold  the 
second  rank  among  the  reformed  party,  he  aban¬ 
doned  himself  without  reserve  to  the  Catholics, 
among  whom  his  importance  was  still  less  ;  in 
order  to  get  rid  of  the  Prince  Conde  as  a  rival, 
he  accepted  Guise  as  a  lord  and  master.  The 
orange-groves  of  Sardinia,  in  whose  shade  he 
expected  to  enjoy  a  paradisiacal  existence,  played 
before  his  fancy;  blindly  he  tumbled  into  the 
trap  his  pretended  friends  had  set  for  him.  Even 
Queen  Catharine  was  left  by  him,  who  now  aban¬ 
doned  himself  entirely  to  the  triumvirate,  and  the 
reformed  party  saw  a  friend  who  had  been  of 
little  use  to  them,  converted  into  an  enemy  who 
harmed  them  still  less. 

Between  the  leaders  of  the  religious  parties, 
the  exertions  of  Queen  Catharine  had  effected  an 
appearance  of  peace.  Not,  however,  between  the 
parties  themselves  which  continued  to^  persecute 
each  other  with  the  fiercest  hatred.  Each  party, 
that  happened  to  be  the  more  powerful,  oppressed 
or  harassed  the  other,  and  their  respective  leaders 
looked  on  this  conflict  without  taking  part  in  it, 
being  satisfied  provided  the  religious  zeal  was 
kept  burning  and  party-spirit  continued  to  rage. 
Although  Catharine’s  last  edict  prohibited  ail 


404 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


public  meetings  of  the  Protestants,  yet  they  were 
continued  to  be  held  in  all  places  where  they  were 
strong  enough  to  bid  defiance  to  the  authorities. 
In  Paris,  as  well  as  in  the  provincial  towns, 
public  discourses  were  pronounced  in  Protestant 
meetings,  and  the  attempt  to  suppress  them  fre¬ 
quently  failed.  The  queen  beheld  this  state  of 
anarchy  with  the  liveliest  apprehensions ;  she 
knew  that  these  partial  conflicts  only  prepared 
the  swords  for  a  more  general  war.  Under  these 
circumstances  the  wise  and  patriotic  Chancellor 
d’Hopital  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  the 
queen  to  revoke  an  edict  which  could  not  be  exe¬ 
cuted,  lessened  ihe  power  of  the  authorities,  ha¬ 
bituated  the  reformed  party  to  disobedience  and 
resistance,  and  kindled  a  fatal  spirit  of  persecu¬ 
tion  in  both  parties  by  the  very  exertions  which 
the  Catholics  made  to  keep  the  edict  in  force. 
At  the  suggestion  of  this  wise  patriot,  the  Queen 
called  a  convention  of  committees  from  every 
parliament  in  the  kingdom,  at  St.  Germain, 
which  was  to  deliberate  on  the  question  :  “What 
laws  should  be  enacted,  in  view  of  the  public  wel¬ 
fare,  concerning  the  reformed  party  and  their 
public  meetings  (without  considering  the  intrinsic 
truth  or  falsehood  of  their  creed)  ?”  The  answer 
was  suggested  by  the  question,  and  an  edict  fa¬ 
vorable  to  the  reformed  ,was  the  result  of  this  con¬ 
vention.  The  edict  gave  them  formal  leave  to 
meet  in  public,  though  outside  of  the  walls,  and 
unarmed,  for  purposes  of  worship,  and  enjoined 
upon  the  authorities  to  protect  them  against  dis¬ 
turbers.  In  return,  they  were  commanded  to  re¬ 
store  the  churches  and  church-utensils  they  had 
taken  from  the  Catholics  ;  to  pay  tribute  to  the 
Catholic  clergy  as  the  Catholics  themselves,  and 
to  observe  the  festivals  and  holidays,  and  to  con¬ 
form  in  their  marriages  to  the  decrees  of  parent¬ 
age  prescribed  by  the  dominant  church.  It  was 
not  without  great  opposition  that  this  edict,  known 
as  the  edict  of  January,  from  having  been  first 
promulgated  in  the  month  of  January,  1562,  was 
registered  by  the  parliament  of  Paris ;  it  was  re¬ 
ceived  by  the  rigid  Catholics,  and  by  the  Spanish 
party,  with  as  much  indignation  as  it  was  received 
with  a  triumphant  joy  by  the  Protestants.  The 
evil  intentions  of  their  enemies  seemed  disarmed 
by  this  edict,  which  seemed  to  inaugurate  the 
legal  existence  of  the  reformed  party  in  France. 
The  regent  flattered  herself  to  have  drawn  an 
impassable  barrier  between  the  parties,  to  have 
laid  a  salutary  check  on  the  ambition  of  her  mag¬ 
nates,  and  to  have  extinguished  for  a  long  time 
the  embers  of  civil  war.  But.  it  was  this  very 
edict  of  peace  whose  violation  led  the  reformed 
party  to  the  most  violent  measures,  and  enkindled 
the  war  it  was  intended  to  prevent. 

This  edict  of  January,  far  from  realizing  the 
intention  of  the  queen,  and  keeping  both  religious 
parties  within  bounds,  encouraged  the  enemies  of 
the  reformed  party  to  perfect  their  plans  against 
them  with  more  concealment,  and  in  a  more 
wicked  spirit.  The  favors  which  this  edict 
granted  to  the  Protestants,  and  the  influence 
which  Conde  and  the  Chatillons  enjoyed  at 
court,  offended  most  bitterly  the  bigotry  and  am¬ 
bition  of  old  Montmorency,  of  the  Guises,  and 
the  allied  Spanish  party.  Silently,  but  not  idly, 


the  leaders  concerted  their  measures,  waiting  for 
the  favorable  moment  to  give  vent  to  their  com¬ 
pressed  passion.  Each  party,  determined  to  re¬ 
pel  force  by  force,  avoided  hostilities,  in  order  not 
to  be  accused  by  public  opinion  of  having  first 
interrupted  the  peace  of  the  country.  An  acci¬ 
dent  at  last  furnished  the  opportunity  which  both 
parties  dreaded  and  desired. 

The  Duke  of  Guise,  and  the  Cardinal  Lorraine, 
had  left  the  Queen’s  court  for  some  time  past,  and 
had  gone  to  the  German  frontier,  where  they 
might  prevent,  with  more  ease,  the  entry  of  the 
German  Protestants  into  France.  Soon,  however, 
the  Catholics  began  to  miss  their  leaders,  and  the 
increasing  influence  of  the  reformed  party  over 
the  Queen  rendered  their  return  to  court  urgently 
necessary.  The  duke,  therefore,  began  his  return- 
march  to  Paris,  in  company  with  a  powerful  reti¬ 
nue,  whose  numbers  increased  as  he  approached 
the  capital.  The  road  led  by  Yassy,  on  the  bor¬ 
ders  of  Champagne,  where  the  reformed  party 
happened  to  be  assembled  for  religious  worship. 
The  retinue,  insolent,  like  their  leader,  commenced 
quarreling  with  this  crowd,  and  soon  were  en¬ 
gaged  in  a  fight.  The  duke  himself,  who  had 
hastened  among  the  combatants  for  the  purpose 
of  arresting  them,  was  wounded  in  the  face  by 
a  stone.  The  sight  of  his  bleeding  cheek  enraged 
his  followers,  who  fell  like wild  beasts  upon  the 
defenseless  worshipers,  slaughtered  every  body 
indiscriminately,  without  regard  to  sex  or  age, 
and  perpetrated  the  most  horrible  profanation  of 
the  sacred  utensils.  Throughout  France,  the  re¬ 
formed  party  were  stirred  up  by  this  event,  and 
the  most  bitter  complaints  were  laid  before  the 
Queen,  through  the  mouth  of  the  Prince  Conde 
and  a  special  deputation.  Catharine  made  every 
exertion  to  preserve  the  peace  ;  being  persuaded 
that  the  leaders  had  it  in  their  power  to  quiet  the 
parties,  she  called  Guise  to  her  court,  that  hap¬ 
pened  to  sit  in  Monceaux,  where  she  hoped  to 
arrange  matters  between  him  and  the  Prince 
Conde. 

But  her  efforts  were  in  vain.  The  duke  dared 
to  disobey  her,  and  to  continue  his  journey  to 
Paris,  which  he  entered  in  triumph,  accompanied 
by  a  numerous  retinue,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  bois¬ 
terous  crowd.  In  vain  Conde,  who  had  entered 
Paris  shortly  before,  sought  to  win  the  populace 
over  to  his  side.  The  fanatical  Parisians  only 
saw  in  him  a  detested  Huguenot,  and  in  the  duke 
a  heroic  defender  of  the  church.  The  prince  had 
to  retire,  and  leave  the  field  to  his  victorious 
rival.  The  question  now  was,  which  of  the  two 
parties  would  surpass  the  other  in  quickness, 
power,  and  bold  daring.  Whilst  the  prince  has 
tily  assembled  his  troops  at  Meaux,  whither  he 
had  retreated  and  was  joined  by  the  Chatillons, 
who  expected  to  make  head  against  the  triumviis, 
these  had  gone  to  Fontainebleau  with  a  strong 
force  of  cavalry,  in  order  to  secure  the  person  of 
the  king,  and  by  this  means  to  drive  their  oppo¬ 
nents  into  the  position  of  rebels  against  the  king. 

At  the  first  news  of  the  duke’s  entry  into  Paris, 
the  regent  had  been  overwhelmed  by  fright  and  con¬ 
fusion  ;  his  rising  power  portended  the  ruin  of  her 
own.  The  equilibrium  of  the  factions,  by  means 
of  which  she  had  ruled  heretofore,  was  destroyed, 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


405 


and  could  only  be  restored  by  her  open  accession 
to  the  reformed  party.  The  fear  of  becoming 
subjec';  to  the  tyranny  of  the  Guises  and  of  their 
party,  fear  for  her  own  life  and  that  of  the  king, 
overcame  every  scruple.  Without  dreading  the 
ambition  of  the  Protestant  leaders,  she  now 
sought  to  save  herself  from  the  ambition  of  the 
Guises.  In  her  first  consternation,  she  looked 
upon  the  power  of  the  Protestants  as  her  means 
of  safety ;  every  other  consideration  had  to  yield 
to  the  threatening  danger.  Willingly  she  ac¬ 
cepted  the  proffered  assistance  of  this  party,  and 
the  Prince  Conde  was  invited,  regardless  of  the 
consequences  of  such  a  step,  to  defend  mother 
and  son.  At  the  same  time,  in  order  not  to  be 
surprised  by  her  opponents,  she  fled  to  Melun, 
and  from  Melun  to  Fontainebleau;  but  these  pre¬ 
cautionary  measures  were  anticipated  by  the  rapid 
movements  of  the  triumvirs. 

After  seizing  the  person  of  the  king,  the 
mother  was  allowed  the  privilege  of  accompany¬ 
ing  him,  or  selecting  for  herself  another  asylum. 
Before  she  had  time  to  make  up  her  mind,  the 
party  commenced  their  march,  and  she  was  car¬ 
ried  along,  even  against  her  will.  Wherever  she 
turned  her  eyes,  she  beheld  terrors,  and  the  same 
danger  threatened  her,  no  matter  which  party  she 
favored.  At  last,  she  determined  to  go  with  the 
party  that  promised  the  surest  success,  rather 
than  to  involve  herself  in  the  uncertain  struggles 
and  perplexities  of  the  Protestants.  In  triumph 
the  king  was  conducted  to  Paris,  where  his  pre¬ 
sence  invited  the  fanatical  zeal  of  the  Catholics 
to  indulge  in  every  species  of  violence  against  the 
reformed  party.  All  their  places  of  meeting  were 
taken  by  the  furious  populace  by  assault,  the 
doors  were  burst  in,  pulpits  and  pews  were  broken 
into  fragments  and  burned  ;  it  was  the  constable 
of  France,  the  venerable  Montmorency,  who  con¬ 
ducted  this  exploit.  But  this  desultory  fight  was 
the  prelude  of  a  much  more  serious  war. 

The  Prince  Conde  had  missed  the  king  only  by 
a  few  houi;s  in  Fontainebleau.  Agreeably  to  the 
wishes  of  the  regent,  he  had  at  once  started  with 
a  numerous  retinue,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  her 
and  her  son  into  his  keeping;  but  he  arrived  just 
in  time  to  learn  that  he  had  been  anticipated  by 
the  opposite  party,  and  that  the  favorable  moment 
had  been  lost.  This  first  failure  did  not  paralyze 
his  courage.  “  Having  gone  so  far,”  he  said  to 
Admiral  Coligny,  “  we  have  to  wade  through,  or 
else  we  shall  sink.”  He  hastened  with  his  troops 
to  Orleans,  where  he  arrived  in  season  to  decide 
the  victory  in  favor  of  Colonel  Andelot,  who  was 
fighting  here  with  great  disadvantage  against 
the  Catholics.  He  intended  to  make  this  city  his 
chief  arsenal,  to  gather  his  forces  within  its  walls, 
and  to  hold  it  as  an  asylum  for  himself  and  his 
family,  in  case  he  should  meet  with  an  accident. 

Both  sides  now  commenced  the  war  with  ma¬ 
nifestoes  and  counter-manifestoes,  which  were 
tain 'led  with  all  the  bitterness  of' party-spirit  and 
where  every  thing  might  be  found  but  sincerity. 
In  his  own  appeal,  the  Prince  Conde  summoned 
all  honest  Frenchmen,  to  help  him  to  deliver  the 
king  and  his  mother  from  the  captivity  in  which 
they  were  held  by  the  Guises  and  their  partisans. 
These  undertook  to  prove  the  justice  of  their 


cause  by  the  king’s  presence  among  them,  and  to 
induce  all  faithful  subjects  to  gather  under  the 
standard  of  their  king.  The  monarch,  still  a  minor, 
had  to  declare  in  the  Council  of  State,  that  both 
he  and  his  mother  were  free,  and  had  to  confirm 
the  edict  of  January.  The  same  dissimulation 
was  employed  by  both  parties  against  foreign 
powers.  In  order  to  lull  the  German  Protestants 
to  sleep,  the  Guises  declared  that  religion  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  difficulty,  and  that  the  war 
was  only  waged  against  the  rebels.  The  same  ar¬ 
tifice  was  employed  by  the  Prince  Conde,  in  order 
to  secure  the  neutrality  of  foreign  Catholic  powers. 
In  this  combat  of  intrigue  and  deception,  Catha¬ 
rine  did  not  belie  her  character  or  her  policy  ; 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  act  a  double  part, 
she  played  a  masterly  game  in  uniting  the  most 
contradictory  parts  in  her  own  person.  She  de¬ 
nied  publicly  the  concessions  she  had  made  to  the 
Prince  Cond6,  and  earnestly  invited  him  to  make 
peace,  whereas  it  is  reported  that  she  favored  his 
armaments  in  secret,  and  urged  him  to  conduct 
the  war  with  energy.  Whereas  the  orders  of  the 
Guises  commanded  the  governors  of  the  provinces 
to  destroy  every  person  who  claimed  to  belong  to 
the  reformed  party,  the  letters  of  the  regent  in¬ 
vited  them  to  exercise  moderation. 

During  these  political  manoeuvres,  the  war, 
which  was  the  main  point,  was  not  lost  sight  of. 
These  apparent  efforts  for  the  preservation  of  the 
peace  afforded  the  Prince  Conde  more  time  to  con¬ 
tinue  his  armaments.  All  the  reformed  churches 
were  invited  to  contribute  to  the  expenses  of  a 
war  that  concerned  them  so  nearly,  and  the  reli¬ 
gious  zeal  of  this  party  poured  forth  their  trea¬ 
sures.  The  enrollments  were  conducted  with  the 
greatest  zeal,  a  brave  and  faithful  nobility  took  up 
arms  for  the  prince,  and  a  solemn  act  was  drawn 
up,  uniting  the  scattered  members  of  the  party  in 
one  confederacy,  the  object  of  which  was  likewise 
determined.  It  was  declared  in  this  act,  that 
arms  had  been  taken  up  for  the  purpose  of  main¬ 
taining  the  laws  of  the  kingdom,  and  protecting 
the  authority  and  even  the  person  of  the  king 
against  the  violent  designs  of  a  few  ambitious 
spirits,  who  were  hurling  the  country  into  anarchy. 
The  members  of  the  confederacy  bound  each  other 
solemnly  to  oppose  all  blasphemy,  all  profanations 
of  religion,  all  superstitious  opinions  and  rites,  all 
excesses,  &c.,  which  amounted  to  the  same  thing 
as  to  declare  war  against  the  Catholic  church. 
Lastly,  the  Prince  Conde  was  recognized  as  the 
chief  of  the  confederacy,  whose  members  promised 
to  assist  him  with  their  fortune  and  lives,  and  to 
obey  his  commands.  Henceforth  the  rebellion  took 
a  more  definite  form,  the  isolated  undertakings 
of  bands  of  the  reformed  seemed  more  coherent, 
and  might  be  more  definitely  traced  to  a  general 
and  systematic  plan  ;  the  party  now  was  an  or¬ 
ganized  body  animated  by  a  ruling  spirit.  Catho¬ 
lics  and  reformed,  it  is  true,  had  measured  swords 
with  each  other  in  isolated  combats  ;  noblemen  in 
the  various  provinces  had  taken  up  arms,  enrolled 
soldiers,  surprised  towns,  devastated  the  open 
country,  fought  small  battles  ;  but  these  trifling 
operations,  whatsoever  misery  they  may  have  in¬ 
flicted  upon  the  district  that  happened  to  be  the 
theatre  of  such  conflicts,  were  without  influence 


406 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


upon  the  current  of  events,  for  the  reason  that  a 
defeat  ended  the  conflict  by  the  scattering  of  the 
beaten  force. 

Armaments  now  were  carried  forward  in  the 
whole  kingdom  either  for  offense  or  defense  ;  the 
first  cities  of  Normandy,  especially  Rouen,  de¬ 
clared  iuTavor  of  the  reformed  party.  A  frightful 
spirit  of  discord  pervaded  the  provinces,  dissolv¬ 
ing  even  the  most  sacred  ties  of  nature.  Robbery, 
murder,  and  murderous  combats  were  of  daily  oc¬ 
currence  ;  the  horrid  spectacle  of  smoking  cities 
announced  the  universal  misery.  Brothers  sepa¬ 
rated  from  brothers,  fathers  from  sons,  friends 
from  friends,  joining  opposite  leaders,  and  meet¬ 
ing  again  in  the  bloody  field  of  battle  as  enemies. 
In  the  mean  while  a  regular  army  gathered  at 
Orleans  under  the  command  of  Cond6,  and  another 
at  Paris  under  the  leadership  of  Montmorency  and 
the  Guises,  both  equally  impatient  to  decide  the 
fate  of  the  country  and  religion. 

Before  risking  a  battle,  Catharine,  who  ex¬ 
pected  to  find  a  master,  no  matter  on  which  side 
the  eagle  of  victory  should  perch,  attempted  once 
more  the  way  of  reconciliation.  By  her  sugges¬ 
tion,  the  leaders  held  a  conference  at  Toury  ;  and, 
after  this  had  ended  in  smoke,  another  conference 
was  appointed  at  Talsy  between  Chateaudun  and 
Orleans.  The  Prince  Conde  insisted  upon  the 
withdrawal  of  Duke  Guise,  the  Marshal  St.  Andre, 
and  the  constable ;  and  the  Queen  had  indeed 
prevailed  upon  them  to  withdraw  to  the  distance 
of  a  few  leagues  from  the  royal  camp  duting  the 
conference.  The  main  cause  of  distrust  having 
thus  been  removed,  the  artful  princess,  who  only 
desired  to  get  rid  of  the  tyranny  of  both  parties,  ob¬ 
tained  through  her  negotiator,  the  Bishop  of  Va¬ 
lence,  an  offer  from  the  Prince  Conde,  to  leave  the 
kingdom,  he  and  his  partisans,  provided  his  oppo¬ 
nents  would  do  the  same  thing.  She  took  him 
at  his  word,  and  was  on  the  point  of  triumphing 
over  his  indiscretion,  when  the  general  dissatisfac¬ 
tion  of  the  Protestant  army,  and  a  more  mature 
consideration  of  the  hasty  offer,  induced  the 
prince  to  abruptly  terminate  the  conference  and 
to  return  the  queen’s  deception  by  similar  fraud. 
Thus  the  last  attempt  at  reconciliation  failed, 
and  the  issue  now  had  to  be  determined  by  the 
sword. 

Historians  are  inexhaustible  in  describing  the 
cruelties  that  characterized  this  war.  A  single 
glance  into  history  and  the  human  heart  will  be 
found  sufficient  to  account  to  us  for  all  these  mis¬ 
deeds.  It  is  an  old  saying,  that  no  wars  are  conducted 
in  a  more  infamous  and  more  inhuman  manner  than 
those  which  are  kindled  by  religious  fanaticism 
and  party-spirit  in  the  bosom  of  a  country.  Im¬ 
pulses  which  have  extinguished  in  the  human 
heart  the  feelings  that  are  so  sacred  to  man  ; 
which  have  wiped  out  the  honored  relation  between 
the  sovereign  and  his  subjects,  and  have  even 
stifled  the  holiest  instincts  of  nature,  are  no  longer 
checked  by  the  duties  of  humanity  ;  the  very  vio¬ 
lence  which  men  have  to  use  in  bursting  those 
powerful  bonds,  carries  them  headlong  and  blindly 
to  deeds  of  the  fiercest  barbarity.  The  senti¬ 
ments  of  justice,  comity,  and  fidelity,  which  are 
founded  upon  an  acknowledged  equality  of  rights, 
lose  their  force  in  civil  wars  where  each  party 


looks  upon  the  other  as  a  criminal,  and  arrogates 
to  itself  the  right  of  punishing  the  opposite  party. 
If  one  state  makes  war  against  another,  if  the 
will  of  the  sovereign  alone  arms  the  nation, 
and  if  honor  alone  stimulates  it  to  bravery,  her 
behests  are  even  respected  toward  the  enemy,  and 
a  generous  bravery  spares  even  its  victims.  In  a 
national  war  the  object  of  the  soldier’s  desires 
differs  from  that  of  his  bravery  ;  it  is  another  per 
son’s  passion  that  fights  through  his  arm.  In  civil 
wars,  the  passions  of  the  people  do  the  fighting, 
and  the  enemy  is  the  object  of  the  combat.  Each 
individual  here  is  an  assailant ,  because  each 
chooses  voluntarily  the  party  for  whom  he  is  con¬ 
tending.  Each  individual  here  is  the  assailed 
party,  because  the  other  despises  what  he  esteems, 
the  other  hates  what  he  loves,  the  other  con¬ 
demns  what  he  prefers.  Here,  where  passion  and 
necessity  force  the  strange  sword  into  the  hands 
of  the  peaceful  farmer,  the  mechanic,  and  artist, 
fierceness  and  wrath  have  to  replace  the  want 
of  discipline,  despair  has  to  take  the  place  of 
true  bravery.  Here,  where  home  and  kindred  are 
left  behind,  the  home  of  the  enemy  is  fired  with 
a  diabolical  joy,  nor  is  the  voice  of  nature,  which 
had  to  be  stifled  at  home,  respected  when  heard 
from  strange  lips.  Here,  where  the  sources  from 
which  the  masses  draw  their  morality,  become 
turbid,  where  venerable  things  are  profaned, 
sacred  things  are  desecrated,  and  the  unchange¬ 
able  is  forced  off  its  hinges ;  where  the  vital 
springs  of  public  order  become  diseased,  the  con¬ 
tagious  example  of  the  whole  taints  every  breast, 
each  brain  is  agitated  by  the  tempest  that  shakes 
the  foundations  of  the  state.  Thrice  more  terri¬ 
ble  if  religious  fanaticism  and  party-spirit  are 
united,  and  the  torch  of  civil  war  is  kindled  by 
the  impure  fire  of  priestly  zeal. 

This  was  the  character  of  the  war  that  was  now 
desolating  France.  It  is  from  the  bosom  of  the 
reformed  religion  that  proceeded  the  gloomy  and 
cruel  spirit  which  gave  to  the  war  this  fatal  turn, 
which  engendered  all  these  misdeeds.  In  the 
camp  of  this  party  all  smiling  and  joyous  feelings 
were  suppressed,  plays  and  social  songs  had  been 
banished  by  gloomy  zeal.  Psalms  and  prayers 
resounded  in  their  places,  and  the  ministers  were 
unceasingly  busy  in  inculcating  in  the  soldier  the 
duties  of  his  religion,  and  to  stir  up  his  fanatical 
zeal.  A  religion  that  imposes  such  tortures  upon 
the  senses,  could  not  possibly  invite  the  heart  to 
feelings  of  humanity  ;  the  character  of  the  whole 
party  must  necessarily  become  barbarized  by  such 
a  servile  and  sombre  faith.  Every  vestige  of  po¬ 
pery  excited  the  rage  of  the  Calvinist ;  altars  and 
men  were  sacrificed  indiscriminately  to  his  intole¬ 
rant  pride.  He  was  driven  by  want  and  famine 
whither  fanaticism  had  not  impelled  him  to  go. 
The  Prince  Conde  himself  set  the  example  for  a 
system  of  plunder  which  was  speedily  imitated  all 
over  France.  Abandoned  by  the  resources  with 
which  he  had  met  the  expenses  of  the  war  hither¬ 
to,  he  laid  hands  on  the  Catholic  church-utensils 
that  came  within  his  reach,  and  caused  the  sacred 
vessels  and  ornaments  to  be  melted  down.  The 
wealth  of  the  churches  proved  too  alluring  for  the 
cupidity  of  the  Protestants,  and  the  desecration 
of  the  sanctuaries  was  too  sweet  an  enjoyment  for 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


407 


their  desire  of  revenge,  not  to  be  indulged  in  by 
these  licentious  bands.  All  the  churches  of  which 
they  were  able  to  possess  themselves,  and  more  es¬ 
pecially  the  convents,  had  to  experience  the  double 
fury  of  their  avarice  and  fanaticism.  Not  satisfied 
with  plunder,  they  desecrated  the  sanctuaries  of 
their  enemies  by  the  most  cutting  derision,  and  pro¬ 
faned  the  objects  of  their  adoration  with  a  studied 
cruelty  and  a  most  barbarous  delight.  They  broke 
into  their  churches,  demolished  their  altars,  muti¬ 
lated  the  images  of  their  saints,  trampled  upon 
their  relics  or  vilified  them  by  the  vilest  usage, 
dug  up  the  graves  of  their  enemies,  and  made 
dead  bones  pay  for  the  faith  of  the  living.  No 
wonder  if  such  bitter  insults  excited  the  most 
frightful  retaliation,  if  every  Catholic  pulpit  re¬ 
sounded  with  imprecations  against  the  infamous 
profaners  of  the  faith,  if  the  Huguenot  found  no 
mercy  at  the  hand  of  the  Catholic,  if  attempts  on 
the  pretended  deity  were  punished  by  the  most 
horrid  violations  of  nature  and  humanity. 

The  leaders  themselves  set  the  example  of  these 
deeds  ;  but  the  excesses  to  which  the  common 
people  were  carried,  soon  caused  the  chiefs  to  re¬ 
pent  of  their  fanatical  zeal.  Each  party  vied  with 
the  other  in  cruelty.  Not  satisfied  with  the  shed¬ 
ding  of  blood,  the  horrid  delight  of  revenge  was 
sought  to  be  prolonged  by  new  contrivances  of 
torture.  Human  life  had  become  a  mere  trifle, 
and  the  derisive  laughter  of  the  murderer  rendered 
the  sting  of  a  painful  death  still  more  poignant. 
No  asylum,  no  sworn  compact,  no  human  rights, 
no  law  of  nations,  afforded  protection  against  the 
beastly  frenzy  ;  faith  and  honor  were  forgotten  ; 
oaths  only  served  to  allure  victims.  A  decree  of 
the  parliament  of  Paris  which  formally  and  so¬ 
lemnly  condemned  the  reformed  doctrines  and 
pronounced  sentence  of  death  over  all  their  parti¬ 
sans  ;  another  still  more  emphatic  sentence  of 
condemnation,  emanating  from  the  king’s  council, 
and  proscribing  all  the  adherents  of  the  Prince 
Conde,  except  himself,  as  guilty  of  the  crime  of 
lese-majeste,  were  not  calculated  to  appease  the 
incensed  spirits,  for  now  the  king’s  name  and 
the  certain  expectation  of  booty,  stimulated  the 
persecuting  zeal  of  the  papists  ;  the  courage  of 
the  Huguenots  was  stimulated  by  despair. 

In  vain  Catharine  Medicis  had  taxed  her  art¬ 
ful  ingenuity  to  appease  the  rage  of  parties  ;  in 
vain  a  decree  of  the  council  had  declared  all  the 
artisans  of  Prince  Conde  rebels  and  guilty  of 
igh-treason  ;  in  vain  the  parliament  of  Paris  had 
taken  sides  against  the  Calvinists  ;  civil  war  had 
broken  out,  and  France  was  in  flames.  Howso¬ 
ever  confident  the  latter  were  in  their  power, 
the  result  did  not  come  up  to  the  expectations 
which  their  preparations  had  excited.  The  re¬ 
formed  nobility  which  constituted  the  chief 
strength  of  the  army  of  Conde,  soon  had  con¬ 
sumed  their  scanty  means,  and,  nothing  decisive 
being  done  and  the  war  being  indefinitely  pro¬ 
longed,  they  were  induced  to  yield  to  the  urgent 
demands  of  self-preservation,  and,  being  unable  to 
remain  with  the  army  at  their  own  expense,  they 
returned  home  in  order  to  defend  their  own  estates. 
In  a  short  time  this  numerous  army  that  had 
excited  such  brilliant  hopes,  was  scattered  to  the 


winds,  and  the  prince,  too  much  reduced  to  meet 
a  superior  enemy  in  the  field,  was  compelled  to 
throw  himself  with  the  remnant  of  his  army  into 
the  city  of  Orleans. 

Here  he  awaited  the  assistance  which  several 
foreign  Protestant  powers  had  promised  him. 
Germany  and  Switzerland  supplied  soldiers  to 
both  of  the  belligerent  parties ;  their  venal  bravery, 
unconcerned  about  the  cause  for  which  they 
fought,  was  at  the  service  of  those  who  paid  the 
highest  price  for  their  services.  Both  German 
and  Swiss  troops  enlisted  in  opposite  ranks,  ac¬ 
cording  as  their  own  or  their  leaders’  interests 
dictated,  and  the  interests  of  religion  were  of 
very  little  consequence.  Whilst  a  German  army 
was  enlisted  for  the  Prince  Conde  on  the  banks 
of  the  Rhine,  an  important  arrangement  was 
effected  with  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England.  The 
same  policy  which  induced  this  princess  at  a  sub¬ 
sequent  period  to  protect  the  Netherlands  against 
their  oppressor  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  imposed 
similar  duties  upon  her  toward  the  French  Pro¬ 
testants;  the  interests  of  religion  did  not  permit 
her  to  look  with  indifference  upon  the  probable 
ruin  of  her  co-religionists  in  a  neighboring  king¬ 
dom.  These  instigations  of  her  conscience  were 
not  a  little  quickened  by  political  motives.  A 
civil  war  in  France  secured  her  still  unstable 
throne  against  an  attack  from  this  quarter,  and 
afforded  her  an  excellent  opportunity  of  extending 
her  own  dominions  at  the  expense  of  this  king¬ 
dom.  The  wound  inflicted  upon  England  by  the 
loss  of  Calais  was  still  bleeding ;  in  losing  this 
important  frontier  town,  England  had  lost  her 
unimpeded  entry  into  France.  For  a  long  time 
past  Elizabeth  had  entertained  the  project  of  re¬ 
pairing  this  loss,  and  obtaining  a  firm  foot-hold 
in  the  kingdom  at  some  other  point ;  the  civil 
war  which  had  broken  out  in  France  showed  her 
the  means  of  accomplishing  her  purpose.  Six 
thousand  English  auxiliaries  were  promised  to  the 
Prince  Conde,  on  condition  that  half  of  them 
should  occupy  the  city  of  Havre  de  GiAce,  and 
the  other  half  the  cities  of  Rouen  and  Dieppe  in 
Normandy,  as  asylums  for  their  persecuted  co¬ 
religionists.  A  furious  party-spirit  extinguished 
for  a  time  all  patriotic  sentiments  in  the  hearts  of 
the  French  Protestants,  and  the  ancient  national 
hatred  against  the  British  yielded  for  a  moment  to 
the  sectarian  hatred  and  the  vindictive  frenzy  of 
embittered  factions. 

The  apprehended  invasion  of  Normandy  by  the 
English,  drew  the  royal  army  to  this  province,  and 
the  city  of  Rouen  was  besieged.  The  parliament 
and  the  most  distinguished  citizens  had  pre¬ 
viously  fled  from  this  city,  the  defense  of  which 
was  abandoned  to  a  fanatical  multitude,  which, 
excited  by  preaching  enthusiasts,  only  listened  to 
its  blind  fanaticism  and  to  the  law  of  despair. 
But  in  spite  of  all  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
citizens,  the  walls  were  scaled  after  a  defense 
which  had  lasted  for  months,  and  the  obstinacy  of 
the  defenders  was  punished  by  a  barbarous  treat¬ 
ment  which  the  Protestants  of  Orleans  lost  no 
time  in  returning.  The  death  of  the  King  of 
Navarre,  who  died  of  a  wound  he  had  received 
during  this  siege,  in  the  year  1562,  imparted  some 


408 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


celebrity  to  this  event,  although  the  death  of  this 
Prince  was  of  very  little  consequence  to  either 
party. 

The  loss  of  Rouen  and  the  victorious  advance 
of  the  hostile  army  in  Normandy,  threatened 
the  Prince  Conde,  who  had  only  a  few  large 
cities  -left  to  his  rule,  with  the  imminent  destruction 
of  his  party,  when  the  appearance  of  the  German 
auxiliaries,  with  whom  his  Colonel  Andelot  had 
effected  a  junction  after  surmounting  incredible 
difficulties,  revived  his  drooping  hopes.  At  the 
head  of  these  troops  who,  together  with  his  own, 
constituted  a  tolerably  powerful  army,  he  was 
strong  enough  to  march  on  Paris,  and  to  startle 
this  capital  by  his  unexpected  arrival  before  its 
walls.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Catharine’s  politi¬ 
cal  prudence,  Paris  would  either  have  been  con¬ 
quered,  or  favorable  terms  of  peace  would  at  least 
have  been  obtained  by  the  Protestants.  By  re¬ 
sorting  to  her  usual  policy  of  negotiations,  she 
managed  to  arrest  the  prince  in  the  midst  of  his 
victorious  career,  and  to  gain  time  for  safety  by 
holding  out  the  prospect  of  an  advantageous 
treaty.  She  promised  to  confirm  the  edict  of 
January,  which  secured  the  free  exercise  of  reli¬ 
gious  worship  to  the  Protestants,  excepting  only 
the  cities  where  the  supreme  courts  of  justice 
sat.  The  prince  insisting  upon  these  last-named 
cities  being  included  in  the  provisions  of  this 
edict,  the  negotiations  were  protracted,  and  Ca¬ 
tharine  obtained  the  necessary  time  to  perfect  her 
measures.  The  armistice  which  was  granted  to 
her  by  the  prince,  became  ruinous  to  the  allied 
army;  whilst  the  royalists  gathered  new  strength 
within  the  walls  of  Paris,  and  increased  their 
number  by  the  arrival  of  Spanish  auxiliaries,  the 
army  of  the  Prince  became  so  reduced  by  deser¬ 
tions  and  cold,  that  he  was  soon  forced  to  an  ig¬ 
nominious  departure.  He  directed  his  course  to 
Normandy,  where  he  expected  money  and  troops 
from  England,  but  being  overtaken  by  the  queen’s 
army,  not  far  from  Dreux,  he  was  obliged  to  ac¬ 
cept  battle.  Startled  and  undecided,  as  though 
the  oppressed  feelings  of  nature  had  reclaimed 
their  rights,  both  armies  stared  at  each  other  be¬ 
fore  the  cannon  gave  the  signal  for  the  work  of 
death  ;  the  thought  of  the  fraternal  blood  that 
was  to  be  spilt,  seemed  to  quiver  through  each 
single  combataut  with  a  sensation  of  horror.  This 
struggle  of  the  conscience  did  not  last  long;  the 
wild  yell  of  discord  soon  stifled  the  gentle  voice 
of  humanity.  This  ominous  silence  was  followed 
by  a  storm  that  was  so  much  more  terrible.  For 
seven  hours  both  parties  fought  with  equal  cour¬ 
age,  with  equal  bitterness  of  hatred.  Victory  was 
wavering  from  side  to  side,  until  the  firmness  of 
the  Duke  of  Guise  finally  secured  it  to  the  king’s 
army.  Prince  Cond6  among  the  confederates, 
and  the  Constable  Montmorency  among  the 
royalists,  were  taken  prisoners ;  Marshal  St. 
Andre  remained  dead  on  the  field  of  battle.  This 
decisive  victory  delivered  the  duke  of  a  for¬ 
midable  public  enemy,  and  of  two  rivals  of  his 
power. 

If  Catharine  had  groaned  under  the  yoke  that  the 
triumvirs  had  imposed  upon  her,  the  despotism  of 
the  Duke  of  Guise,  whose  ambition  knew  no  bounds 
and  whose  imperious  pride  knew  no  moderation, 


must  have  been  doubly  offensive  to  her.  The  vic¬ 
tory  of  Dreux,  so  far  from  satisfying  her  wishes, 
had  imposed  upon  her  a  master  who  did  not  hesi¬ 
tate  to  use  the  superiority  he  had  acquired,  and 
to  hold  the  confident  and  proud  language  of  a 
master.  His  authority  was  supreme,  and  the  un¬ 
limited  power  which  he  possessed  gave  him  the 
means  of  purchasing  friends  and  filling  both  the 
court  and  the  army  with  his  creatures.  How¬ 
soever  much  policy  suggested  to  Catharine  the 
propriety  of  raising  again  the  sinking  Protestant 
faction,  and  limiting  the  pretensions  of  the  Duke 
of  Guise  by  restoring  the  influence  of  the  Prince 
Cond6,  yet  she  was  dragged  into  opposite  meas¬ 
ures  by  the  ascendency  of  the  duke.  This  person¬ 
age,  following  up  his  victory,  advanced  before  the 
city  of  Orleans,  where  the  main  body  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  had  taken  up  a  fortified  position  ;  by 
capturing  this  place,  he  intended  to  wipe  out  the 
Protestant  party  at  one  blow.  The  loss  of  a  battle 
and  the  captivity  of  their  chief  had  shaken,  but  not 
paralyzed  their  courage.  They  were  now  headed 
by  Admiral  Coligny,  whose  genius  was  inexhaust¬ 
ible  in  resources,  and  always  shone  most  brilliantly 
in  adversity.  Within  a  brief  period  he  had  again 
assembled  the  remnant  of  the  defeated  army,  and, 
in  his  person,  had  given  the  soldiers  a  new  leader. 
Increased  by  English  troops,  and  paid  with  English 
gold,  he  led  them  into  Normandy,  where  they  pre¬ 
pared  themselves  by  minor  undertakings  for  a 
more  important  enterprise. 

In  the  mean  while  Francis  Guise  continued  to 
harass  the  city  of  Orleans  in  order  to  crown  his 
triumph  by  the  conquest  of  this  place.  With  the 
elite  of  the  army  and  the  most  chosen  chiefs, 
Andelot  had  thrown  himself  into  this  town,  where 
the  captive  constable  was  likewise  held  in  confine¬ 
ment.  The  conquest  of  such  an  important  fort¬ 
ress  would  have  ended  the  war  at  one  blow,  for 
which  reason  the  duke  made  every  effort  to  take 
it.  But  in  the  place  of  the  laurels  which  he  hoped 
to  gather  before  this  place,  he  met  his  death. 
Jean  Toltrot  de  Mkre  wounded  him  with  poisoned 
balls,  and  by  this  bloody  deed  began  the  drama 
which  was  afterward  continued  by  the  fanatical 
frenzy  of  factions  in  a  series  of  similar  cruelties. 
By  his  death  the  Calvinists  were  undoubtedly 
freed  from  a  formidable  adversary,  and  Catharine 
got  rid  of  a  dangerous  participant  of  power;  but 
in  losing  him,  France  lost  a  hero  and  a  great  man. 
However  insatiate  this  prince’s  ambition  might 
have  been,  he  was  adequate  to  his  designs;  what¬ 
ever  storms  his  ambition  had  excited’ in  the  king¬ 
dom,  yet  even  his  enemies  admitted  the  loftiness 
of  his  mind,  which  ennobles  every  passion  of  great 
souls.  That  the  duty  of  honor  was  sacred  to  him, 
even  in  the  midst  of  the  brutalizing  frenzy  of  the 
civil  war,  where  the  sentiment  of  humanity  is  so 
readily  extinguished,  is  proven  by  the  treatment 
which  he  showed  to  his  opponent,  the  Prince 
Conde,  after  the  battle  of  Dreux.  With  no  little 
amazement,  these  bitter  antagonists,  who  had 
sought  for  so  many  years  to  exterminate  each 
other,  whose  vengeance  had  been  excited  bv  so 
many  insults,  and  whose  distrust  in  each  other 
had  been  inflamed  by  so  many  acts  of  hostility 
were  seen  dining  at  the  same  table,  and,  as  was  the 
custom  in  those  times,  sleeping  in  the  same  bed 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


409 


The  death  of  their  leader  arrested  very  shortly 
the  activity  of  the  Catholic  party,  and  facilitated 
Catharine’s  efforts  to  restore  peace.  The  in¬ 
creasing  wretchedness  of  the  country  excited  an 
urgent  desire  for  repose,  which  the  captivity  of 
the  two  chiefs,  Cond6  and  Montmorency  seemed 
to  render  probable.  Both  of  them  impatiently 
longing  for  freedom,  and  unceasingly  admonished 
by  the  queen-mother  to  become  reconciled  with 
each  other,  at  last  concluded  the  terms  of  an 
agreement  in  the  city  of  Amboise,  1563,  where 
the  edict  of  January  was  substantially  confirmed 
with  few  modifications  ;  the  reformed  were  per¬ 
mitted  the  free  exercise  of  their  religious  worship 
in  the  cities  that  happened  to  be  in  their  posses¬ 
sion,  but  in  the  open  country  this  exercise  was 
limited  to  the  estates  of  high  judicial  function¬ 
aries  and  to  the  private  houses  of  the  nobility ; 
in  other  respects,  all  past  offenses  were  to  be  uni¬ 
versally  and  forever  forgotten. 

However  considerable  the  advantages  which 
the  convention  of  Amboise  accorded  to  the  Pro¬ 
testants,  might  seem  to  be,  nevertheless  Coligny 
was  perfectly  right  in  denouncing  it  as  an  act  of 
indiscretion  on  the  part  of  the  prince,  and  decep¬ 
tion  on  the  part  of  the  queen.  This  premature 
peace  destroyed  the  brilliant  hopes  of  his  party, 
which  perhaps  at  no  period  during  this  war  had 
been  so  well  founded  as  at  the  present  time.  The 
Duke  of  Guise,  who  was  the  soul  of  the  Catholic 
party,  the  Marshal  St.  Andre,  the  King  of  Navarre 
in  their  graves,  the  constable  a  prisoner,  the  army 
without  a  leader  and  dissatisfied  on  account  of 
the  non-payment  of  arrears,  and  the  finances  ex¬ 
hausted  ;  on  the  side  of  the  Protestants  a  vigorous 
army,  England’s  powerful  aid,  friends  in  Germany, 
and  the  religious  zeal  of  the  French  Protestants 
sufficiently  fertile  in  resources  to  prosecute  the  war. 
The  important  fortresses  of  Lyons  and  Orleans, 
that  had  been  defended  with  so  much  blood,  were 
lost  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen  ;  the  army  had  to  be 
disbanded,  and  the  Germans  were  sent  home.  In 
return  for  these  sacrifices  not  only  not  a  step  had 
Deen  taken  towards  religious  equality,  but  the 
former  privileges  had  not  even  been  restored. 

The  exchange  of  the  captive  leaders,  and  the 
expulsion  of  the  English  from  Havre  de  Grace, 
which  Montmorency  effected  by  means  of  the  dis¬ 
missed  Protestant  soldiers,  were  the  first  fruit  of 
this  peace.  The  zeal  with  which  both  parties  en¬ 
deavored  to  hasten  the  accomplishment  of  this 
enterprise,  proved  not  so  much  the  returning  pa¬ 
triotism  of  the  people  as  the  inextinguishable  na¬ 
tional  hatred  which  neither  the  duty  of  gratitude, 
nor  the  most  intense  workings  of  the  passions, 
were  able  to  overcome.  No  sooner  had  the  com¬ 
mon  enemy  been  expelled  from  the  soil  of  France, 
when  all  the  passions  which  sectarian  party-spirit 
enkindles,  returned  in  all  their  fury,  and  again 
gave  rise  to  the  former  scenes  of  violence.  How¬ 
soever  trifling  the  advantages  were  which  the 
Calvinists  derived  from  the  treaty,  yet  even  these 
were  restricted  by  the  most  arbitrary  interpreta¬ 
tion  of  the  treaty.  Montmorency’s  imperious 
spirit  was  busy  in  undermining  a  peace  which  he 
himself  had  proposed  ;  for  war  alone  rendered 
him  indispensable  to  the  queen.  The  intolerant 
religious  zeal  which  animated  him,  was  communi¬ 


cated  to  several  provincial  commanders,  and  woe 
unto  the  Protestants  in  districts  where  the  majo¬ 
rity  was  not  on  their  side.  In  vain  they  claimed 
the  rights  which  the  express  letter  of  the  treaty 
guaranteed  to  them  ;  in  the  midst  of  courtly  de¬ 
lights,  their  natural  protector,  the  Prince  Cond6, 
insnared  by  the  queen’s  intrigues,  and  tired  of 
the  thankless  office  of  a  party-leader,  indemnified 
himself  for  the  privations  which  the  war  had  im¬ 
posed  upon  his  ruling  passion.  He  contented 
himself  with  written  protestations,  which,  unsup¬ 
ported  by  an  army,  remained  without  effect,  whilst 
one  edict  after  another  was  promulgated  restrict¬ 
ing  more  and  more  the  few  privileges  of  his  party. 

In  the  mean  while  Catharine  led  the  young 
king,  who  had  been  declared  of  age  in  the  year 
1563,  from  province  to  province,  in  order  to  show 
their  new  king  to  his  French  subjects,  put  down 
the  spirit  of  rebellion  by  the  royal  presence,  and 
win  the  hearts  of  the  nation  for  her  son.  The 
sight  of  so  many  demolished  churches  and  con¬ 
vents,  which  testified  in  a  fearful  manner  to  the 
fanatical  frenzy  of  the  Protestants,  was  not  cal¬ 
culated  to  give  the  young  king  a  favorable  idea 
of  the  new  religion,  and  it  is  very  probable  that 
his  tour  through  France  inspired  him  with  a  burn¬ 
ing  hatred  against  the  Calvinists. 

Whilst  the  inflammable  materials  for  a  new 
war  were  accumulating  between  the  two  parties, 
Catharine  exerted  herself  at  the  court  to  perform 
the  farce  of  a  reconciliation  between  the  chiefs. 
For  a  long  time  past  the  honor  of  Admiral  Co¬ 
ligny  had  been  stained  by  a  dark  suspicion. 
Francis  Guise  had  been  assassinated,  and  the  de¬ 
struction  of  such  an  enemy  was  too  opportune  an 
event  for  the  admiral  not  to  induce  his  embit¬ 
tered  opponents  to  accuse  him  of  complicity. 
The  deposition  of  the  murderer,  who  sought  to 
diminish  his  guilt  by  seeking  refuge  behind  a 
great  name,  imparted  an  appearance  of  legiti¬ 
macy  to  this  suspicion.  The  admiral’s  known 
love  of  honor  was  not  sufficient  to  refute  this  ac¬ 
cusation  :  there  are  periods,  when  virtue  is  no 
longer  believed  in.  The  brutalized  spirit  of  the 
age  repudiated  every  species  of  moral  virtue  that 
attempted  to  soar  above  the  universal  depravity. 
Antoinette  Bourbon,  widow  of  the  murdered  duke, 
accused  Coligny  publicly  as  the  murderer,  and 
Henry  Guise,  son  of  the  murdered  duke,  in  whose 
youthful  breast  the  future  greatness  was  already 
throbbing,  lost  no  time  in  arranging  his  terrible 
design  of  revenge.  Catharine’s  busy  spirit  extin¬ 
guished  this  dangerous  spark  which  threatened 
to  kindle  fresh  hostilities;  however  much  the 
discord  of  parties  favored  her  desire  of  dominion, 
yet  she  suppressed  every  open  outbreak  which 
reduced  her  to  the  necessity  of  taking  sides  with 
one  of  the  contending  parties,  and  of  incurring 
the  loss  of  her  independence.  By  her  indefati¬ 
gable  exertions  she  succeeded  in  obtaining  from 
the  widow  and  brother  of  the  murdered  duke  a 
solemn  pledge  declaring  the  admiral  innocent  of 
the  assassination,  and  in  effecting  an  apparent  re¬ 
conciliation  between  the  two  houses. 

Under  the  vail  of  this  affected  harmony,  the 
germs  of  a  new  and  more  furious  civil  war  deve¬ 
loped  themselves.  Every  little  concession  to  the 
Protestants  seemed  to  the  more  zealous  Catholics 


410 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


an  impardonable  infringement  of  the  majesty  of 
their  religion,  a  desecration  of  her  sanctuary,  an 
act  of  robbery  against  the  church  which  should 
not  abandon  the  smallest  of  her  privileges.  In 
the  eyes  of  the  Catholics,  no  compact,  were  it 
ever  so  solemn  which  violated  these  rights,  should 
be  considered  valid  ;  it  was  the  duty  of  every  or¬ 
thodox  believer  to  take  these  privileges  like  so 
much  stolen  property  back  from  this  accursed 
sect.  While  Rome  sought  to  strengthen  and  fo¬ 
ment  their  antagonism  ;  whilst  the  Catholic  lead¬ 
ers  endeavored  to  arm  this  fanatical  zeal  by  the 
influence  of  their  example,  the  opposite  party,  un¬ 
fortunately,  neglected  no  opportunity  of  inflaming 
the  hatred  of  the  papists  against  them  still  more 
by  the  increasing  arrogance  of  their  demands,  and 
of  extending  their  claims  in  proportion  as  they 
became  more  intolerable  to  the  Catholics.  “  Some 
time  ago,”  said  Charles  IX.  to  Coligny,  “you 
were  content  with  being  tolerated  by  us  ;  now 
you  presume  to  have  equal  rights  with  us  ;  by- 
and-by  you  will  want  to  drive  me  out  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  and  to  remain  the  exclusive  possessors  of 
the  field.” 

In  view  of  this  antagonistic  disposition  of  par¬ 
ties,  no  peace  could  last  that  was  not  satisfactory 
to  any.  Catharine  herself,  frightened  by  the 
threats  of  the  Calvinists,  planned  an  open  rup¬ 
ture,  and  the  question  simply  was,  how  a  large 
military  force  might  be  collected  without  prema¬ 
turely  informing  a  suspicious  enemy  of  approach¬ 
ing  danger.  The  march  of  a  Spanish  army  to  the 
Netherlands  under  the  command  of  the  Duke  of 
Alva,  which  touched  the  French  frontiers  during 
its  passage,  afforded  the  desired  pretext  for  an  ar¬ 
mament  that  was  to  be  used  against  the  internal 
enemies  of  the  kingdom.  It  seemed  prudent  not  to 
let  such  a  powerful  army  as  was  commanded  by 
the  Spanish  Generalissimo,  pass  close  to  the 
gates  of  the  kingdom  without  being  observed  and 
watched  by  a  suitable  force ;  even  the  suspicious 
spirit  of  the  Protestant  chiefs  admitted  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  organizing  an  army  of  observation  that 
should  restrain  these  dangerous  guests,  and  pro¬ 
tect  the  exposed  provinces  against  a  surprise.  In 
order  to  improve  this  circumstance,  they  offered 
to  arm  their  own  party  for  the  protection  of  the 
kingdom  ;  by  this  stratagem,  if  it  had  succeeded, 
they  would  have  attained  the  same  end  which  the 
court  had  been  planning  against  them.  In  great 
haste  Catharine  enlisted  an  army  of  six  thousand 
Swiss,  who  were  commanded  by  Catholic  generals, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  Protestants.  This  army 
marched  side  by  side  with  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who 
had  never  thought  of  molesting  French  subjects. 
Instead  of  disbanding  after  the  danger  was  past, 
the  Swiss  marched  to  the  very  heart  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  where  they  expected  to  surprise  the  Hugue¬ 
not  leaders  unprepared  to  defend  themselves. 
This  treacherous  plot  was  revealed  in  season  to 
show  to  the  Calvinists  the  abyss  into  which  they 
were  going  to  be  hurled.  They  had  to  make  up 
their  minds  at  once.  After  deliberating  at  the 
house  of  Coligny,  the  whole  party  was  soon  in  mo¬ 
tion.  Their  plan  was  to  anticipate  the  movements 
of  the  court,  to  capture  the  king  who  deemed  him¬ 
self  perfectly  se  mre  at  his  castle  of  Monceaux, 


and  where  he  resided  with  only  a  feeble  escorte. 
The  report  of  these  movements  induced  him  to 
hasten  to  Meaux,  whither  the  Swiss  were  ordered 
in  great  haste.  They  arrived,  indeed,  in  season, 
but  the  cavalry  of  the  Prince  Conde,  was  ap¬ 
proaching  more  and  more  closely,  the  army  of  tne 
confederates  became  more  and  more  numerous, 
and  threatened  to  besiege  the  king  in  his  retreat. 
The  determined  courage  of  the  Swiss,  saved  the 
king  from  this  danger.  They  offered  to  take  him 
to  Paris  straight  through  the  enemy’s  army,  and 
Catharine  did  not  hesitate  to  confide  his  person 
to  their  bravery.  They  started  about  midnight. 
Forming  a  close  square  around  the  monarch  and 
his  mother,  this  movable  fortress  marched  with 
their  halberts  presenting  a  dense  wall  of  steel  which 
the  hostile  cavalry  was  unable  to  pierce.  The  re¬ 
solute  courage  with  which  the  Swiss  pursued  their 
march,  and  which  was  fired  by  the  sacred  palla¬ 
dium  of  majesty,  confided  to  their  care,  struck 
down  the  courage  of  the  enemy,  and  the  instinc¬ 
tive  respect  which  the  French  feel  for  their  king, 
prevented  the  Prince  Conde  from  undertaking 
any  thing  more  than  a  few  skirmishes.  On  the 
same  evening,  the  king  arrived  in  Paris,  consider¬ 
ing  himself  indebted  to  the  swords  of  the  Swiss  for 
nothing  less  than  his  life  and  liberty. 

War  was  now  declared,  accompanied  by  the 
usual  assurance  that  arms  had  been  taken  up  not 
against  him,  but  against  his  own  enemies,  and 
those  of  the  kingdom.  Among  them  the  Cardinal 
Lorraine  was  the  most  hated.  Persuaded  that  he 
made  every  effort  to  injure  the  Protestants,  his 
destruction  was  the  chief  aim  of  their  endeavors. 
Fortunately  he  avoided  the  blow  that  was  to  be 
struck  at  him  by  making  his  escape  and  abandon¬ 
ing  his  furniture  to  the  fury  of  his  enemies. 

The  prince’s  cavalry  was  indeed  in  the  field,  but 
overtaken  by  the  king’s  army,  it  had  been  pre¬ 
vented  from  effecting  a  junction  with  the  German 
auxiliaries  and  forming  a  well-organized  army. 
Notwithstanding  the  courage  of  the  nobles  who 
constituted  the  greater  portion  of  the  prince’s 
army,  they  were  ill-calculated  for  the  fatigues  of  a 
siege,  which,  however,  threatened  to  constitute 
the  main  business  in  this  war.  Nevertheless,  this 
small  band  undertook  the  siege  of  Paris,  pressed 
forward  toward  the  capital,  and  sought  to  over¬ 
power  it  by  famine.  The  devastation  which  the 
enemies  caused  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  ex¬ 
hausted  the  patience  of  the  citizens  who  were  un¬ 
willing  to  see  their  property  destroyed  any  longer. 
They  insisted  upon  being  led  against  the  enemy 
whose  numbers  increased  from  day  to  day.  De¬ 
cisive  measures  had  to  be  taken  before  the  prince 
should  acquire  a  decided  superiority  by  effecting 
a  junction  with  the  German  auxiliaries.  On  the 
10th  of  November,  1567,  the  battle  of  St.  Denis 
was  fought,  where  the  Calvinists  had  indeed  the 
disadvantage,  but  were  compensated  for  their 
losses  by  the  death  of  the  constable  who  termi¬ 
nated  his  memorable  career  in  this  battle.  The 
bravery  of  his  troops  snatched  the  dying  general 
from  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and  procured  for 
him  the  consolation  of  dying  in  Paris  under  the 
eyes  of  his  king.  He  it  was  who  sent  away  his 
father  confessor,  with  these  laconic  words  :  “Never 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


411 


mind,  father ;  it  were  a  pity  that  I  should  have 
lived  eighty  years  without  learning  to  die  for  fif¬ 
teen  minutes  !” 

After  their  defeat  at  St.  Denis,  the  Calvinists 
made  a  precipitate  retreat  toward  the  Lotharin- 
gian  frontier,  in  order  to  effect  a  junction  with 
the  German  auxiliaries.  The  royal  army  made 
after  them,  under  the  command  of  the  young 
Duke  of  Anjou.  The  Calvinists  were  deprived 
of  the  necessaries  of  life,  whereas  the  Catholics 
enjoyed  every  luxury ;  the  flight  and  subsistence 
of  the  former  were  still  more  impeded  by  the  ad¬ 
verse  season.  On  reaching  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  Maas,  after  an  uninterrupted  struggle  with 
hunger  and  stormy  weather,  no  vestige  of  a  Ger¬ 
man  army  was  to  be  seen,  and  at  the  end  of  such 
a  fatiguing  journey,  the  Calvinists  did  not  seem 
to  be  any  better  off  than  they  were  before  the 
walls  of  Paris.  Their  patience  was  exhausted  ; 
the  nobles,  as  well  as  the  common  soldiers,  grum¬ 
bled.  The  dignity  of  the  admiral,  and  the  jovial 
mood  of  the  prince,  were  scarcely  able  to  prevent 
a  separation  of  the  troops.  The  prince  main¬ 
tained  that  their  safety  depended  upon  a  junction 
with  the  German  auxiliaries,  whom  they  should 
march  to  meet  at  the  place  designated  for  the 
rendezvous.  “  But,  supposing  they  should  not  be 
found  at  this  place,  what  would  the  Huguenots  do 
in  such  a  case?”  “Blow  their  hands  and  rub 
their  fingers,”  was  his  reply,  for  the  weather  was 
intensely  cold. 

At  last,  the  Palsgrave  Casimir  arrived  with  the 
anxiously-expected  German  cavalry  ;  but  now  a 
new  embarrassment  arose.  The  Germans  had 
the  reputation  of  not  being  willing  to  fight  until 
they  saw  money;  and  instead  of  the  hundred 
thousand  crowns  which  they  expected  to  receive, 
only  a  few  thousand  could  be  offered  them.  There 
was  danger  of  being  left  in  the  lurch  by  the  Ger¬ 
man  troops,  at  the  very  moment  when  a  junction 
was  on  the  point  of  being  effected,  and  of  seeing 
all  the  hopes  that  had  been  based  upon  such  a 
junction  defeated.  At  this  critical  moment,  the 
French  leader  appealed  to  the  vanity  and  national 
honor  of  his  countrymen,  and  was  not  disap¬ 
pointed  in  his  calculations.  He  admitted  to  the 
officers  his  inability  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  the 
Germans,  and  asked  them  to  assist  him  in  this 
difficulty.  The  officers  assembled  the  troops, 
represented  to  them  the  embarrassments  of  their 
commander,  and  appealed  to  their  sympathy  for 
aid.  In  these  appeals,  they  were  supported  by 
the  preachers,  who  sought  to  prove  that  it  was 
God’s  own  cause  that  was  assisted  by  the  charity 
of  the  army.  The  experiment  succeeded,  the 
common  soldier  deprived  himself,  without  reluc¬ 
tance,  of  his  rings  and  other  ornaments;  all  vied 
with  each  other  in  this  business,  and  it  was  dis¬ 
creditable  for  any  one  to  be  outdone  by  his  com¬ 
rade.  Every  thing  was  converted  into  money, 
and  a  sum  of  a  hundred  thousand  livres  was  col¬ 
lected,  which  satisfied  the  Germans  for  the  mo¬ 
ment.  This  is  probably  the  only  instance  in  his¬ 
tory  where  one  army  was  paid  by  the  other  !  But 
the  main  object  was  reached,  and  the  united  ar¬ 
mies  again  appeared  upon  French  soil,  in  the  year 
1568. 

Their  number  was  quite  considerable,  and  was 


swelled  from  day  to  day  by  the  troops  that  joined 
them  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom.  They  laid 
siege  to  Chartres,  and  frightened  the  capital  itself 
by  their  approach.  But  Conde  only  showed  the 
strength  of  his  party  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
favorable  terms  from  the  court.  lie  had  assumed 
the  responsibility  of  a  war  with  great  reluctance, 
and  was  anxious  for  peace,  which  would  enable 
him  to  gratify  his  inclination  for  pleasure.  He 
therefore  showed  a  willingness  to  enter  upon  the 
negotiations  which  Catharine  had  proposed,  for 
the  sake  of  gaining  time.  Whatever  cause  the 
reformed  had  to  distrust  the  offers  of  this  prin¬ 
cess,  and  however  little  all  previous  agreements 
had  improved  the  affairs  of  their  party,  they 
abandoned  a  second  time  their  advantage  of  num¬ 
bers  and  position,  and  lost  the  time  for  warlike 
enterprises  in  fruitless  negotiations.  The  money 
of  the  queen,  which  was  lavished  on  the  troops, 
diminished  their  number  from  day  to  day  ;  and 
their  dissatisfaction  which  Catharine  managed  to 
keep  up,  finally  obliged  their  chiefs  to  conclude  a 
premature  peace.  The  king  promised  a  general 
amnesty,  and  confirmed  the  edict  of  January, 
which  was  favorable  to  the  reformed  party.  At 
the  same  time,  he  pledged  himself  to  pay  the  Ger¬ 
man  auxiliaries,  who  still  had  heavy  arrears  due 
to  them  ;  but  it  was  soon  found  tnat  he  had  pro¬ 
mised  more  than  he  was  able  to  keen.  The  king 
was  anxious  to  get  rid  of  these  foreign  invaders 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  yet  they  were  unwilling 
to  leave  without  first  getting  their  pay.  At  last, 
after  obtaining  a  portion  of  their  dues,  they  com¬ 
menced  their  homeward  march.  The  hopes  of 
the  court  revived,  in  proportion  as  the  foreigners, 
who  had  been  promised  the  balance  of  their 
money  during  their  march,  approached  more 
nearly  to  the  frontier  of  the  kingdom.  But  they 
had  no  sooner  found  out  that  the  promised  pay¬ 
ments  were  not  forthcoming,  when  their  rage 
broke  out  afresh,  and  all  the  provinces  which 
they  passed  through,  had  to  pay  for  the  faith¬ 
lessness  of  the  court.  The  acts  of  violence  which 
were  perpetrated  by  these  troops,  compelled  the 
queen  to  settle  with  them,  and,  loaded  with  plun¬ 
der,  they  finally  left  the  kingdom.  Peace  being 
concluded,  the  leaders  of  the  reformed  party  re¬ 
tired  to  their  estates.  This  separation,  which 
was  condemned  as  a  fatal  step,  saved  them  from 
ruin.  Notwithstanding  the  insidious  designs  that 
had  been  formed  against  them,  the  court  dared 
not  molest  any  one  of  them  singly ;  and,  as  La 
Courens  correctly  remarks,  in  order  to  destroy 
them  all,  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  spread 
the  net  over  the  whole  of  France. 

The  arms  now  rested  for  a  season,  but  not  the 
passions  ;  it  was  the  stillness  preceding  a  violent 
storm.  The  queen,  freed  from  the  yoke  of  the 
growling  constable,  and  the  imperious  Guise,  gov¬ 
erned  with  absolute  authority,  under  a  son  who  was 
indeed  of  age,  but  in  constant  need  of  her  cun¬ 
ning  advice,  and  the  queen  herself  derived  her 
inspirations  from  the  pernicious  counsels  of  the 
Cardinal  Lorraine.  The  overwhelming  influence 
of  this  intolerant  priest  extinguished  in  her  heart 
the  spirit  of  moderation  by  which  she  had  been 
guided  heretofore.  As  circumstances  changed, 
her  whole  policy  became  altered.  Full  of  regard 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


m 

toward  tlie  Protestants  as  long  as  she  required 
their  support  against  the  overwhelming  ambition 
of  Guise  and  Montmorency,  she  abandoned  her¬ 
self  to  her  natural  hatred  against  this  rising  sect 
as  soon  as  her  throne  was  sufficiently  fortified. 
She  took  no  pains  to  hide  her  sentiments  which 
pervaded  all  the  instructions  she  sent  to  the  gov¬ 
ernors  of  her  provinces.  She  persecuted  the  Ca¬ 
tholics  who  had  inclined  to  peace  and  toleration, 
and  whose  sentiments  she  had  adopted.  The 
chancellor  was  excluded  from  all  share  in  the 
government,  and  finally  exiled  to  his  estates. 
His  partisans  were  nicknamed  the  politicians, 
which  implied  that  they  sacrificed  the  in¬ 
terests  of  God  to  worldly  considerations.  Full 
license  was  accorded  to  the  fanaticism  of  the 
priests  who  assailed  the  Calvinists  by  preaching 
against  them,  and  availing  themselves  of  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  the  confessional  and  the  majesty  of 
the  altar  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  these 
odious  heretics  ;  every  rabid  enthusiast  among 
the  Catholics  was  permitted  to  attack  the  peace, 
and  to  preach  the  execrable  maxim  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  keep  one’s  promise  to  heretics. 
It  could  not  fail  that  the  blood-thirsty  spirit  of 
fanaticism,  stimulated  by  such  instigations,  should 
become  intensely  active  among  such  inflam¬ 
mable  people  as  the  French  are  known  to  be. 
Mistrust  and  suspicion  severed  the  most  sacred 
ties  ;  the  dagger  of  the  assassin  was  sharpened  in 
the  bosom  of  families,  and  the  torch  of  rebellion 
was  brandished  in  the  open  country  as  well  as  in 
the  cities,  in  Paris  as  well  as  in  the  provinces. 

On  their  side,  the  Calvinists  resorted  to  the 
bitterest  reprisals,  but  too  feeble  in  numbers,  they 
had  to  content  themselves  with  opposing  their 
pens  to  the  daggers  of  the  Catholics.  Above  all 
things  they  endeavored  to  obtain  fortified  places  in 
case  the  war  should  break  out  a  second  time. 
Rochelle,  situated  on  the  shores  of  the  western 
ocean,  seemed  to  answer  the  purpose  of  an  asy¬ 
lum  ;  a  powerful  maritime  port,  which  since  its 
submission  to  French  rule,  had  enjoyed  the  most 
important  privileges,  and  which,  animated  by  a  re¬ 
publican  spirit,  enriched  by  an  extensive  com¬ 
merce,  defended  by  a  good  fleet,  united  with  Eng¬ 
land  and  Holland  by  the  ocean,  seemed  peculiarly 
adapted  to  being  the  chief  seat  of  a  republic,  and 
to  serve  as  a  centre  of  operations  to  the  reformed 
party.  To  this  place  the  Huguenots  transferred 
their  main  force,  and  behind  the  fortified  walls  of 
this  city  they  succeeded  for  many  years  in  holding 
the  whole  power  of  France  in  check. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  Prince  Conde  him¬ 
self  was  obliged  to  seek  an  asylum  in  this  place. 
In  order  to  deprive  him  of  the  means  of  waging 
war,  Catharine  required  of  him  the  re-payment  of 
the  sums  of  money  she  had  advanced  to  the  Ger¬ 
man  auxiliaries,  and  which  he  and  the  other  chiefs 
of  his  party  had  guaranteed.  The  prince  was  un¬ 
able  to  keep  his  word  without  being  reduced  to 
beggary,  and  Catharine,  who  was  determined  to 
reduce  him  to  extremes,  insisted  upon  payment. 
The  prince’s  inability  to  pay  this  debt,  authorized 
her  to  break  the  treaty,  and  she  ordered  the  Mar¬ 
shal  Tavannes,  to  capture  the  prince  at  his  castle 
Noyers  in  Burgundy.  Already  the  whole  province 
was  cccupied  by  the  queen’s  troops,  all  the  ave¬ 


nues  to  the  castle  of  the  prince  barricaded,  every 
outlet  cut  off,  when  Tavannes  himself,  who  was 
unwilling  to  be  instrumental  in  the  prince’s  ruin, 
contrived  to  inform  him  of  his  impending  danger, 
and  to  favor  his  flight.  Conde  and  the  admiral 
Coligny  escaped  with  their  families  through  the 
defiles  which  had  been  left  unoccupied,  and  they 
reached  Rochelle  on  the  18th  of  September,  1658. 
The  widowed  Queen  of  Navarre,  the  mother  of 
Henry  I V.,  whom  Montlue  had  been  commissioned 
to  capture,  likewise  found  in  this  city  a  refuge 
with  her  son,  her  troops,  and  her  treasures.  A 
warlike  and  numerous  host  was  soon  assembled 
within  its  walls.  The  cardinal  Chatillon  escaped 
in  sailor’s  dress  to  England,  where  he  worked 
for  his  party  by  negotiations  ;  the  other  chiefs  of 
the  party  summoned  all  their  forces  and  the  Ger¬ 
man  auxiliaries  were  recalled  in  great  haste. 
Both  parties  renewed  the  war,  and  all  the  former 
atrocities  were  re-enacted.  The  edict  of  January 
was  revoked,  the  reformed  were  persecuted  with 
more  fury  than  ever,  and  their  worship  was  inter¬ 
dicted  on  pain  of  death.  All  moderation  was  at 
an  end,  and  Catharine,  forgetful  of  her  real  secu¬ 
rity,  risked  the  certain  advantages  of  intrigue 
against  the  uncertain  results  of  blind  despotism. 

A  warlike  zeal  animated  the  reformed  party.  The 
faithlessness  of  the  court,  the  unexpected  revo¬ 
cation  of  the  privileges  that  had  been  granted  to 
them,  enlisted  more  soldiers  under  their  banner 
than  all  the  exhortations  of  their  preachers  would 
have  been  able  to  accomplish.  At  the  sound  of 
the  drum,  every  partisan  rushed  to  his  post. 
Flags  waved  on  every  road  ;  from  every  corner 
of  the  kingdom  armed  bands  were  seen  marching 
to  the  central  position.  The  fury  of  the  com¬ 
batants  had  been  inflamed  by  the  humiliations 
they  had  suffered  ;  so  many  broken  pledges,  so 
many  disappointments,  had  irritated  the  dispo¬ 
sitions,  and  the  character  of  the  nation  had  been 
completety  demoralized  by  the  bitter  persecu¬ 
tions  of  civil  war.  Hence  no  moderation,  no 
humanity,  no  regard*  for  natural  rights,  if  an  ad¬ 
vantage  could  be  gained  over  the  enemy  ;  neither 
rank  nor  age  was  spared,  and  the  march  of  the 
troops  everywhere  was  marked  by  devastated 
fields,  and  towns  laid  in  ashes.  The  vengeance 
of  the  Huguenots  was  frightfully  visited  upon  the 
Catholic  priests,  whose  blood  alone  was  suffi¬ 
cient  to  quench  the  heartless  cruelty  of  the  Pro¬ 
testant  host.  For  the  oppression  which  they  had 
suffered  from  the  dominant  church,  they  wreaked 
their  vengeance  on  cloisters  and  churches. 
The  most  venerable  things  ceased  to  be  re¬ 
spected  by  their  blind  rage :  the  most  sacred 
things  were  profaned  ;  with  a  barbarous  delight 
they  despoiled  altars  of  their  ornaments,  broke  and 
desecrated  the  sacred  vessels,  dashed  to  pieces  the 
statues  of  the  apostles  and  saints,  and  demolished 
the  most  magnificent  temples.  Monks  and  nuns 
were  dragged  from  their  cells,  and  the  swords  of 
the  Huguenots  werestained  with  the  blood  of  these 
defenseless  victims.  With  ingenious  fury  they 
rendered  the  tortures  of  death  still  more  poignant 
by  the  bitterest  derision,  and  even  death  itself 
was  frequently  insufficient  to  appease  their  beastly 
delights.  They  even  mutilated  the  corpses,  and 
one  of  the  murderers  had  the  horrid  taste  of  mak 


DISTURBANCES 

ing  for  his  own  use  a  necklace  of  the  ears  of  the  I 
monks  he  had  slain.  Another  had  a  hydra 
painted  on  his  flag,  whose  heads  were  adorned  in 
the  strangest  manner  with  mitres  and  hoods. 
Himself  was  represented  as  a  Hercules  who  was 
engaged  in  knocking  off  all  these  ornaments  with 
his  strong  fists.  It  is  no  wonder  that  such 
plausible  devices  should  have  inflamed  the  pas¬ 
sions  of  these  raw  bands,  and  should  have  con¬ 
tinually  fed  the  spirit  of  cruelty.  The  excesses 
of  the  Huguenots  were  responded  to  by  the  Ca¬ 
tholics  in  a  most  frightful  manner  ;  woe  unto  the 
unfortunate  who  fell  into  their  hands  alive  ;  his 
sentence  was  sure,  and  a  voluntary  submission 
could  at  most  retard  his  death  by  a  couple  of  hours. 

In  mid-winter  both  armies  left  their  encamp¬ 
ments,  the  royal  army  under  the  command  of  the 
young  Duke  of  Anjou,  who  was  seconded  by  the 
experienced  Marshal  Tavannes ;  and  the  Pro¬ 
testant  army  under  Conde  and  Coligny;  at  Lou- 
dun  they  came  so  close  together  that  neither 
ditch  nor  river  separated  them.  For  four  days 
they  were  opposed  to  each  other  in  this  position, 
without  risking  a  blow,  because  the  cold  was  too 
intense.  At  last  the  increasing  cold  compelled 
the  royalists  first  to  depart ;  the  Huguenots  fol¬ 
lowed  their  example,  and  the  whole  campaign 
was  terminated  without  a  blow  being  struck. 

In  the  mean  while  the-  Protestants  improved 
the  repose  of  the  winter-quarters  by  increasing 
their  forces  for  the  new  campaign.  They  had  re¬ 
tained  possession  of  the  conquered  provinces,  and 
many  cities  awaited  a  favorable  moment  to  declare 
themselves  for  them.  Considerable  sums  were 
realized  by  the  sale  of  church  property,  and  the 
provinces  collected  large  amounts  in  the  shape  of 
contributions.  By  this  means  the  Prince  Conde 
was  able  to  increase  the  number  of  his  troops,  and 
to  render  them  effective.  Able  generals  com¬ 
manded  under  his  orders,  and  a  brave  nobility  had 
gathered  under  his  standard.  At  the  same  time 
his  agents  were  busy  in  Germany  and  England, 
in  arousing  his  allies,  and  securing  the  neutrality 
of  his  adversaries.  He  succeeded  in  obtaining 
troops,  mouey,  and  artillery  from  England,  and 
a  considerable  number  of  troops  was  furnished  by 
the  Margrave  of  Baden  and  the  Duke  of  Zwei- 
briicken,  so  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1569,  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of  a  formida¬ 
ble  army,  which  promised  a  memorable  cam¬ 
paign. 

He  had  hardly  left  his  winter-quarters  in  order 
to  open  to  the  German  troops  a  passage  into  the 
kingdom,  when  the  royal  army  obliged  him,  on  the 
13th  of  March,  of  this  year,  not  far  from  Limousin, 
to  accept  battle  under  very  unfavorable  circum¬ 
stances.  Separated  from  the  rest  of  his  army, 
he  was  attacked  by  the  whole  army  of  the  king, 
and  his  small  band  was  overpowered  by  numbers, 
in  spite  of  the  most  determined  bravery.  Though 
his  leg  had  been  crushed  by  a  kick  from  his 
horse  a  few  moments  before  the  battle  com¬ 
menced,  yet  he  fought  with  the  most  heroic 
bravery,  and,  dragged  from  his  horse,  he  con¬ 
tinued  the  combat  on  his  knees,  until  the  loss  of 
strength  compelled  him  to  surrender.  But  at  this 
moment  Montesquion,  captain  in  the  guard  of 
the  Duke  of  Anjou,  approached  him  from  be- 


IN  FRANCE.  '  413 

hind,  and  fired  a  bullet  through  him  with  hia 
pistol. 

Conde  shared  the  fate  of  the  party-chiefs  of 
that  period,  most  of  whom  met  a  violent  death, 
Francis  Guise  was  assassinated  before  Orleans, 
Anthony  of  Navarre  was  killed  during  the  siege 
of  Kouen-,  the  Marshal  St.  Andre  perished  in  the 
battle  of  Dreux,  and  the  constable  in  the  battle 
of  St.  Denis.  A  more  terrible  fate  awaited  the 
admiral  in  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and 
Henry  Guise  was  assassinated  like  his  father. 

The  death  of  the  leader  was  a  painful  blow  for 
the  Protestant  party,  but  it  soon  became  evident 
that  the  Catholic  party  had  triumphed  too  soon. 
Conde  had  rendered  great  services  to  his  party, 
but  his  loss  was  not  irreparable.  The  heroic  race 
of  the  Chatillons  was  still  living,  and  the  firm, 
enterprising  genius  of  Coligny,  who  was  inex- 
austible  in  resources,  soon  raised  the  Protestants 
from  their  degradation.  They  lost  a  name  rather 
than  a  leader  by  the  death  of  Conde  ;  but  even 
a  name  was  important  and  indispensable  to  them, 
to  animate  the  courage  of  the  party  and  to  obtain 
an  influence  in  the  kingdom.  The  nobles  who 
aimed  at  independence,  reluctantly  submitted  to 
the  command  of  a  leader  who  was  only  one  of 
their  number  ;  a  private  citizen  found  it  difficult 
and  even  impossible  to  restrain  such  a  proud  body. 
For  this  purpose  a  prince  was  required,  whom 
his  birth  placed  beyond  the  pale  of  competition, 
and  who  exercised  an  undisputed,  hereditary  sway 
over  the  minds  of  his  partisans.  Such  a  leader 
was  found  in  the  person  of  the  young  Henry 
Bourbon,  the  hero  of  these  great  events,  who  now 
for  the  first  time  makes  his  appearance  upon  the 
political  stage. 

Henry  IV.,  son  of  Anthony  of  Navarre  and 
Jane  Albret,  was  born  at  Pan,  in  the  province  of 
Bearn,  in  the  year  1553.  Subjected  to  a  rigid 
mode  of  life  from  his  infancy,  his  body  was  fitly 
prepared  for  his  future  exploits.  A  simple  edu¬ 
cation  and  suitable  instruction  soon  developed  the 
germs  of  his  quick  genius.  Even  at  his  mother’s 
breast,  his  young  heart  was  nursed  with  hatred 
against  the  papacy  and  the  Spanish  despotism  ; 
while  yet  young  and  innocent  of  political  strife,  the 
force  of  circumstances  made  him  a  leader  of  rebels. 
The  early  use  of  arms  prepared  him  to  become  a 
hero,  and  early  misfortune  made  him  an  excellent 
king.  The  house  Valois,  which  had  governed 
France  for  centuries,  inclined  to  its  end  under  the 
feeble  sons  of  Henry  II.,  and  if  these  three  bro¬ 
thers  died  without  children,  the  house  of  Navarre, 
although  related  to  the  ruling  dynasty, only  in  the 
twenty-first  degree,  ascended  the  throne.^  The 
prospect  of  the  most  brilliant  throne  oi  Europe 
sparkled  already  round  Henry’s  cradle,  but  this 
•very  prospect  exposed  him  to  the  persecutions  of 
powerful  enemies  even  in  his  earliest  age.  Philip 
II.,  King  of  Spain,  and  the  most  irreconcilable 
enemy  of  the  new  faith,  could  not  remain  a  pas¬ 
sive  spectator  of  the  odious  sect  ol  the  innovators 
taking  possession  of  the  most  magnificent  throne 
in  Christendom,  and  by  this  means  obtaining  a 
decided  ascendency  in  the  affairs  of  Europe.  He 
was  so  much  less  inclined  to  see  the  crown  of 
France  pass  into  the  heretical  hands  of  the  house 
of  Navarre,  as  he  himself  felt  a  longing  for  this 


414 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


precious  acquisition.  Young  Henry  was  an  ob¬ 
stacle  to  his  ambitious  hopes,  and  his  confessors 
persuaded  him  that  it  was  a  meritorious  work  to 
despoil  a  heretic  in  order  to  keep  such  a  great 
kingdom  within  the  pale  of  the  true  church.  A 
dark  plot  was  now  contrived  in  conjunction  with 
the  Duke  of  Alva  and  the  Cardinal  Lorraine,  to 
kidnap  Henry  and  his  mother  in  his  own  kingdom, 
and  to  deliver  them  over  into  Spanish  hands.  A 
horrid  fate  awaited  these  unfortunates  in  the 
hands  of  their  blood-thirsty  enemy,  and  the  Span¬ 
ish  Inquisition  already  triumphed  at  the  thought 
of  sacrificing  these  illustrious  heretics  on  the 
altar  of  religious  fanaticism.  But  Jane  being 
warned  in  due  time,  it  is  believed,  by  Philip’s  own 
wife,  Elizabeth,  the  horrid  plot  was  frustrated. 
Such  fearful  dangers  beset  the  head  of  the  boy, 
and  consecrated  him  at  an  early  age  to  the  hard 
struggles  and  sufferings  which  he  was  to  endure 
at  a  more  remote  period.  At  this  moment,  when 
the  news  of  the  death  of  the  Prince  Conde 
plunged  the  chiefs  of  the  Protestants  into  con¬ 
sternation  and  confusion,  and  when  the  party  was 
without  a  leader  and  the  army  without  a  com¬ 
mander,  the  heroic  Jane,  with  her  son  Henry, 
who  was  now  sixteen  years  old,  and  with  the  eld¬ 
est  son  of  the  murdered  Conde,  who  was  a  few 
years  younger,  appeared  at  Cognac,  in  the  pro¬ 
vince  Angournois,  where  the  army  and  chiefs  had 
assembled.  Leading  both  boys  by  the  hand,  she 
stood  before  the  troops,  and  quickly  put  an  end  to 
their  irresolution.  “  The  good  cause,”  she  said, 
“has  lost  an  excellent  protector  in  the  Prince 
Conde,  but  it  has  not  perished  with  him.  God 
watches  over  his  worshipers.  He  assisted  the 
Prince  Conde  with  valiant  companions  in  arms, 
when  this  prince  was  still  living  among  us  ; 
he  appoints  heroic  officers  as  his  successors, 
who  enable  us  to  bear  his  loss.  Here  is  my  son, 
the  young  Prince  of  Bearn,  I  offer  him  to  you  as 
your  prince;  here  is  the  son  of  the  man  whose 
loss  you  deplore.  I  confide  both  to  your  keeping. 
May  their  future  deeds  render  them  worthy  of 
their  sires  !  May  the  sight  of  these  sacred  pledges 
teach  you  union,  and  inspire  you  with  courage  in 
struggling  for  your  religion  !” 

A  loud  cry  of  approbation  greeted  the  royal 
speaker,  after  which  young  Henry,  addressing 
himself  to  the  army,  exclaimed  :  “  Friends,  I  vow 
to  you  that  I  shall  fight  for  religion  and  for  the 
common  cause,  until  victory  or  death  has  won 
for  us  the  liberty  which  it  is  our  own  endeavor  to 
possess.”  He  was  at  once  declared  chief  of  the 
party,  and  leader  of  the  army,  and  in  this  capa¬ 
city  received  the  homage  of  t lie  army.  The  jeal¬ 
ousy  of  the  other  leaders  was  hushed,  and  it  was 
without  reluctance  that  they  now  submitted  to 
the  direction  of  Admiral  Coligny,  who  lent  his 
experience  to  the  young  hero,  and  governed  the 
whole  as  his  guardian. 

The  German  Protestants,  who  were  always  the 
principal  support  and  last  refuge  of  their  co-reli¬ 
gionists  in  France,  again  helped,  after  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  battle  of  Jarnac,  to  restore  the  equilibrium 
of  arms  between  the  Huguenots,  and  the  Catho¬ 
lics.  Duke  W olfgang  of  Zweibrlicken  entered  the 
kingdom  with  an  army  of  thirteen  thousand  men, 
inarched  in  the  midst  of  hostile  bands,  not  with¬ 


out  encountering  great  obstacles,  almost  across  the 
whole  breadth  of  France  between  the  Rhine  and 
the  ocean,  and  was  on  the  point  of  effecting  a  junc¬ 
tion  with  the  Huguenots,  when  death  snatched 
him  away.  A  few  days  after,  in  the  month  of  June, 
1569,  Count  Mansfeld,  his  successor  in  command, 
joined  Admiral  Coligny  in  the  province  of 
Guienne,  who  felt  able,  after  receiving  such  power¬ 
ful  reinforcements,  to  make  head  against  the  roy¬ 
alists.  But  mistrusting  fortune,  whose  incon¬ 
stancy  he  had  experienced  on  so  many  occasions, 
and  conscious  of  his  inability  to  support  an  ex¬ 
hausting  war  with  such  scanty  means,  he  once  more 
attempted  to  secure,  by  peaceable  means,  terms 
which  he  found  it  so  difficult  to  obtain  by  force. 
The  admiral  was  a  sincere  lover  of  peace,  quite 
contrary  to  the  general  temper  of  party-leaders 
who  look  upon  repose  as  the  grave  of  their  power, 
and  find  their  advantage  in  the  general  confusion. 
Very  reluctantly  he  resorted  to  oppressions  which 
his  office  and  the  duty  of  self-preservation  im¬ 
posed  upon  him,  and  he  would  have  most  willingly 
been  spared  the  trouble  of  fighting  for  a  cause 
which  he  deemed  sufficiently  strong  to  conquer 
by  the  force  of  argument.  He  urged  the  court 
in  the  most  impressive  manner  to  have  mercy  on 
the  general  misery,  and  to  grant  to  the  reformed 
the  free  exercise  of  their  worship  which  former 
edicts  had  already  guaranteed  to  them.  He  had 
a  right  to  expect  a  favorable  reception  for  his 
entreaties,  since  they  did  not  emanate  from  fear, 
but  were  backed  by  a  considerable  display  of 
force.  But  their  successes  had  increased  the 
self-confidence  of  the  Catholics.  They  demanded 
an  unconditional  surrender,  and  the  final  decision 
was  therefore  left  to  the  arbitrament  of  the  sword. 

In  order  to  protect  the  city  of  Rochelle,  and 
the  possessions  of  the  Protestants  on  the  Atlan¬ 
tic  coast,  against  an  attack,  the  admiral  marched 
with  his  whole  force  against  the  city  of  Poitiers, 
which  he  deemed  incapable  of  long  resistance  on 
account  of  the  extent  of  its  works.  But  at  the 
first  report  of  danger,  the  Dukes  of  Guise  and  May- 
enne,  worthy  sons  of  the  late  Francis  Guise,  and 
a  numerous  retinue  of  nobles  had  thrown  them¬ 
selves  into  this  city,  determined  to  defend  it  to 
the  last.  Fanaticism  and  rage  rendered  this 
siege  one  of  the  most  frightful  events  in  the 
whole  war,  and  the  most  obstinate  assaults  were 
unable  to  effect  any  thing  against  such  a  deter¬ 
mined  resistance. 

In  spite  of  the  inundations  which  flooded  the 
outer  works  ;  in  spite  of  the  fire  and  the  boiling 
oil  of  the  enemy  which  was  poured  upon  the  assail¬ 
ants  from  the  walls;  in  spite  of  the  unconquerable 
resistance  offered  by  the  bravery  of  the  garrison 
and  the  steep  walls,  the  assaults  were  unceasingly 
renewed,  without,  however,  a  single  advantage 
being  obtained  by  the  besiegers,  or  without  the 
perseverance  of  the  besieged  giving  way  one  in¬ 
stant.  On  the  contrary,  they  showed  by  repeated 
sallies,  how  little  their  courage  had  wavered.  A 
rich  supply  of  munitions  of  war,  and  of  provisions 
which  the  royalists  had  been  able  to  store  up  in 
the  magazines  of  the  place,  enabled  them  to  bid 
defiance  to  the  longest  siege,  whereas  want,  bad 
weather,  and  epidemic  diseases  soon  commenced 
to  make  sad  havoc  in  the  camp  of  the  Huguenots. 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


415 


Dysentery  carried  off  a  large  number  of  the  Ger-  s 
man  auxiliaries,  and  attacked  even  the  admiral,  1 
after  having  incapacitated  the  greater  number  of  ( 
his  generals  from  active  service.  The  Duke  of  An-  < 
jou  making,  soon  after,  his  appearance  in  the  field,  < 
and  threatening  to  lay  siege  to  Chatellerault,  a  for-  1 
tified  place  in  the  neighborhood,  where  the  sick  had  ] 
been  placed  in  safety,  the  admiral  seized  this 
pretext  in  order  to  give  up  his  undertaking  with 
a  show  of  honor.  He  succeeded  in  defeating  i 
the  duke’s  attempt  against  Chatellerault,  but  the 
increasing  forces  of  the  enemy  soon  compelled 
him  to  think  of  his  retreat. 

All  things  combined  to  shake  the  firmness  of 
this  great  man.  A  few  weeks  after  the  disaster 
of  Jarnac,  he  had  lost  his  brother  D’Andelot,  his 
most  faithful  companion  in  all  his  undertakings, 
and  his  right  arm  in  the  field.  Now  he  was  in¬ 
formed  that  the  parliament  of  Paris,  which  some¬ 
times  opposed  a  salutary  check  to  oppression,  but 
frequently  allowed  itself  to  be  used  as  an  instru¬ 
ment  of  despotic  injustice,  had  pronounced  sen¬ 
tence  of  death  over  him,  as  a  rebel  against  the 
king’s  majesty,  and  had  set  a  price  of  fifty  thousand 
crowns  on  his  head.  Copies  of  this  sentence  were 
scattered  throughout  France,  and  translations 
were  circulated  in  every  country  of  Europe,  in 
order  to  allure  murderers  by  the  promised  reward 
and  make  sure  of  their  victim,  in  case  no  villain 
should  be  found  in  France  for  the  perpetration  of 
such  a  crime.  One  of  his  own  servants,  however, 
undertook  to  attempt  his  life.  It  is  true,  the 
danger  was  averted  by  a  timely  discovery,  but  the 
dagger  of  the  assassin  seemed  henceforth  to  be 
hovering  before  his  mind’s  eye,  and  deprived  him 
of  his  rest  forever. 

These  personal  adversities  were  rendered  still 
more  oppressive  by  the  responsibility  of  his  com¬ 
mand,  and  by  the  public  disasters  of  his  party. 
His  army  had  become  very  much  reduced  by 
desertion,  sickness,  and  the  sword  of  the  enemy, 
whereas  the  enemy  was  becoming  more  powerful, 
and  pursued  him  with  increasing  ardor.  The 
superiority  of  the  enemy  was  so  decided  that  he 
dared  not  trust  to  the  uncertain  result  of  a  battle. 
This  was,  however,  insisted  on  by  his  troops,  es¬ 
pecially  by  the  Germans.  They  left  him  the 
choice  between  leading  them  to  battle  or  paying 
them  their  arrears  ;  the  latter  being  impossible, 
he  had  to  consent  to  the  fight. 

The  army  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou  surprised  him 
on  the  third  of  October,  1569,  near  Montcontour,  in 
a  very  unfavorable  position,  and  defeated  him  in 
a  decisive  battle.  In  spite  of  the  resolute  courage 
of  the  Protestant  nobles,  of  the  bravery  of  the 
Germans,  and  of  the  presence  of  mind  of  the 
commander-in-chief,  his  army  was  totally  routed. 
The  German  infantry  was  almost  entirely  cut 
down,  the  admiral  was  wounded,  his  army  dis¬ 
persed,  and  the  largest  portion  of  the  baggage 
was  lost.  This  was  the  most  unfortunate  day  the 
Huguenots  had  yet  known  during  the  war.  The 
Princes  Bourbon  were  carried  during  the  battle 
to  St.  Jean  d’Angely,  where  the  defeated  Coligny 
gathered  a  small  remnant  of  his  army.  Scarcely 
six  thousand  men  had  remained  of  an  army  of 
twenty-five  thousand  ;  nevertheless  but  few  pri¬ 
soners  had  been  made.  The  fury  of  the  civil  war 


suppressed  the  sentiments  of  humanity,  and  the 
vindictive  spirit  of  the  Catholics  could  only  be 
quenched  by  the  blood  of  their  adversaries.  With 
cold  cruelty,  those  who  surrendered  and  asked  for 
quarter  were  murdered  ;  the  recollection  of  simi¬ 
lar  acts  of  barbarity  which  the  Huguenots  had 
perpetrated  against  the  papists,  rendered  the  ha¬ 
tred  of  the  latter  irreconcilable. 

The  courage  of  the  Protestants  was  universally 
depressed,  and  every  thing  was  supposed  lost. 
Many  spoke  of  leaving  the  kingdom,  and  seeking 
new  homes  in  Holland,  England,  and  in  the  north¬ 
ern  kingdoms.  Many  of  the  nobles  left  the  ad¬ 
miral,  who  was  without  money,  men,  authority, 
but  not  without  heroism.  About  this  time  his 
beautiful  castle  and  the  adjoining  city  of  Chatillon 
had  been  surprised  and  reduced  to  ashes  by  the 
royalists.  Notwithstanding,  he  alone  of  all  did 
not  give  up  his  cause.  His  penetrating  glance 
discerned  the  means  of  safety  which  were  still  at 
the  disposal  of  the  reformed  party,  and  he  pressed 
them  upon  the  attention  of  his  partisans  with 
great  force.  A  Huguenot  leader,  Montgomery, 
had  obtained  some  advantages  in  the  province  of 
Bearn,  and  offered  to  join  the  admiral  with  his 
victorious  force.  Germany  was  still  able  to  supply 
troops,  and  England  likewise  might  furnish  assist¬ 
ance.  Moreover,  instead  of  following  up  their 
victory,  and  pursuing  the  beaten  enemy  to  his 
last  retreat,  the  royalists  wasted  their  time  in 
useless  sieges,  and  afforded  to  the  admiral  the 
necessary  time  for  recuperating  his  strength. 

The  bad  understanding  among  the  Catholics 
did  not  contribute  little  to  his  preservation.  Not 
all  governors  did  their  duty  ;  Damville,  governor 
of  Languedoc,  a  son  of  the  late  constable,  was 
particularly  charged  with  having  facilitated  the 
admiral’s  flight  through  his  province.  This  proud 
crown-vassal  fancied  himself  slighted  by  the  court, 
although  he  was  otherwise  a  bitter  enemy  of  the 
Protestants,  and  his  ambition  was  terribly  wounded 
because  others  were  gathering  laurels  in  this  war 
and  were  honored  with  a  command  which  he  re¬ 
garded  as  his  own  by  the  right  of  inheritance. 
Even  in  the  breast  of  the  young  king,  and  in  the 
grandees  who  surrounded  his  person,  the  brilliant 
successes  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  which  this  prince 
had  certainly  no  right  to  impute  to  his  superior 
genius,  had  excited  feelings  of  envy.  The  ambi¬ 
tious  monarch  was  very  reluctantly  reminded  of 
not  having  yet  done  any  thing  for  his  own  glory ; 
the  predilection  of  the  queen-mother  for  the 
Duke  of  Anjou,  and  the  praise  which  was  awarded 
to  him  by  the  courtiers  at  all  times,  offended  the 
king’s  pride.  Inasmuch  as  the  duke  could  not 
reasonably  be  removed  from  his  command,  the 
king  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  army,  in 
order  to  appropriate  one-half  of  the  victories  to 
which  neither  had  any  claim.  The  bad  measures 
which  the  Catholic  leaders  took  in  consequence 
of  this  spirit  of  jealousy  and  intrigue,  defeated  all 
i  the  results  of  their  triumphs.  In  vain  the  Mar- 
i  shal  Tavannes,  to  whose  experience  all  the  tri- 
'  umphs  that  had  been  obtained,  were  due,  insisted 
r  upon  pursuing  the  enemy.  His  advice  was  to 
pursue  the  defeated  admiral  with  a  portion  of  the 
-  army,  until  he  should  either  have  been  driven  out 
:  of  France,  or  else  compelled  to  seek  refuge  in 


416 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


some  fortified  town  which  would  inevitaby  become 
the  grave  of  the  whole  party.  These  representa¬ 
tions  not  being  heeded,  Tavannes  resigned  his 
command  and  retired  to  his  province  of  Bur¬ 
gundy. 

Without  delay,  the  cities  devoted  to  the  Hugue¬ 
nots  were  now  attacked.  The  commencement 
was  fnvorable,  and  the  king  already  flattered  him¬ 
self  that  the  outer  walls  of  Rochelle  would  be  de¬ 
molished  with  equal  facility;  and,  that  he  would 
have  no  difficulty  to  conquer  this  centre  of  the 
power  of  the  Bourbons.  But  the  gallant  resist¬ 
ance  of  St.  Jean  d’  Angely,  reduced  these  proud 
expectations  quite  considerably.  This  place,  de¬ 
fended  by  a  brave  commander,  held  out  two 
months,  and  when  at  last  compelled  by  necessity 
to  surrender,  the  winter  had  set  in,  and  the  cam¬ 
paign  was  ended.  The  occupation  of  a  few  towns 
was  the  barren  fruit  of  a  victory,  which,  if  wisely 
improved,  might  have  ended  the  civil  war  for¬ 
ever. 

In  the  mean  while  Coligny  had  neglected  no¬ 
thing  to  profit  by  the  bad  management  of  his  ene¬ 
mies.  In  the  battle  of  Montcontour,  his  infantry 
had  almost  been  completely  cut  up,  and  three 
thousand  horse  constituted  his  only  army,  barely 
sufficient  to  keep  off  the  pursuing  peasants.  But 
this  small  band  was  joined  by  new  levies  from 
Languedoc  and  Dauphine,  and  by  Montgomery’s 
victorious  corps.  The  numerous  partisans  of  the 
reformation  in  this  part  of  France,  not  only  fa¬ 
vored  the  enlistment  of  troops,  but  contributed 
to  their  support,  and  the  affability  of  the  princes 
Bourbon,  who  shared  all  the  privations  of  the 
campaign,  and  furnished  many  proofs  of  heroism, 
attracted  many  volunteers  to  their  colors.  How¬ 
soever  scanty  the  pecuniary  resources  were,  yet 
the  want  of  funds  was,  to  some  extent,  overcome 
by  contributions  furnished  by  the  city  of  Rochelle. 
Numerous  privateers  left  her  port,  who  returned 
with  prizes,  the  tenth  of  which  had  to  be  paid  over 
into  Coligny’s  hands,  By  such  means  the  Hu¬ 
guenots  recovered  so  perfectly  from  their  defeat, 
that  in  the  spring  of  1570,  they  rushed  out  of  Lan¬ 
guedoc  like  an  overwhelming  torrent,  and  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  field  more  terrible  than  ever. 

Having  been  treated  without  mercy,  they  showed 
none.  Irritated  by  the  insults  that  had  been  in¬ 
flicted  upon  them,  and  demoralized  by  a  long  suc¬ 
cession  of  misfortunes,  they  shed  the  blood  of  their 
enemies  in  torrents,  laid  all  the  districts  through 
which  they  passed,  under  heavy  contributions,  or 
else  devastated  them  with  fire  and  sword.  Their 
march  was  directed  to  the  capital,  where  they  ex¬ 
pected  with  sword  in  hand  to  conquer  a  reasonable 
peace.  A  royal  army  of  thirteen  thousand  men,  un¬ 
der  the  Marshal  Cosse,  who  endeavored  to  oppose 
them  in  Burgundy,  was  unable  toarresttheir  course. 
A  battle  ensued,  where  the  Protestants  gained 
several  important  advantages  over  a  superior  ene¬ 
my.  Spreading  along  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  they 
threatened  the  provinces  of  Orleanois  and  lie  de 
France,  with  an  impending  invasion,  and  the  ra¬ 
pidity  of  their  march  even  frightened  the  capital. 

This  resolute  conduct  had  its  effect;  and  the 
court  finally  commenced  talking  of  peace.  It 
dreaded  the  combat  against  a  band  of  men,  who  were 
but  few,  it  is  true,  but  animated  by  despair,  having 


nothing  more  to  lose,  and  ready  to  sell  their  lives 
dearly.  The  royal  treasury  was  empty,  the  army 
very  much  diminished  by  the  departure  of  the 
Italian,  German,  and  Spanish  auxiliaries,  and  in 
the  provinces,  fortune  had  been  generally  favor¬ 
able  to  the  rebels.  However  reluctant  the  Ca¬ 
tholics  were  to  yield  to  the  insolent  demands  of 
the  Calvinists  ;  however  unwilling  many  of  the 
latter  were,  by  laying  down  their  arms,  to  renounce 
all  hopes  for  plunder,  and  the  love  of  a  licentious 
liberty',  the  increasing  misery  silenced  all  opposi¬ 
tion,  and  the  leaders  were  so  earnestly  inclined  to 
peace,  that  it  was  finally  concluded,  in  the  month 
of  August  of  this  year,  on  the  following  terms. 

The  court  granted  to  the  Protestants  forgetful¬ 
ness  of  the  past,  the  free  exercise  of  their  religious 
worship  in  every  part  of  the  kingdom,  except  the  re¬ 
sidence  of  the  court,  the  restoration  of  all  estates 
that  had  been  confiscated  for  religious  causes,  and 
equal  rights  to  hold  office  under  the  government. 
They  were,  moreover,  allowed  four  places  of  se¬ 
curity,  which  they  were  permitted  to  garrison  with 
their  own  troops,  and  to  place  under  the  command 
of  Protestant  leaders.  These  four  cities  were  Ro¬ 
chelle,  Montauban,  Cognac,  and  La  Charite.  The 
princes  Bourbon,  and  twenty  of  the  first  nobles, 
had  to  bind  themselves  by  an  oath,  to  evacuate 
them  after  the  lapse  of  two  years.  Again  it  was 
the  court  that  had  to  yield,  and  had  to  submit  to  a 
humiliating  confession  of  its  weakness,  instead  of 
exciting  the  gratitude  of  the  reformed  by  con¬ 
cessions  that  were  extorted  by  force. 

Things  now  resumed  their  former  course,  and 
the  Protestants  enjoyed  their  religious  privileges 
with  their  accustomed  absence  of  all  apprehen¬ 
sions  for  the  future.  The  more  certain  it  was 
that  they  owed  their  present  advantages  to  the 
weakness,  and  not  to  the  kindness  of  their  ene¬ 
mies,  and  to  their  own  formidable  power,  the 
greater  the  necessity  of  maintaining  their  organi¬ 
zation,  and  watching  the  steps  of  the  court.  The 
yielding  temper  of  the  court  was  too  manifest  not 
to  give  rise  to  legitimate  suspicions  ;  and,  though 
we  have  no  absolute  evidence  which  might  legiti¬ 
mate  such  an  inference,  yet  it  is  highly  probable 
that  the  horrid  deed  which  was  perpetrated  two 
years  later,  was  planned  at  this  period. 

So  many  failures,  so  many  surprising  changes  in 
the  fortunes  of  war,  so  many  unexpected  resources 
of  the  Huguenots,  must  have  convinced  the  court 
that  it  was  a  vain  attempt  to  conquer  by  brute 
force  a  party  that  revived  with  increasing  vigor 
after  every  defeat,  and  to  obtain  decisive  advan¬ 
tages  over  it  by  such  means  as  had  been  employed 
hitherto.  Scattered  throughout  France,  the  Pro¬ 
testants  were  sure  that  they  could  not  be  totally 
defeated,  and  experience  had  shown  that  any 
wounds  that  might  be  inflicted  upon  the  party 
here  or  there,  could  not  endanger  its  vitality.  Put 
down  on  one  frontier,  the  Calvinists  rose  so  much 
the  more  formidable  in  another  part  of  the  king¬ 
dom,  and  each  new  loss  seemed  to  fire  their  cour¬ 
age  and  to  increase  their  numbers.  What  they 
lacked  in  material  strength  was  supplied  by  the 
firmness,  courage,  and  bravery  of  their  leaders, 
who  could  not  be  discouraged  by  disasters,  be¬ 
guiled  by  cunning,  or  shaken  by  danger.  Coligny 
alone  was  worth  a  whole  army.  “  If  the  admiral 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


417 


should  die  to-day,”  said  the  deputies  whom  the 
court  had  sent  to  negotiate  with  the  Huguenots, 
“  we  shall  not  even  offer  you  a  glass  of  water  to¬ 
morrow.  Rest  assured  that  his  name  alone  does 
more  for  you  than  two  armies.”  As  long  as  the 
cause  of  the  Protestants  was  confided  to  such 
hands,  all  attempts  to  suppress  them  must  fail. 
He  alone  kept  the  scattered  party  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  together,  gave  them  a  knowledge  of  their 
strength,  taught  them  to  make  good  use  of  it, 
made  them  respected  abroad,  procured  foreign 
aid,  raised  them  up  again  after  a  fall,  and 
held  them  with  a  firm  hand  on  the  very  verge  of 
destruction. 

Convinced  that  the  fate  of  the  party  depended 
on  the  ruin  of  this  man,  the  parliament  of  Paris 
had  been  induced  in  the  previous  year  to  pro¬ 
nounce  against  him  the  horrible  anathema  that 
was  to  arm  the  hand  of  an  assassin  for  his  destruc¬ 
tion.  This  object  having  failed ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  peace  that  had  just  been  concluded  having 
annulled  the  sentence  of  the  parliament,  other 
means  had  to  be  resorted  to  in  order  to  accomplish 
the  dreadful  end.  Exhausted  by  the  obstacles  which 
the  independent  spirit  of  the  Huguenots  had  op¬ 
posed  for  so  many  years  to  the  consolidation  of  the 
royal  authority  ;  summoned  by  the  court  of  Rome 
which  saw  no  safety  for  the  church  except  in  the 
total  destruction  of  this  sect ;  instigated  by  a  stern 
and  cruel  fanaticism  which  extinguished  every 
sentiment  of  humanity,  the  court  finally  deter¬ 
mined  to  get  rid  of  this  dangerous  sect  by  a 
single  decisive  blow.  If  the  Protestants  could  be 
deprived  of  their  leaders  by  one  blow,  and  if  their 
number  could  be  suddenly  and  considerably  de¬ 
creased  by  a  general  carnage,  it  was  hoped  that 
then  they  would  be  hurled  into  annihilation,  that 
agrangretied  limb  would  have  been  separated  from 
the  sound  trunk,  that  the  torch  of  war  would  re¬ 
main  extinct  forever,  and  that  the  state  and  the 
church  would  be  saved  by  a  single  cruel  sacrifice. 
By  dint  of  such  deceitful  sophisms,  religious 
hatred,  the  love  of  dominion,  and  the  desire  of 
revenge  compromised  with  the  voice  of  conscience 
and  humanity,  and  made  religion  accountable  for 
a  deed  which  could  not  even  be  justified  by  the 
barbarity  of  savage  nature. 

But  in  order  to  strike  this  blow,  it  was  neces¬ 
sary  to  first  secure  the  victims  that  were  to  be  im¬ 
molated.  This  difficulty  seemed  insurmountable. 
A  long  chain  of  acts  of  perfidy  had  stifled  the 
mutual  confidence  ;  the  Catholics  had  given  too 
many  and  too  striking  proofs  that  they  held  to  the 
maxim  “  No  oath  was  binding,  no  promise  sacred 
toward  heretics.”  The  leaders  of  the  Huguenots 
believed  in  no  security  except  such  as  was  guar¬ 
anteed  to  them  by  distance  and  by  the  walls  of 
their  castles.  Even  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
peace  they  increased  their  garrisons,  and  showed, 
by  speedily  repairing  their  fortifications,  how  little 
confidence  they  had  in  the  royal  pledge.  How 
was  it  possible  to  draw  them  from  their  intrench- 
ments  and  to  lead  them  to  the  slaughter-bench  ? 
What  probability  was  there  of  seizing  them  all, 
taking  it  for  granted  that  a  few  would  allow  them¬ 
selves  to  be  caught  in  the  trap  ?  For  a  longtime 
past  they  had  observed  the  precaution  of  remain¬ 
ing  separate,  and  preserving  an  avenger  to  the  one 
Vol.  II.— 27 


who  should  have  fallec  a  victim  to  his  confidence 
in  the  honesty  of  the  court.  Yet  nothing  had 
been  done,  unless  all  could  be  done  at  once  ;  the 
blow  had  to  be  fatal  to  every  body,  or  else  could 
not  be  struck  at  all. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  wipe  out  the 
remembrance  of  former  acts  of  perfidy,  and  to 
win  the  confidence  of  the  reformed  party  at  any 
price.  To  accomplish  this  purpose,  the  court- 
changed  its  whole  system  of  tactics.  Instead  of 
meeting  with  unjust  and  partial  judges,  of 
whose  decisions  the  Protestants  had  so  frequently 
complained,  even  in  the  midst  of  peace,  the  most 
unexceptionable  justice  was  now  observed  toward 
them  ;  all  the  wrongs  which  the  Catholics  had 
heretofore  perpetrated  against  them,  without  any 
fear  of  punishment,  ceased  ;  all  disturbances  of 
the  peace  were  severely  punished,  all  just  de¬ 
mands  of  the  Protestants  were  complied  with, 
with  the  most  remarkable  readiness.  After  a 
while,  all  differences  of  belief  seemed  forgotten, 
and  the  whole  monarchy  looked  like  one  family, 
whose  members  Charles  IX.  governed  as  their 
common  father,  with  equal  justice,  and  to  whom 
he  extended  the  same  love.  In  the  midst  of  the 
storms  which  shook  the  neighboring  kingdoms, 
disturbed  Germany,  threatened  to  overthrow  the 
Spanish  power  in  the  Netherlands,  devastated 
Scotland,  and  shook  the  throne  of  Queen  Eliza¬ 
beth  of  England,  France  enjoyed  a  deep  and 
unusual  repose,  which  seemed  to  argue  a  complete 
change  of  sentiment  on  the  part  of  the  court, 
since  no  event  had  transpired  to  which  this 
change  could  be  attributed. 

Margaret  Valois,  the  youngest  daughter  of 
Henry  II.,  was  still  unmarried,  and  the  ambition 
of  the  young  Duke  of  Guise  was  bold  enough  to  in¬ 
duce  him  to  raise  his  hopes  to  the  sister  of  bis 
king.  This  princess  had  already  been  wooed  by 
the  King  of  Portugal,  but  without  success,  since 
the  Cardinal  Lorraine,  whose  power  was  still 
great,  had  designed  her  for  his  nephew.  “  The 
elder  prince  of  my  house,”  said  the  proud  prelate 
to  Sebastian’s  ambassador,  “  has  carried  off  the 
elder  sister ;  the  younger  sister  belongs  to  the 
younger  prince.”  But  Charles  IX.,  who  was 
jealous  of  his  authority,  being  indignant  at  these 
pretensions  of  his  vassal,  the  Duke  of  Guise  hastened 
to  appease  his  anger,  by  a  speedy  marriage  with 
the  Princess  of  Cleves.  But  to  see  an  enemy  and 
a  rival  married  to  a  princess,  to  whose  possession 
he  dared  not  aspire,  must  be  so  much  more  pain¬ 
ful  to  the  duke’s  pride, .since  he  had  been  encou¬ 
raged  in  believing  that  he  possessed  her  heart. 

The  king’s  choice  fell  upon  Henry,  the  young 
Prince  of  Bearn,  whether  it  was  his  intention  to 
effect  a  closer  union  between  the  houses  Valois 
and  Bourbon,  and,  by  this  means,  stifle  the  seeds 
of  discord  forever,  or  whether  he  resorted  to  this 
subterfuge  for  the  purpose  of  blinding  the  Hu¬ 
guenots,  and  drawing  them  so  much  more  cer¬ 
tainly  into  the  trap.  This  marriage  had  already 
been  alluded  to  when  the  terms  of  the  treaty  were 
drawn  up,  and  howsoever  distrustful  the  Queen 
of  Navarre  might  be,  the  offer  was  too  flattering 
to  be  bluntly  declined.  But  the  offer  not  being  ' 
responded  to  as  cheerfully  as  might  have  been 
expected,  considering  its  great  importance,  it  was 


418 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


renewed,  accompanied  by  repeated  efforts  to  dis¬ 
perse  the  doubts  of  Queen  Jane  by  proofs  of  a 
sincere  reconciliation. 

About  the  same  period,  Count  Lewis  of  Nas¬ 
sau,  brother  of  the  Prince  William  of  Orange, 
had  made  his  appearance  in  France,  in  order  to 
request  of  the  Huguenots  aid  for  his  brethren  in 
the  Netherlands  against  Philip  of  Spain.  He 
found  the  Admiral  Coligny  favorably  disposed 
toward  his  request.  By  inclination  and  policy, 
this  hero  was  willing  to  march  abroad  to  the  sup¬ 
port  of  a  religion  which  he  had  defended  in  his 
own  country  with  so  much  heroism.  He  was  pas¬ 
sionately  attached  to  his  principles  and  his  faith, 
and  his  great  heart  had  vowed  eternal  war  against 
oppression,  wheresoever  it  might  occur.  In  ac¬ 
cordance  with  this  sentiment,  he  regarded  every 
event,  as  soon  as  faith  and  liberty  were  involved, 
as  his  own,  and  every  victim  of  spiritual  or 
worldly  despotism  might  count  upon  his  compre¬ 
hensive  charity  and  his  active  co-operation.  It 
is  characteristic  of  a  rational  love  of  liberty  to 
expand  the  heart  and  mind,  and  to  extend  its 
sphere  both  in  thought  and  action.  Founded 
upon  a  deep  sense  of  human  dignity,  it  cannot 
permit  rights  which  it  respects  at  home,  to  be 
trampled  upon  abroad. 

The  admiral’s  passionate  sympathy  for  the  free¬ 
dom  of  the  Netherlands,  and  his  determination 
to  lead  the  Huguenots  to  the  assistance  of  these 
republican  champions,  was  justified  by  the  most 
important  reasons  of  state.  He  knew  and  headed 
the  inflammable  and  anarchical  spirit  of  his  party, 
which,  sore  by  the  many  insults  it  had  borne, 
startled  by  every  supposed  attack,  and  familiar 
with  tumultuous  scenes,  could  not  be  expected  to 
continue  in  the  state  of  order  to  which  his  fol¬ 
lowers  were  no  longer  accustomed.  The  warlike 
nobles  who  were  aiming  at  independence,  repu¬ 
diated  the  inactive  and  constrained  mode  of  life 
to  which  the  peace  condemned  them.  Nor  could 
it  be  expected  that  the  fiery  zeal  of  the  Calvinist 
orators  would  keep  within  the  narrow  bounds  of 
moderation  which  was  required  by  existing  cir¬ 
cumstances.  In  order  to  prevent  the  mischief 
which  an  ill-understood  religious  zeal,  and  the 
distrust  of  parties  that  was  still  smouldering  under 
the  ashes,  might  bring  about  sooner  or  later,  it 
was  deemed  proper  to  occupy  this  idle  bravery, 
and  to  direct  a  courage  which  it  was  neither  ad¬ 
visable  nor  desirable  to  suppress,  into  some  chan¬ 
nel  abroad,  until  it  should  again  be  required  at 
home.  For  this  purpose,  the  war  in  the  Nether¬ 
lands  came  most  opportunely;  even  the  interest 
and  honor  of  the  French  crown  seemed  to  render 
an  active  participation  in  such  a  war  desirable. 
France  had  felt  the  pernicious  influence  of  Span¬ 
ish  intrigues  in  the  most  sensitive  manner,  and 
much  more  was  to  be  apprehended  in  future,  un¬ 
less  this  dangerous  neighbor  was  kept  busy  within 
his  own  boundaries.  The  encouragement  and 
support  which  the  dissatisfied  subjects  of  the 
King  of  France  had  obtained  from  the  King  of 
Spain,  seemed  to  justify  the  resorting  to  repri¬ 
sals,  for  which  a  most  favorable  opportunity  now 
offered.  The  Netherlanders  expected  aid  from 
France,  which  could  not  be  refused  without  ex¬ 
posing  them  to  dependence  on  England,  that 


could  not  but  result  disadvantageous^  for  France, 
Why  yield  to  a  dangerous  rival  an  influence  which 
France  herself  might  enjoy  without  great  ex¬ 
pense?  For  it  was  the  Huguenots  who  offered 
their  strength  for  such  a  purpose,  and  who  were 
willing  to  consume  it  in  a  foreign  war,  and  relieve 
their  own  country  of  their  dangerous  presence. 

Charles  IX.  seemed  to  feel  the  force  of  these 
arguments,  and  expressed  a  desire  to  confer  with 
the  admiral  on  this  subject  more  fully.  Coligny 
felt  so  much  less  disposed  to  decline  this  proof  of 
the  royal  confidence,  since  it  concerned  a  subject 
which,  next  to  his  country,  was  the  dearest  object 
of  his  affections.  The  only  weak  side  by  which 
he  could  be  attacked,  had  been  discovered  ;  the 
desire  to  see  his  favorite  notion  in  the  ascendant, 
helped  him  to  overcome  every  doubt.  His  own 
mode  of  thinking,  which  was  above  suspicion, 
his  very  discretion  decoyed  him  into  the  trap. 
Whereas  many  of  his  partisans  attributed  the 
change  in  the  conduct  of  the  court  to  a  hidden 
plot,  he  accounted  for  this  change  in  a  much 
more  natural  manner  by  the  maxims  of  a  wise 
policy  which,  after  so  many  misfortunes,  must  ne¬ 
cessarily  force  themselves  upon  the  attention  of  the 
court.  There  are  misdeeds  which  no  honest  man 
can  believe  possible  until  they  have  actually  oc¬ 
curred  ;  it  was  pardonable  on  the  part  of  a  man 
like  Coligny,  if  he  would  rather  attribute  to  his 
monarch  a  moderation  of  which  he  had  never  yet 
given  any  proofs,  than  to  deem  him  capable  of  a 
baseness  which  heaps  infamy  upon  humanity,  and 
more  especially  upon  the  dignity  of  a  prince.  So 
many  advances  on  the  part  of  the  court  seemed 
moreover  to  demand  a  proof  of  confidence  at  the 
hands  of  the  Protestants  :  how  easily  a  sensitive 
enemy  might  be  instigated  by  continued  distrust 
to  deserve  the  bad  opinion  which  it  was  made  im¬ 
possible  for  him  to  refute. 

The  admiral  concluded  therefore  to  make  his 
appearance  at  court,  which  had  advanced  as  far 
as  Touraine,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  interview 
with  Queen  Jane.  With  great  reluctance  Jane 
took  this  step,  which  she  found  it  impossible  to 
evade,  and  delivered  her  son  Henry  and  the 
Prince  Conde  into  the  hands  of  the  king.  Co¬ 
ligny  was  about  to  throw  himself  at  the  monarch’s 
feet,  but  he  received  the  former  in  his  arms.  “  At 
last  I  have  got  you,”  exclaimed  the  king.  “I  have 
got  you,  and  you  shall  not  find  it  easy  to  run 
away  again.  Yes,  my  friends,”  he  added  with  a 
triumphant  look,  “  this  is  the  happiest  day  in  my 
life.”  The  admiral  met  the  same  kind  reception 
at  the  hands  of  the  queen,  the  princes,  the  gran¬ 
dees  ;  an  expression  of  joy  and  admiration  was 
visible  in  every  countenance.  This  happy  event 
was  celebrated  for  several  days  with  brilliant 
fetes,  no  trace  of  the  former  distrust  must  dis¬ 
turb  the  general  hilarity.  The  marriage  of  the 
Prince  of  Bearn  with  Margaret  was  discussed; 
every  difficulty  arising  from  differences  of  faith 
had  to  yield  to  the  king’s  impatience.  The  affairs 
of  Flanders  occasioned  several  long  conferences 
between  the  king  and  Coligny  ;  every  conference 
seemed  to  heighten  the  good  opinion  which  the 
king  had  conceived  of  his  servant.  Some  time 
after  this,  he  was  even  permitted  to  take  a  short 
journey  to  his  castle  at  Chatillon  ;  and  the  admiral 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


419 


reappearing  at  the  first  summons,  he  was  per¬ 
mitted  to  repeat  the  journey  during  the  same  year. 
By  these  means  mutual  confidence  was  restored, 
and  Coligny  lapsed  into  a  profound  security. 

The  zeal  with  which  Charles  pushed  the  mar¬ 
riage  of  the  Prince  of  Navarre,  and  the  extraor¬ 
dinary  favors  which  he  lavished  upon  the  admiral 
and  his  partisans,  excited  the  dissatisfaction  of 
the  Catholics,  no  less  than  the  distrust  and  suspi¬ 
cion  of  the  Protestants.  Whether  we  believe, 
with  some  Protestant  and  Italian  authors,  that  this 
conduct  of  the  king  was  a  mere  mask,  or  with  De 
Thou  and  the  authors  of  the  memoirs,  that,  so  far 
as  he  loas  concerned  he  was  sincere ,  his  position 
half  way  between  the  Protestants  and  Catholics 
was  equally  dubious,  since  he  had  to  deceive  both 
parties  in  order  to  keep  his  secret.  And  who 
promised  those  who  knew  about  the  secret,  that 
the  personal  advantages  of  the  admiral  would  not 
finally  make  an  impression  upon  a  king  who  was 
not  by  any  means  unable  to  appreciate  merit  ? 
Who  was  sure  that  this  tried  statesman  would 
not  finally  become  indispensable  to  him  ;  that  not 
his  counsel,  his  maxims,  his  warnings  would  be 
heeded  by  the  king  ?  It  is  no  wonder  that  the 
Catholic  zealots  should  have  been  shocked  by  the 
king’s  conduct,  that  the  pope  himself  should  have 
misapprehended  it,  that  the  queen-mother  should 
have  lost  her  balance,  and  the  Guises  commanded 
to  tremble  for  their  influence  !  A  so  much  nar¬ 
rower  alliance  between  them  and  the  queen  was 
the  result  of  these  apprehensions,  and  it  was  de¬ 
termined  to  sever  these  dangerous  relations,  be  the 
cost  what  it  might. 

The  contradictory  statements  of  historians,  and 
the  mysterious  character  of  the  whole  event,  shed 
no  satisfactory  light  upon  the  sentiments  which 
the  king  entertained  at  that  period,  and  upon  the 
true  nature  of  the  plot  which  afterward  broke  out 
with  so  much  fury.  If  Capi-Lupi,*a  Romish  author 
and  apologist  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
may  be  believed,  Charles  IX.  could  not  be  damaged 
by  the  blackest  suspicion  ;  but  although  the  cri¬ 
tical  historian  may  believe  the  wicked  things  related 
bv  one’s  own  friend,  this  belief  should  not  be  un- 
qualifiedly  indulged  in,  if  the  friend,  as  is  here  the 
case,  aims  at  magnifying  his  hero  by  such  false 
statements,  and  calumniates  him  by  his  flatteries. 
“  A  Legate  of  the  Pope,”  this  author  informs  us 
in  the  preface  to  his  work,  “  arrived  in  France 
with  orders  to  dissuade  his  Most  Christian  Ma¬ 
jesty  from  his  connections  with  the  sectarians. 
After  having  made  the  most  emphatic  representa¬ 
tions  to  the  monarch,  and  having  excited  his  im¬ 
patience  to  the  utmost,  the  king  exclaimed  with 
a  significant  mien :  ‘Would  I  dared  state  every 
thing  to  your  eminence !  You  and  the  holy  fa¬ 
ther  would  soon  admit  that  my  sister’s  marriage 
is  the  most  efficient  means  of  maintaining  the 
true  religion  in  France  and  extirpating  its  adversa¬ 
ries.  But,’  continued  he  with  great  emotion, 
pressing  the  Cardinal’s  hand,  and  slipping  a  dia¬ 
mond  ring  on  his  finger,  ‘  rely  upon  my  royal  word. 
Have  patience  a  little  longer,  and  the  holy  father 

*  Le  StratagSme  ou  la  Ruse  de  Charles  IX.,  Roi  de 
France,  centre  les  Huguenots,  rebelles  a  Dieu  et  a  lui, 
6’crit  par  le  Seigneur  Camille  Capi-Lupi,  Ac.,  1574. 


will  praise  my  designs  and  my  zeal.’  The  Cardi¬ 
nal  refused  the  diamond,  assuring  the  king  that 
his  word  was  sufficient.”  But  even  supposing 
that,  this  statement  has  not  been  dictated  by  a 
blind  zeal,  the  writer  may  have  obtained  his  in¬ 
formation  from  a  very  impure  source.  It  is  not 
improbable  that  the  Cardinal  Lorraine,  who  hap¬ 
pened  to  be  in  Rome  at  this  time,  spread  or  at 
least  favored  such  statements,  in  order  to  make 
the  king  jointly  responsible  for  the  Paris  carnage 
of  which  he  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  chief 
authors.* 

The  conduct  which  Charles  observed  during  the 
carnage,  testifies  against  him  more  powerfully 
than  these  unfounded  rumors ;  but  even  if  he 
allowed  his  violent  temper  to  sanction  the  plot 
after  it  was  fully  matured,  and  to  favor  its  execu¬ 
tion,  such  facts  do  not  prove  his  previous  compli¬ 
city.  The  enormity  and  horrid  nature  of  the  crime 
render  this  complicity  improbable,  and  respect  for 
human  nature  must  be  his  apology.  Such  a  com¬ 
plicated  and  long  chain  of  deception  ;  such  an  im¬ 
penetrable  and  well-sustained  dissimulation  ;  such 
a  complete  suppression  of  all  feelings  of  human¬ 
ity  ;  such  an  imprudent  trifling  with  the  most 
sacred  pledges  of  confidence,  seem  to  require  an 
accomplished  villain  who  had  become  hardened  in 
crime  by  a  long  practice,  and  had  obtained  the 
most  perfect  control  over  his  passions.  Charles 
IX.  was  a  young  man  of  violent  temper,  whose 
passions  had  been  let  loose  by  a  premature  pos¬ 
session  of  the  supreme  power.  Such  a  nature 
seems  incompatible  with  the  part  of  an  artful  con¬ 
spirator  ;  such  a  deep  depravity  can  hardly  exist 
in  the  soul  of  a  youth,  were  this  youth  even  a  king 
and  the  son  of  a  Catharine. 

Howsoever  sincere,  or  insincere  the  king’s  con¬ 
duct  may  have  been,  the  leaders  of  the  Catholic 
party  could  not  remain  indifferent  spectators  of 
his  intimate  relations  with  Coligny.  They  left 
the  court  in  a  pet  as  soon  as  the  Huguenots 
seemed  firmly  established  around  the  king,  and 
Charles  made  no  opposition  to  their  leaving.  As 
the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Bearn  approached, 
the  Huguenots  arrived  in  the  capital  in  great  num¬ 
bers.  The  marriage,  however,  met  with  an  unex¬ 
pected  delay  in  consequence  of  the  sudden  death 
of  Queen  Jane,  who  died  soon  after  her  entry 
in  Paris.  Her  death  reawakened  the  previous 
distrust  of  the  Calvinists  ;  and  there  were  those 
who  believed  that  she  had  been  poisoned.  But 
this  suspicion  was  not  confirmed  even  by  the  most 
careful  investigations  ;  and  the  king’s  conduct  re¬ 
maining  unchanged,  the  storm  soon  blew  over. 

At  this  time  Coligny  happened  to  be  at  his 
castle  of  Chatillon,  busy  with  his  favorite  idea  of  a 
war  in  the  Netherlands.  No  insinuations  were 
wanting,  warning  him  of  the  approaching  danger, 
and  he  was  flooded  with  anonymous  letters  beg¬ 
ging  him  to  stay  away  from  Paris.  But  this  well- 
meant  zeal  of  his  friends  only  exhausted  his  pa¬ 
tience,  without  shaking  his  convictions.  In  vain 
he  was  informed  of  the  gatherings  of  troops  which 
the  court  collected  in  Poitou,  and  which  were  said 
to  be  destined  against  Rochelle ;  he  knew  better 
what  was  the  object  of  these  armaments  which 

*  Esprit  de  la  Ligue.  Tom.  ii.  p.  13. 


420 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


were  undertaken,  as  he  assured  his  friends,  by  his 
particular  advice.  In  vain  his  attention  was 
called  to  the  large  loans  effected  by  the  king, 
which  seemed  to  portend  some  great  undertaking ; 
he  protested  that  this  undertaking  was  nothing 
else  than  the  war  in  the  Netherlands,  which  was 
soon  to  be  commenced,  and  concerning  which  he 
had  concerted  all  needful  measures  with  the  king. 
It  was  indeed  true  that  Charles,  yielding  to  the 
admiral’s  advice,  whether  honestly,  or  under  the 
mask  of  dissimulation,  had  concluded  a  formal 
alliance  against  Spain  with  England,  and  the 
Protestant  princes  of  Germany.  All  these  warn¬ 
ings  failed  of  their  object,  and  so  firm  was  the 
admiral’s  confidence  in  the  king’s  honesty,  that  he 
begged  his  partisans  most  earnestly  not  to  molest 
him  any  further  with  their  remonstrances. 

Coligny  returned  to  court,  where,  soon  after,  in 
August  1572,  the  nuptials  of  Henry,  who  was  now 
King  of  Navarre,  with  Margaret  Valois  were  cele¬ 
brated  with  royal  pomp,  amid  a  great  concourse 
of  Huguenots.  Coligny’s  son-in-law,  Teligny, 
Rohan,  Rochefoucauld,  all  the  chiefs  of  the  Cal¬ 
vinists  were  present,  all  plunged  in  the  same  se¬ 
curity  a3  Coligny,  and  without  suspecting  the 
impending  danger.  Only  a  few  divined  the  ap¬ 
proaching  storm,  and  sought  safety  in  a  speedy 
flight.  A  nobleman,  named  Langoiran,  went  to 
the  admiral  to  take  leave  of  him.  “  But  why  now?” 
asked  Coligny,  amazed.  “Because  they  are  too 
polite  towards  you,”  replied  Langoiran,  “  and  I 
prefer  to  save  myself  with  the  fools,  than  perish 
with  the  wise  ones.” 

Although  the  final  result  has  justified  these  pre¬ 
dictions  in  the  most  frightful  manner,  yet  it  is  not 
certain  how  far  they  were  founded  at  that  moment. 
According  to  the  report  of  credible  witnesses,  the 
Guises  and  the  queen  were  at  that  time  in  greater 
danger  than  the  reformed  party.  They  relate  that 
Coligny  had  imperceptibly  gained  such  an  ascend¬ 
ency  over  the  young  king  that  he  had  the  courage 
to  excite  his  distrust  in  her,  and  to  free  him  from 
her  tutelage.  He  had  persuaded  the  king  to  con¬ 
duct  the  war  in  Flanders  in  person,  and  to  win  the 
battles  with  which  she  designed  to  crown  the  brow 
of  her  favorite,  the  Duke  of  Anjou.  This  idea  was 
not  lost  upon  the  zealous  and  ambitious  monarch, 
and  Catharine  was  soon  convinced  that  her  influ¬ 
ence  was  on  the  wane. 

The  danger  was  so  urgent  that  it  could  only 
be  averted  by  the  most  determined  boldness.  A 
courier  was  sent  to  the  Guises  and  their  partisans, 
who  were  called  back  to  the  Court  in  order  to  aid 
the  queen,  if  necessary.  She  herself  seized  upon 
the  first  opportunity,  when  her  son  was  with  her 
alone  on  the  chase,  enticed  him  into  a  castle, 
where  she  locked  herself  up  with  him  in  a  private 
room,  assailed  him  with  all  the  power  of  a  mo¬ 
ther’s  eloquence,  and  rebuked  him  most  bitterly 
for  his  faithlessness  toward  her,  for  his  ingratitude, 
his  indiscretion.  Her  grief  and  her  complaints 
moved  his  heart ;  a  few  threatening  hints  which 
she  dropped  at  the  same  time,  had  the  desired 
effect.  She  acted  her  part  with  all  the  dramatic 
effect  of  which  she  had  acquired  such  a  perfect 
mastery,  and  she  succeeded  in  extorting  from  him 
the  admission  that  he  had  acted  hastily.  Not 


satisfied  with  this  success,  she  snatched  herself 
from  his  arms,  acted  as  if  she  were  irreconcilable, 
occupied  a  separate  residence,  and  caused  him  to 
apprehend  a  complete  rupture.  The  young  king 
had  not  yet  acquired  a  sufficient  independence 
to  take  her  at  her  word,  and  to  enjoy  his  newly- 
gained  liberty.  He  knew  that  the  Queen  had  a 
large  party  at  her  command,  which  his  fear  made 
him  imagine  much  larger  than  it  really  was.  He 
dreaded,  perhaps  not  without  reason,  her  predilec¬ 
tion  for  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  and  trembled  for  his 
life  and  throne.  Abandoned  by  his  advisers,  and 
too  timid  to  take  a  bold  resolution,  he  hastened 
after  his  mother,  and  rushed  into  her  apartments, 
where  he  found  her  surrounded  by  his  brother,  her 
courtiers,  and,  by  the  most  bitter  enemies  of 
the  Huguenots.  He  wants  to  know  of  what  new 
crime  the  Huguenots  stand  accused,  and  he 
promises  to  abandon  all  intercourse  with  them, 
provided  he  can  be  convinced  that  their  senti¬ 
ments  cannot  be  trusted.  The  darkest  picture  is 
displayed  before  him  of  their  arrogance,  their  acts 
of  violence,  their  plots  and  threats.  He  is  sur¬ 
prised,  startled,  reduced  to  silence,  and  assures 
his  mother  that  hereafter  he  will  act  with  more 
caution. 

This  uncertain  declaration  was  not  sufficient  for 
Catharine.  The  same  weakness  which  now  ren¬ 
dered  it  so  easy  for  her  to  triumph  over  the  king, 
might  be  used  by  the  Huguenots  with  the  same, 
or  even  greater  success  for  the  purpose  of  freeing 
him  entirely  from  her  fetters.  She  comprehended 
perfectly,  that  she  had  to  separate  the  connection 
between  the  king  and  the  Huguenots  in  a  violent 
and  irreparable  manner,  and  all  that  was  required 
in  order  to  accomplish  this  end,  was  to  rouse  the 
rebellious  spirit  of  the  Huguenots  by  some  grave 
insult.  Four  days  after  the  marriage  of  Henry 
of  Navarre,  a  shot  was  fired  at  Coligny  from  a 
window  ;  the  ball  shattering  the  index-finger  of 
the  right  hand,  and  another  ball  wounding  his 
left  arm.  He  showed  the  house  whence  the  shot 
had  been  fired  ;  the  doors  were  burst  open,  but 
the  murderer  had  fled. 

It  might  be  said  that  Coligny’s  guardian-spirit 
was  making  a  last  effort  to  save  this  great  man  from 
his  fate  by  warning  him  through  the  hand  of  an 
assassin.  But  who  has  ever  escaped  from  his  des¬ 
tiny  ?  Or  rather,  is  it  not  more  glorious  for  a 
good  man  to  perish  by  acts  of  perfidy  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  even  to  imagine,  than  to 
escape  from  such  snares  ? 

Coligny  felt,  and  his  whole  party  with  him,  as 
by  an  electric  shock,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  deep¬ 
est  peace,  when  four  days  previous  the  Houses  of 
Valois  and  Bourbon  had  sealed  an  alliance  before 
the  altar,  in  defiance  of  the  Guises,  by  the  mar¬ 
riage  of  Henry  of  Navarre  with  Margaret  Valois, 
a  poisonous  serpent  was  breathing  upon  him  and 
his  party.  This  time  it  had  not  succeeded  in 
striking  the  head  of  the  Protestants,  whilst  dart¬ 
ing  at  him  from  its  foul  den,  and  in  paralyzing 
the  whole  body  with  one  blow. 

But  where  had  this  Lernsean  hydra  hid  its 
head  ?  From  what  hole  might  it  possibly  renew 
its  dart?  Coligny  possessed  too  little  cunning 
for  such  investigations.  A  trail  was  discovered 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


421 


leading  to  a  number  of  points,  but  away  from 
the  sources  whence  the  nefarious  villainy  ema¬ 
nated. 

Coligny  was  indeed  discreet  and  circumspect. 
But  he  was  utterly  devoid  of  fear.  The  feeble 
insect,  exploring  every  corner  with  its  ever-stir¬ 
ring  antennae,  is  saved  from  many  dangers  by  its 
fear.  Fear  converts  prudence  into  cunning  cau¬ 
tion,  which  is  never  deceived,  but  never  acts  with 
greatness,  for  the  reason  that  it  sees  everywhere, 
trickery  and  deception.  Coligny  had  made  no 
alliance  with  fortune.  Asa  general  he  lost  his 
battles  by  the  weakness  of  his  troops  and  by  other 
unfavorable  circumstances  of  his  situation.  Chance 
did  little  for  him.  It  seemed  as  though  he  alone 
in  his  party  was  to  owe  every  thing  to  his  own 
efforts.  After  a  disaster,  if  every  man  under  him 
was  on  the  point  of  losing  his  presence  of  mind  ; 
if  his  army,  without  clothes,  without  food  or 
money,  threatened  to  disband  as  rapidly  as  it 
had  been  collected  together;  if  treason  and 
courtly  favor  haunted  his  partisans  like  irresistible 
charmers,  yet  his  courage  remained  undisturbed. 
His  cheerful  brow  inspired  his  partisans  with  a 
belief  that  his  resources,  so  far  from  being  ex¬ 
hausted,  left  him  at  liberty  to  make  a  choice. 
And  if  his  voice  was  heard,  the  repose  of  his 
spirit  was  transmitted  to  every  hearer.  His  lan¬ 
guage  was  noble,  pure,  vigorous,  and  frequently 
original.  In  executing  his  plans,  he  exhibited  in 
every  department  of  his  duties  an  indefatigable 
industry ;  firm  opposition  to  oppression  was  the 
soul  of  all  his  designs  at  home  and  abroad.  Let 
the  courtier  Villeroy  blame  him  for  having  en¬ 
deavored  to  secure  to  the  Protestants  religious 
and  political  freedom  in  France,  or  for  having 
contributed  by  his  counsel  to  the  deliverance  of 
the  Netherlands  from  the  Spanish  yoke,  Coligny 
never  would  have  undertaken  the  overthrow  of  an 
impartial  and  just  government.  Blameless  morals 
as  a  husband  and  father,  and  the  strictest  piety,  com¬ 
pleted  his  fitness  to  lead  a  religious  and  political 
party,  whose  whole  existence  depended  upon  the 
voluntary  subordination  of  many  of  the  bravest, 
richest,  and  most  ambitious  nobles  and  citizens 
who  could  only  be  induced  by  the  superiority  of 
his  character  to  follow  his  lead  with  that  perfect 
unanimity  which  was  indispensable  to  success. 

These  considerations  pointed  him  out*to  the  op¬ 
posite  party  as  the  only  one  upon  whose  ruin  the  de¬ 
struction  of  the  Protestant  party  depended;  so 
much  more  since  neither  forbearance  nor  reconcilia¬ 
tion,  but  the  most  inexorable  rigidity  of  purpose 
had  to  be  expected  of  him.  His  intriguing  enemies 
had  discovered  his  weakness.  So  much  apparent 
esteem  ;  so  much  apparent  confidence  in  his  views 
and  probity,  which  he  was  conscious  of  deserving  ; 
the  prospect  of  being  useful  to  his  country  and 
his  party  by  effecting  a  union  against  Spain,  the 
common  enemy  of  France  and  his  religion,  at¬ 
tracted  him  to  the  court.  He  was  caught  in  a 
trap  which  he  could  not  have  avoided  except  at 
the  expense  of  his  fearlessness,  his  honest  and 
generous  disposition.  Previous  to,  and  after  the 
attempt  at  assassination,  many  well-disposed  ad¬ 
herents  urged  him  to  flee  from  Paris.  “  If  I  do 
this  ”  he  replied,  “  I  either  show  fear  or  distrust. 
The  ft  rmer  would  offend  my  honor,  the  latter  the 


king.  I  should  have  to  recommence  civil  war. 

I  would  rather  die  than  behold  the  boundless 
wretchedness  which  follows  in  its  wake.”  Murder 
and  infamy  were  the  reward  of  these  patriotic 
sentiments. 

On  the  very  day  of  the  attempt,  the  king,  ac¬ 
companied  by  a  number  of  courtiers,  visited  Oo- 
ligny.  He  protested  to  the  latter  of  his  sympathy 
and  his  full  confidence  toward  him  as  a  com¬ 
mander  and  faithful  subject.  “You  are  wounded, 
my  father,”  he  exclaimed,  “  but  I  feel  your  pains. 

I  vow  before  God  that  I  will  punish  the  guilty  as 
soon  as  they  are  found  out.”  Too  readily  tran- 
quilized  about  himself,  the  admiral  made  no  com¬ 
plaints,  and  soon  endeavored  to  quiet  the  king’s 
mind  by  turning  the  conversation  from  his  own 
mishap  to  the  public  interests,  the  campaign  in 
the  Netherlands.  This  new  undertaking  was  to 
attach  the  impetuous  young  king  so  much  more 
firmly  to  the  admiral,  who  seemed  to  be  the  indis¬ 
pensable  leader  in  this  enterprise,  and  to  his  party. 
But  under  pretext  of  not  over-taxing  the  wounded 
man’s  strength,  the  queen  soon  put  a  stop  to  the 
private  conversation  which  the  king  had  with  him. 
She  sent  the  latter  back  to  his  game  at  shuttlecock 
and  battledoor.  For  his  first  outburst  of  indignation 
had  undoubtedly  been  caused  by  the  inconvenience 
of  being  interrupted  in  a  game  of  which  he  was 
so  passionately  fond. 

With  every  fleeing  moment  every  thing  was  at 
stake  for  Catharine.  Coligny  indeed  suspected 
the  Guises.  The  shot  had  been  fired  from  one  of 
their  bouses.  During  the  accession  of  the  Pro¬ 
testants  to  public  favor,  the  party  of  the  Guises 
seemed  to  have  lost  so  much  of  its  ascendency, 
that  it  seemed  natural  to  suspect  this  party  of  the 
vilest  revenge,  namely,  clandestine  murder.  In 
the  first  complication  of  circumstances,  Catha¬ 
rine  deemed  it  advisable  to  encourage  this  sus¬ 
picion.  Even  to  her  son  she  insinuated  that  Guise 
probably  still  persisted  in  regarding  Coligny  as 
the  murderer  of  the  duke’s  father.  This  dissimu¬ 
lation  could  not  possibly  have  been  suggested,  as 
some  suppose,  by  the  impossible  thought  of  exter¬ 
minating  both  these  parties  at  once.  Her  object 
was  to  gain  a  moment’s  time,  in  order  to  deter¬ 
mine  by  the  immediate  effects  of  a  blow  that  had 
been  missed,  the  probable  effects  of  a  more  suc¬ 
cessfully  executed  and  more  cruel  plot.  She  re¬ 
quired  to  gather  new  resolution  in  her  own  mind 
for  commuting  a  crime  at  which  her  humanity  must 
have  shuddered  in^spite  of  her  most  burning  desire 
of  revenge. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  king  summoned  the  Duke 
of  Guise  to  the  court,  in  order  to  hold  him  respon¬ 
sible  for  the  attempt  on  Coligny’s  life.  In  her 
memoirs,  even  his  own  sister,  the  Queen  of  Na¬ 
varre,  refers  to  this  circumstance  as  a  proof  of 
the  king’s  honest  wrath.  He  had  been  incensed 
at  the  duke  for  seeking  the  hand  of  this  very 
princess.  Strange,  that  by  this  measure  he  placed 
the  very  man  who  was  indispensable  to  his  mother 
for  the  perpetration  of  her  diabolical  designs,  at 
her  disposal,  without  the  least  suspicion  being 
incurred  by  these  parties.  The  coincidence  of  all 
these  circumstances  seemed  to  mark  the  moment 
when  deeds  of  the  most  horrid  infamy  were  to  be 
perpetrated. 


422 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


All  that  was  needed  for  this  purpose,  was  the 
consent  of  the  king:.  This  consent  could  not  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  one  who  understood  the  fatal 
art  of  plunging  his  vacillating  mind  from  one  ex¬ 
treme  into  the  opposite.  An  adroit  courtier,  his 
confidant,  was  the  tool  of  which  the  queen  made 
use  in  order  to  render  her  son  an  accomplice  of 
her  crime.  After  cautious  preliminaries,  this 
creature  succeeds  in  wiping  out  the  impressions 
which  the  king’s  visit  at  Coiigny’s  house,  had  left 
on  his  mind.  He  sows  the  seed  of  suspicion, 
rouses  the  old,  slumbering  rancor,  and  finally 
plunges  the  sting  of  fear  for  his  own  life  into  the 
king’s  heart.  With  unusual  zeal  the  King  of 
Navarre  and  the  Prince  Conde  had  demanded 
satisfaction.  The  power  of  Coiigny’s  party  now 
was  concentrated  in  Paris  as  in  one  focus.  Every 
thing  was  to  be  feared  from  it ;  therefore  every 
thing  had  to  be  risked  against  it.  One  of  them, 
He  Piles,  had  told  the  king  to  his  face  that,  if  he 
was  unwilling  or  too  feeble,  to  render  them  justice, 
they  would  obtain  redress  by  their  own  efforts. 
“  In  one  word,”  exclaimed  the  cunning  agent, 
when  he  felt  sure  of  his  victim,  “  no  one  who  is 
sincerely  attached  to  the  king,  should  hesitate  a 
moment  to  enlighten  him  concerning  the  danger 
to  which  his  own  person,  as  well  as  the  whole 
country  is  exposed.”  At  this  moment  Catharine, 
leaning  on  her  favorite  son,  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  and 
surrounded  by  her  most  intimate  partisans,  entered 
the  king’s  apartment.  Startled  by  dangerous  dis¬ 
coveries,  ashamed  of  the  security  in  which  he  had 
lived  in  the  midst  of  so  much  danger  for  his  life 
and  throne,  alarmed  on  all  sides  by  the  most 
frightful  pictures  of  ruin,  Charles  rushed  into  his 
mother’s  arms.  “  Already,”  he  was  told,  “  the 
Huguenots  are  calling  back  the  odious  foreigners,. 
Germans  and  Swiss,  upon  French  soil.  The  mal¬ 
contents  in  the  provinces  will  rush  in  crowds  to 
the  rendezvous.  The  fury  of  civil  war  threatens 
to  lacerate  the  country  a  second  time.  The  king 
himself,  without  money  or  personal  influence,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  Huguenots,  suspected  by  the  Guises 
as  the  friend  of  the  heretics,  will  have  to  look  on 
if  the  Catholics  should  choose  a  captain-general 
to  defend  themselves  against  their  adversaries  ; 
whilst  he,  repelled  by  the  old  admiral’s  insolence, 
and  rendered  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  the  nation, 
will  be  tossed  powerless  to  and  fro  between  the 
two  parties.” 

Charles  started  up  furious  at  these  terrible 
phantoms.  He  vowed  with  an  oath  that  the  ad¬ 
miral  and  the  whole  party  should  die,  so  that  not 
one  should  remain  to  accuse  him  of  the  bloody 
work.  Only  let  the  whole  thing  be  done  in  a  hurry, 
so  that  his  safety  might  no  longer  be  endangered! 

This  was  precisely  what  the  adversaries  of  the 
Protestants  desired.  Murder  now  was  the  word, 
but  the  profoundest  dissimulation  vailed  the 
bloody  designs  to  which  the  king  now  lent  a  will¬ 
ing  ear  under  his  mother’s  teaching. 

The  Duke  of  Guise  was  willing  to  act  the  princi¬ 
pal  part.  In  the  presence  of  France,  this  person, 
when  scarcely  nineteen  years  old,  had  laid  the 
ioundation  of  his  glory  in  defending  Poitiers 
against  the  admiral.  He  had  likewise  sought 
the  hand  ot  Margaret,  whose  marriage  with 
Henry  ot  Navarre  had  been  celebrated  about 


this  time.  As  her  husband  he  might  have  had 
a  chance  of  ascending  the  throne.  The  persecu¬ 
tion  of  the  Huguenots  seemed  to  be  more  than 
his  hereditary  destiny.  It  was  a  business  of  his 
own  choice,  which  he  practiced  on  every  occasion. 
If  he  was  instigated  by  his  father’s  assassination 
to  seek  bloody  revenge,  he  was  still  more  tempt¬ 
ingly  invited  to  improve  the  present  opportunity 
of  extirpating  the  whole  tribe  of  his  Protestant 
adversaries,  and  rendering  his  party  the  sole 
dominant  party  in  France,  after  which  he  might 
oppose  a  bold  front  to  the  queen-mother. 

The  failure  of  Coiigny’s  assassination  became 
the  source  of  the  new  crime.  The  Duke  of  Guise 
himself  declared  that  the  fear  of  Coiigny’s 
revenge,  whose  life  he  was  accused  of  having  at¬ 
tempted,  obliged  him  and  his  relatives  to  escape 
from  the  capital.  “  Go,”  said  the  king  to  him 
with  an  indignant  mien,  “  if  you  are  guilty  I  shall 
find  you  again  !”  Henceforth  the  preparations  for 
the  flight  became  the  sudden  and  unsuspected 
preparations  for  their  destruction. 

The  admiral  himself  assisted  his  enemies  in 
throwing  the  noose  over  hint  and  his  friends.  He 
received  frequent  hints  that  the  Guises  would  at¬ 
tempt  a  blow  before  leaving  Paris.  Some  even 
advised  his  flight  from  Paris.  The  honest  man 
and  his  best  friends  confided  in  the  king’s  safe 
keeping,  who  detailed  a  strong  battalion  of  his 
own  body-guard  that  had  recently  arrived  in 
Paris,  for  Coiigny’s  protection.  By  an  order  of 
the  court  the  Catholics  who  resided  in  his  neigh¬ 
borhood,  had  to  furnish  lodgings  for  all  Protest¬ 
ant  nobles  who  desired  to  reside  near  their  chief 
for  his  security  ;  they  were  even  invited  to  do  so. 
The  police  encouraged  them  to  watch  over  Colig- 
ny,  keeping  a  list  of  their  names  for  the  use  of 
their  murderers.  The  king  of  Navarre  was  re¬ 
quested  to  assemble  his  confidants  in  the  Louvre 
to  guard  the  king  against  the  Guises,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  send  his  Swiss  guard  to  the  admiral 
for  his  protection.  In  order  to  have  a  pretext  for 
the  collection  of  arms  in  the  Louvre,  a  tourna¬ 
ment  was  arranged,  of  which  Coligny  was  in¬ 
formed  by  the  king  himself.  The  anxiety  which 
the  court  showed  for  the  Huguenots,  extinguished 
all  isolated  sparks  of  suspicion,  which  seemed  in¬ 
sufficient  to  disturb  even  the  most  timid.  In  the 
mean  while  the  conspirators  fixed  upon  their  prey 
with  greedy  eyes.  It  had  been  driven  as  it  were 
into  a  pen.  A  council  of  blood  was  held  in  the 
Tuileries,  composed  of  the  two  brothers  of  the 
king,  the  Duke  of  Anjou  and  the  Count  Angouleme, 
likewise  the  Duke  Nevers,  Birague,  who  was  keeper 
of  the  seals,  the  marshals  Tavannes  and  Betz,  and 
presided  over  by  Catharine  herself.  It  was  de¬ 
cided  to  execute  the  carnage  on  the  night  of  the 
24th  of  August,  from  which  Henry  of  Navarre,  and 
a  few  blood-relations  of  the  royal  family  alone 
were  exempted. 

If,  as  was  indeed  the  case  with  Tavannes,  the  belief 
of  doing  God  a  service,  had  been  the  true  cause 
of  this  barbarity,  we  might  mourn  the  weakness 
of  the  human  reason,  we  might  accuse  the  super¬ 
stition  of  the  age,  but  we  would  not  detest  the 
authors  of  the  crime.  If  they  had  suppressed 
the  sentiment  of  humanity  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
we  should  have  to  respect  their  intentions,  how- 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


423 


ever  much  we  might  abhor  their  acts.  But  it  is 
proven  by  their  past  conduct  that  most  of  the 
conspirators  had  a  personal  grudge  against  the 
Huguenots,  against  whom  any  crime  was  lawful, 
because  they  happened  to  be  heretics.  Catha¬ 
rine  herself  may  have  been  sufficiently  supersti¬ 
tious  to  hate  in  Coligny  the  reformed  partisan, 
and  to  deem  this  hatred  a  meritorious  sentiment. 
But  it  is  equally  certain  that  she  would  have 
been  loath  to  see  this  man  weaken  the  cause  of 
her  hatred  by  attending  mass.  She  hated  him 
because  he  restrained  her  lust  of  power. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night,  Tavannes  had  as-  ‘ 
sembled  in  front  of  the  city-hall  a  select  body  1 
of  assassins,  whose  chiefs  received  their  orders 
for  this  special  purpose  in  presence  of  the  king. 
The  fury  of  the  Duke  of  Guise,  attended  by  three 
hundred  murderous  villains,  was  awaiting  the  con¬ 
certed  signal,  Charles  himself  stifled  the  voice  of 
friendship  which  sought  to  rouse  his*  pity  in  the 
last  hour.  After  supper,  he  allowed  his  cherished 
companion,  the  Count  Francis  la  Rochefoucauld, 
to  leave  the  palace  in  perfect  ignorance  of  the 
lurking  death  that  awaited  him.  Still  more  unfeel¬ 
ingly,  Catharine  urged  her  newly-married  daugh¬ 
ter,  the  Queen  of  Navarre,  to  retire  this  even¬ 
ing  in  good  season  to  her  husband’s  apartments, 
where  she  might  have  fallen  a  victim  to  Calvin- 
istic  vengeance,  or  even  to  the  murderous  brutal¬ 
ity  of  her  hirelings  whom  the  darkness  of  the 
night  might  have  misled.  No  matter  who  per¬ 
ished,  so  but  her  own  vengeance  was  gratified. 

Nevertheless,  after  the  king  had  given  the  sig¬ 
nal,  and  had  stepped  upon  the  balcony  of  the 
Louvre  facing  the  city  ;  after  he  had  been  led  on 
by  a  few  accomplices,  with  the  Queen-mother  at 
their  head,  through  the  solitary  passages  of  the 
Louvre,  and  the  demon  of  murder  had  been  let 
loose,  the  courage  of  the  villains  sank.  They  felt 
the  last  dying  quiverings  of  humanity.  Pale  and 
beside  themselves,  they  tremble  at  the  sight  of  each 
other,  stare  at  each  other,  and  are  at  once  agreed  to 
send  off  a  courier  with  orders  to  revoke  the  mur¬ 
derous  orders,  and  to  prevent  the  execution  of  the 
horrors  which  it  frightened  them  to  have  planned 
and  commanded.  Suddenly  a  pistol-shot  is  heard. 

“  Whether  any  body  was  hurt,”  relates  the  Duke  of 
Anjou,  Catharine’s  favorite  son,  “  I  know  not,  but ' 
I  do  know  that  this  shot  pierced  the  heart  of  all 
three  of  us,  and  took  away  our  senses.  We  were 
overwhelmed  with  fright  and  consternation  at  the 
horrors  which  now  had  commenced.” 

This  cowardly  regret  was  too  late.  An  impo¬ 
tent  offspring  of  irresolution  rather  than  of  re¬ 
flection,  it  only  serves  to  elucidate,  to  the  student 
of  human  nature,  the  boundless  fury  of  the  pas¬ 
sions  that  must  have  swayed  the  authors  of  the  scene 
of  woe  which  now  had  commenced,  a  fury  which,  on 
reaching  its  acme,  was  suddenly  superseded  by 
the  most  violent  depression  of  the  nerves  and 
animal  energy. 

The  sight  of  this  self-torturing  vice  might  have 
been  a  sufficient  satisfaction  to  Coligny’s  shade. 
At  the  first  sound  of  matins,  the  Duke  of  Guise  had 
started  with  his  band,  toward  Coligny’s  residence. 
At  the  call  :  “  In  the  name  of  the  king,”  the  gate 
was  opened,  its  keepers  were  cut  down,  the  Swiss 
hid  themselves  at  the  sight  of  the  furious  crowd 


that  rushed  into  the  court.  The  wounded  Coligny 
started  up  from  his  sleep.  Already  his  ant** 
chambers  resounded  with  the  cries  of  the  mur¬ 
derers  and  the  groans  of  the  wounded.  Three 
French  death-howling  colonels  broke  into  his 
apartments.  The  pious  hero  was  leaning  against 
the  wall  in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  Petrucci,  an 
Italian,  and  Behm,  a  German  noble,  pushed  for¬ 
ward.  “Art  thou  Coligny?”  shouted  this  man. 
“  I  am,  young  man,”  the  old  man  answered,  with 
a  firm  voice,  “and  respect  thou  my  gray  hair !” 
Behm  pierced  him  with  his  sword  more  unfeel¬ 
ingly  than  the  murderer  of  Marius.  With  his 
smoking  sword  he  cut  several  times  across  his 
face.  The  rest  of  the  bandits  hacked  his  body 
with  their  blades.  “  It  is  done !”  screeched 
Behm  to  the  king’s  bastard  brother,  the  Count 
Angouleme,  who,  not  content  with  this  statement, 
ordered  the  body  to  be  thrown  down  on  the  pave¬ 
ment.  With  the  greed  of  a  tiger,  he  examined 
the  blood-stained  face,  and  when  he  felt  quite  sure 
that  it  was  Coligny,  he  gave  the  dead  lion  a  kick. 

Everywhere  the  houses  of  the  victims  were 
designated  by  burning  pitch  ;  the  streets  were 
closed  by  chains ;  guards  were  placed  in  ambush 
against  those  who  sought  to  escape  ;  others 
rushed  into  the  streets,  murdering  the  Protes¬ 
tants,  who,  startled  by  the  tumult,  ran  to  the 
front  doors  o.f  their  dwellings.  In  this  sudden 
need,  they  were  without  guides  or  rendezvous. 
The  Catholics  recognized  each  other  by  a  white 
cloth  which  they  had  tied  round  the  left  arm, 
and  by  a  white  cross.  The  sign  of  the  great  suf¬ 
ferer  on  Golgotha,  and  the  color  of  innocence, 
were  desecrated  by  them  for  the  impious  murder 
of  their  brethren.  If  the  persecuted  Protestants 
had  been  able  to  recover  from  their  consterna¬ 
tion,  if  several  of  them  had  collected  together, 
and  had  fought  in  company  as  bravely  as  some 
of  them  are  known  to  have  done  singly,  the  crime 
might  have  met  its  punishment  in  the  midst  of 
this  triumph. 

As  soon  as  the  victims  in  the  streets  had  been 
dispatched,  the  dwellings  were  broken  into.  No 
age,  no  personal  qualities,  afforded  any  protec¬ 
tion.  The  admiral’s  son-in-law,  Teligny,  was  such 
an  amiable  young  hero,  that  the  first  who  came 
to  murder  him  retired  again  in  confusion.  But 
they  were  soon  succeeded  by  less  feeling  villains. 
The  civic  guard,  which  had  started  back  with  a 
feeling  of  horror  at  the  first  command  of  murder, 
now,  after  their  fury  had  once  been  kindled,  sur¬ 
passed  the  expectations  of  the  most  inhuman 
commander.  The  mutilated  bodies  were  thrown 
into  the  Seine,  or  dragged  through  the  streets,  to 
gratify  the  most  diabolical  passions.  Those  who 
escaped  with  their  lives,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
guards,  or  of  Guise’s  hordes,  in  whom  Tavannes 
sought  to  kindle  the  rage  of  murder  by  the  most 
fiendish  jests.  “  Bleed  them,”  he  exclaimed,  “  a 
bleeding  does  as  much  good  in  August  as  in 
May.”  This  man  was  so  honestly  convinced  of 
doing  God  and  his  king  a  service  by  these  assas¬ 
sinations,  that  he  confessed,  even  on  his  death-bed, 
he  regarded  the  carnage  of  St.  Bartholomew  as  an 
act  from  which  he  hoped  forgiveness  of  sins,  more 
than  from  any  thing  else  he  had  done.  Under  the 
cloak  of  fanaticism,  private  hatred  now  made  sure 


424 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  its  victim.  Robberies  were  committed,  even 
by  noblemen,  under  cover  of  this  demon.  Even 
the  king  and  the  queen-mother  are  said  to  have 
accepted  a  portion  of  the  robbed  jewels.  Things 
had  changed  their  names.  Villainy  now  had  be- ; 
come  condescension.  The  diamonds  that  had 
been  taken  from  a  dying  Huguenot,  now  seemed 
the  reward  which  was  conferred  upon  God’s  cham¬ 
pions  already  here,  on  this  earth.  They  became 
a  memorial  of  the  day  on  which,  before  the  king’s 
own  eyes,  in  his  own  palace,  where  any  one  who 
is  in  search  of  right  and  justice,  should  be  guar¬ 
anteed  perfect  security,  caprice  and  arbitrary 
power  had  granted  their  lives  to  a  few  only,  as  a 
pittance  of  the  royal  favor.  Any  body  else  who 
sought  refuge  in  the  Louvre,  was  destroyed  at 
the  gates  by  the  king’s  own  guards.  History  as¬ 
serts  that  the  king  himself  fired  on  fleeing  Pro¬ 
testants.  One  hour  after  the  breaking  out  of  the 
carnage,  not  the  most  hidden  apartment  in  the 
palace  had  remained  unstained  by  blood.  The 
governor  of  the  young  Prince  Conti,  who  had 
reached  his  eightieth  year,  could  not  be  saved  by 
the  supplications  of  his  pupil,  from  the  daggers 
of  the  assassins,  to  which  his  feeble  hands  offered 
but  a  powerless  resistance.  Bleeding  and  despe¬ 
rate,  Gasto  Leyran  rushed  into  the  bedroom  of 
the  Queen  of  Navarre,  making  her  his  shield 
against  four  villains  who  threatened  to  murder 
him.  The  queen  fled  to  her  sister,  the  Duchess 
of  Lorraine ;  at  the  door,  a  nobleman  was  cut 
down  by  her  side  ;  she  tumbled  fainting  into  the 
room,  and  woke  with  a  feeling  of  terror  at  the 
fate  which  might  have  befallen  her  own  husband 
during  this  bloody  marriage-feast. 

At  the  dawn  of  day,  Henry,  and  his  cousin,  the 
Prince  Conde,  had  been  summoned  to  appear  be¬ 
fore  the  king,  who  told  them  that  they  must  re¬ 
gard  it  as  an  excess  of  his  mercy,  if  their  lives 
had  been  spared.  But  with  a  savage  mien  he 
required  them  to  abjure  the  reformed  religion, 
and  to  prove  by  this  conversion  that  they  had 
been  misled  by  others.  They  had  been  led 
through  the  midst  of  the  guards,  who  were  ready 
to  assassinate  them.  la  the  king’s  own  apart¬ 
ments,  they  might  have  heard  the  groans  of  their 
own  people,  who,  having  been  driven  out  of  the 
palace  among  the  guards,  were  cut  down  by 
these  vile  bandits.  The  princes  returning  a 
dubious  answer  to  the  king,  he  shouted  to  them 
with  an  oath,  that  within  the  next  three  days 
they  would  have  to  choose  between  the  mass 
or  the  Bastile.  The  only  result  which  he  indeed 
obtained  from  these  cruelties,  was,  that  Henry 
and  his  sister  submitted  to  an  apparent  conver¬ 
sion  to  Catholicism,  and  that  the  Prince  Conde 
followed  their  example  after  some  resistance. 

Intoxicated  by  the  success  of  this  night  of  mur¬ 
ders,  which  had  been  spent  between  apprehensions 
and  rage,  Charles’  passionate  temper  now  lost  all 
bounds.  The  murdering  was  continued  for  three 
days,  as  long  as  a  victim  of  the  bloody  revenge 
could  be  started  up  any  where.  Surrounded  by 
his  courtiers,  the  king  marched  through  the  streets 
of  the  city  in  the  midst  of  blood,  ruins  and  corpses. 
Coligny’s  body,  cut  to  pieces  and  abused  in  every 
shape  and  manner,  had  finally  been  suspended 
from  the  gallows  at  Moutfaucon.  Even  to  this 


place  the  king  repaired  in  order  to  feast  on  the 
disgraced  remains  of  one  who,  a  few  days  previous, 
had  inspired  him  with  respect.  He  repeated  Yi- 
tellius’  sneer,  that  the  body  of  an  enemy  had 
always  a  pleasant  smell.  His  political  acts  were 
still  more  indiscreet  and  contemptible. 

Although  his  complicity  in  the  perpetration  of 
this  crime  was  evident,  yet  he  defied  all  evidence 
so  far  as  to  assert  in  his  letters  to  the  governors 
of  provinces  and  to  foreign  courts,  that  he  was 
innocent  of  it;  and,  that  he  imputed  the  whole 
blame  to  the  personal  insolence  of  the  Guises,  and 
the  Chatillons.  Yet,  on  the  third  day  after  the 
carnage,  in  a  solemn  sitting  of  the  parliament,  he 
accused  the  murdered  admiral  of  the  most  villain¬ 
ous  treason  against  the  throne  and  state ;  he 
caused  his  memory  to  be  branded  with  the  most 
infamous  punishments  decreed  against  those  con¬ 
victed  of  i&se-majest6  ;  and  he  justified  the  de¬ 
struction  of  the  Huguenots  as  a  merited  punish¬ 
ment  which  he  himself  had  ordered  and  inflicted. 
To  this  extent  he  had  now  become  the  impotent 
play-ball  of  his  mother’s  intrigues.  At  the  com¬ 
mencement,  when  she  first  broached  the  crime  to 
him,  he  was  made  to  believe  that  the  blow  was  to 
be  struck  at  the  Guises  ;  and,  that  he  himself 
would  reap  the  benefit  of  the  deed,  freedom  from 
danger  and  apprehension.  But  as  soon  as  a  new 
party,  that  of  the  Montmorency’s  sprung  up  after 
the  carnage,  in  order  to  demand  vengeance  for 
the  blood  of  Coligny  and  his  friends,  which  the 
Guises  had  spilt,  Charles  was  compelled  to  declare 
his  participation  in  the  murder,  or  else  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  feeble,  insignificant  occupant  of 
the  throne,  beneath  whose  eyes  any  body  might 
indulge  in  any  act  of  villainy  he  pleased.  In 
order  to  appear  that  which  he  neither  was  nor 
ever  could  be,  he  plead  guilty  to  monstrosities 
which  he  really  blushed  at  having  committed,  and 
which  his  own  cunning  and  wickedness  would 
never  have  been  sufficient  to  contrive.  In  order 
not  to  seem  weak,  he  was  sufficiently  so  to  allow 
others  to  use  him  as  a  vail  for  their  misdeeds,  and 
to  become,  for  their  sakes,  the  object  of  that  pro¬ 
found  contempt  with  which  the  king,  under  whose 
government  the  night  of  St.  Bartholomew  had 
been  so  horribly  desecrated,  must  inexorably  be 
visited  by  his  own  subjects,  by  foreign  countries, 
and  by  posterity.  And  as  a  compensation  for 
this  undying  infamy,  he  had  not  even  for  one  mo¬ 
ment  attained  the  end  which  the  authors  of  this 
disaster  had  persuaded  him  to  hope  for. 

It  is  a  real  satisfaction  to  read  on  the  page  ol 
history,  that  even  the  most  daring  acts  of  vice, 
planned  with  so  much  cunning,  achieved  by  the 
most  licentious  fury,  and  protected  by  the  fearful 
rampart  of  the  throne  against  all  responsibility 
before  human  tribunals,  nevertheless,  fail  of  their 
object,  very  often  lead  to  the  most  opposite  re¬ 
sults,  and  prepare  for  the  authors  of  the  crime, 
nothing  but  despair  at  the  failure  of  the  attempt, 
and  the  gnawing  reproaches  of  their  inner  judge. 

The  chiefs  of  the  victorious  party,  indeed, 
spared  neither  cunning  nor  force,  in  order  to  se¬ 
cure  the  fruit  of  their  misdeeds,  the  regret  at  which 
had  been  stifled  by  their  success,  this  false  touch-, 
stone  of  the  good  or  bad  quality  of  an  act. 

A  few  individuals  of  the  persecuted  party  were 


DISTURBANCES  IN  FRANCE. 


425 


tried  by  the  ordinary  tribunals.  Such  trials  merely 
resulted  in  judicial  murder.  The  memory  of  the 
admiral  was  branded  by  a  decree  of  the  courts  as 
a  traitor  and  assassin  of  the  king,  which  was  exe¬ 
cuted  in  the  chief  cities  of  the  kingdom,  with  the 
most  insulting  formalities.  His  coat  of  arms  was 
broken  in  pieces  by  the  executioner;  his  children 
were  despoiled  of  their  estates  and  of  the  right  to 
hold  office  ;  his  castle  was  given  over  to  destruc¬ 
tion  in  perpetual  commemoration  of  his  igno¬ 
minious  condemnation.  In  all  France,  the  Hugue¬ 
nots  were  persecuted  as  the  accomplices  of  these 
crimes.  But  nothing  could  prevent  opposite  ef¬ 
fects  from  resulting  from  the  misdeeds  of  the  court. 
What  the  parliament  of  Paris,  whose  president  De 
Thou,  with  a  stifled  groan  heard  the  king  accusing 
the  murdered  Coligny,  dared  not  do  in  the  prox¬ 
imity  of  the  throne,  was  done  by  a  few  brave 
governors  of  the  provinces.  One  of  them,  Count 
Orthe,  who  commanded  at  Bayonne,  wrote  to  the 
king  in  reply  to  his  murderous  commands  ;  “that 
his  subordinates  were  good  citizens  and  brave 
soldiers,  but,  that  there  was  not  a  single  execu¬ 
tioner  among  them.”  Others,  among  whom  a 
bishop  is  mentioned,  did  not  permit  the  orders  to 
be  executed.  Some  of  these  defenders  of  inno¬ 
cence  died  so  suddenly,  that  it  is  supposed  they 
were  poisoned.  In  some  parts  of  France,  espe¬ 
cially  in  Dauphiife,  Provence,  Bourgogne  and 
Auvergne,  the  Protestants  were  not  molested. 
Some  of  the  chiefs  had  not  been  in  Paris,  others 
had  effected  their  escape.  Many  of  them  sought 
help  at  foreign  courts,  especially  among  the  Ger¬ 
mans,  where  Catholics,  as  well  as  Protestants,  by 
their  utter  detestation  of  the  Paris  villains,  in¬ 
flamed  the  spirit  of  revenge  among  the  Pro¬ 
testants  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  offered  them  protection 
and  sympathy.  Those  who  had  remained  behind 
in  France,  soon  conceived  new  hopes,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  a  few  advantages  which  they  obtained 
over  the  Catholics.  If  a  danger  has  reached  its 
acme,  it  intensifies  the  opposing  forces  as  soon  as 
the  first  consternation  is  over. 

At  Rome,  the  servants  of  the  Holy  See  enjoyed 
a  premature  celebration  of  their  victory  over  the 
French  heretics,  by  masses  and  the  firing  of  cannon. 
With  an  unparalleled  frivolity,  the  court  of  Paris 
deemed  it  proper  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the 
carnage  of  St.  Bartholomew  by  a  yearly  celebration 
of  the  day.  With  bloody  revenge  the  Protestants 
again  made  their  appearance  upon  the  scene.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  Sully,  seventy  thousand  Calvinists  hac 
been  murdered  in  France,  in  the  space  of  eight  days. 
He  who  is  not  exterminated  by  such  a  succession 
of  destructive  events,  soon  deems  himself  uncon¬ 
querable.  No  later  than  the  28th  of  October,  the 
king,  moved  by  fear,  or  by  renewed  cunning,  dic¬ 
tated  an  order  granting  to  them  everywhere  pro¬ 
tection,  and  the  restoration  of  their  property. 

Artful  cunning  and  prudence,  how  dissimilar, 
although  apparently  affiliated!  Whilst  prudence 
6eeks  to  reach  its  end  upon  paths  that  are  pro¬ 
tected  by  honesty,  the  former  crawls  on  her  deceit¬ 
ful  ways  toward  objects  which  it  never  reaches,  or 
reaches  only  for  its  own  shame.  What  else  coulc 
the  wavering  of  the  court  from  cruelty  to  for¬ 
bearance  lead  to  than  to  excite  suspicion  against 
continued  intrigues  on  the  part  of  the  court,  and 


;o  expose  the  weakness  of  the  royal  party  in  a 
more  glowing  light  ?  For  the  king  had  taken  sides 
with  this  party.  The  throne  loses  its  powerful 
ascendency,  if  the  king  suffers  himself  to  be  en¬ 
tangled  by  one  party  in  its  contentions  with  its 
opponents.  As  long  as  he  occupies  the  throne, 
joth  parties  respect  him.  If  he  sides  with  either, 
he  other  party  sees  the  seat  of  justice  vacant. 
Whatever  is  undertaken  against  it,  now  looks  like 
persecution,  and  is  no  longer  attended  with  the 
mysterious  impression  which  otherwise  causes  the 
penalties  inflicted  by  the  guardians  of  the  law, 

;o  subdue  instead  of  irritating  the  passions. 

Whilst  the  Protestants,  favored  by  the  incon¬ 
sistencies  which  taint  the  character  of  despotism 
at  all  times,  flocked  together  again  in  their  forti¬ 
fied  towns,  they  found  themselves  most  unexpect¬ 
edly  supported  by  a  new  party,  that  must  have  ap¬ 
peared  much  more  formidable  to  the  court.  This 
party  existed  at  the  court  itself.  The  oppressed 
derive  an  unexpected  joy  from  sympathy  with  the 
wrongs  they  have  endured.  Not  a  few  of  the  chief 
Catholics  became  more  favorably  disposed  toward 
the  Huguenots,  the  more  deeply  the  sentiment  of 
probity  was  wounded  in  the  hearts  of  the  former 
by  the  artful  conduct  of  the  court.  Even  in 
Charles’  third  brother,  the  Duke  of  Alenqon,  the 
mental  superiority  of  the  admiral  had  left  an  inde¬ 
lible  impression. 

Others,  whose  rank  and  position  rendered  them 
indifferent  to  religious  feuds,  became  apprehen¬ 
sive  of  the  schemes  which  the  insidious  Catharine 
and  the  vehement  Charles  might  concoct  against 
any  one  who  happened  to  be  in  their  way.  Who 
could  have  persuaded  the  powerful  family  of  the 
Montmorencys,  who  were  related  to  the  Colignys, 
that  they  were  not  likewise  threatened  with  the 
fate  of  their  relatives,  and  that  the  accidental 
circumstance  of  religious  fellowship  would  prove 
a  sufficient  barrier  against  the  murderous  designs 
of  the  court?  They  saw  very  plainly  that  they 
shared  with  their  murdered  relative  the  jealousy 
of  the  queen-mother  at  every  influence  which 
might  threaten  to  counterbalance  her  own. 

Moreover  not  all  who,  from  some  cause  or 
other,  were  dissatisfied  with  the  dominant  party 
at  court;  who  had  to  dread  or  to  extort  some¬ 
thing  from  it,  were  disposed,  to  see  the  enemies 
of  the  court  extinguished  by  the  extermination 
of  the  Huguenots,  certainly  not  as  long  as  their 
own  interests  were  favored  by  the  preservation  of 
this  party. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  in  a  warlike  enterprise,  the 
internal  weakness  of  the  court  was  seen  in 
shameful  contrast  with  the  unexpected  internal 
strength  of  the  small  band  of  Protestants.  The 
fortified  maritime  town  Rochelle  was  looked  upon 
as  the  last  asylum  of  the  Protestant  party.  The 
Protestants  themselves  held  this  opinion.  They 
defended  the  place  as  their  palladium  against  a 
formidable  army  which  Catharine  had  sent  against 
it  with  her  son  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  under  the  im¬ 
mediate  command  of  Marshal  Biron,  in  order  to 
complete  on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  upon  the 
ruins  of  Protestantism,  the  tragic  work  com¬ 
menced  in  the  night  of  the  24th  of  August.  The 
town  was  defended  only  by  fifteen  hundred  sol¬ 
diers  and  two  thousand  armed  citizens.  But  all 


426 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


became  warriors,  even  children  and  women.  Mont¬ 
gomery  brought  some  little  aid  from  England, 
but  their  own  resources  proved  inexhaustible. 
They  fought  for  five  months,  not  only  for  them¬ 
selves,  for  they  were  cajoled  with  the  promises  of 
liberty  of  conscience  and  civil  rights  ;  they  would 
not  listen  to  these  terms  as  long  as  their  co-reli¬ 
gionists  were  not  included  in  the  enjoyment  of 
all  the  fruits  of  their  own  bravery. 

One  of  the  most  curious  circumstances  of  this 
war  was  the  manner  in  which  the  command  of  the 
city  devolved  upon  De  la  Noue.  This  general,  who 
was  a  Calvinist,  and  who  shortly  before  Coligny’s 
assassination,  had  made  the  first,  but  unsuccess¬ 
ful  attempt,  to  transfer  the  war  to  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  was  obliged  by  the  king  to  go  over  to  the 
citizens  of  Rochelle,  in  order  that  he  might  win 
their  entire  confidence,  and  persuade  them  to  sur¬ 
render.  They  were  informed  of  this  arrangement, 
in  spite  of  which  they  accepted  him  on  condition 
that  he  would  be  their  leader.  He  fulfilled  his 
duty  as  a  general  with  the  same  scrupulousness 
as  his  duty  to  the  country,  advising  submission 
after  every  sally,  from  which  the  soldiers  of  Ro¬ 
chelle  returned  as  conquerors.  They  did  not 
listen  to  his  advice  as  pacificator.  But  it  is  an 
honor  to  the  Protestants  to  have  possessed  a  man 
who  held  such  a  firm  position  between  a  flattering 
court  and  a  restless,  religious  party,  that  both 
these  parties  had  to  respect  him,  because  neither 
was  able  to  cause  him  to  swerve  from  the  straight 
line  of  his  conviction. 

The  greatest  advantage  for  the  besieged  con¬ 
sisted  in  the  force  that  was  sent  against  them, 
having  been  estimated  by  its  numbers,  not  by  its 
capacity.  Whilst  all  were  accepted  whom  the 
court  could  possibly  drum  up  in  the  shape  of  false 
friends  or  feeble  and  effeminate  sensualists,  the 
armaments  had  been  proceeding  so  slowly  that  the 
citizens  of  Rochelle  were  allowed  time  to  accumu¬ 
late  every  species  of  stores  in  the  magazines  of 
their  city.  On  the  other  hand  the  many  useless 
camp-followers  among  the  besiegers  were  their 
greatest  enemies,  and  their  apparent  chief,  the 
hated  Duke  of  Anjou,  was  the  cause  of  the  continu¬ 
ation  of  this  pernicious  struggle.  As  on  all  other 
occasions,  so  was  he  here  tormented  by  the  fanati¬ 
cal  and  unreasoning  pride  not  to  give  up  an  en¬ 
terprise  which  he  had  once  commenced.  Yet 
this  passion  did  not  stimulate  him  to  combine  all 
possible  means  of  success.  The  army  became 
like  him.  The  many  assaults  which  had  been 
conducted  without  plan  and  in  disorder,  had 
thinned  his  ranks  quite  considerably.  Sickness 
caused  still  greater  losses  during  such  a  long  en¬ 
campment  ;  and  in  order  to  multiply  evils,  every 
malcontent  in  the  court-party,  built  up  for  him¬ 
self  his  own  little  party  in  the  midst  of  this  army 
where  they  all  had  congregated.  It  was  perhaps 
the  unbridled  impatience  of  youth  which  led  the 
younger  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  the  Duke  of 
Alenfon,  to  rash,  but  unsuccessful  designs  against 
the  court.  But  his  premature  desire  to  play  the 
part  of  a  malcontent,  could  be  of  no  advantage 
to  the  court.  A  restless  ambition  without  aim, 
never  ceases  to  stir  up  the  minds,  were  it  for  no 
better  purpose  than  to  conceal  from  itself  and  i 


others  the  painful  reality  of  its  objectless  un¬ 
easiness. 

Hardly  had  the  Duke  of  Anjou  obtained  a  plau¬ 
sible  pretext,  by  his  election  as  King  of  Poland,  for 
abandoning  the  siege  of  Rochelle  after  making  terms 
with  its  citizens,  on  the  sixth  of  July,  1573;  hardly 
had  he  left  his  mother’s  arms,  who  bade  him  fare¬ 
well  with  a  significant  look  at  Charles’  failing 
health,  in  order  to  take  possession  of  a  crown  that 
had  been  for  centuries  the  plaything  of  foreigners  ; 
hardly  seemed  the  last  stronghold  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  to  have  been  conquered  by  the  memorable  de¬ 
struction  of  the  little  fortress  of  Sancerre,  which 
vied  with  Rochelle  in  bravery,  but  whose  external 
circumstances  were  not  equally  favored  by  for¬ 
tune  :  when  internal  disturbances  broke  out  again 
not  only  in  the  provinces,  but  likewise  at  the  court, 
and  even  in  the  king’s  own  family. 

Charles  was  to  end  in  a  frightful  manner.  Prom 
the  moment  when  he  plunged  into  the  murderous 
abyss  of  the  night  of  St.  Bartholomew,  he  never 
again  became  what  he  might. have  been.  As  he  had 
lacked  the  firmness  of  keeping  aloof  from  that  de¬ 
gradation  of  the  man  and  king,  so  he  now,  after 
the  deed  was  done,  lacked  the  levity  and  depravity 
which  might  have  enabled  him  to  stifle  the  con¬ 
demnation  of  his  conscience  by  some  slippery 
pretext,  or  to  oppose  it  with  the  brazen  brow  of 
shamelessness.  The  superstition  of  his  age,  to 
which  he  had  slaughtered  so  many  victims,  was 
its  own  punishment.  When  alone,  he  fancied  him¬ 
self  pursued  by  the  spirits  of  the  slain.  Bloody 
figures  deprived  him  of  sleep,  and  tormented  him 
with  the  terrors  of  hell.  With  his  usual  vehe¬ 
mence  of  passion  he  plunged  into  the  whirlpool 
of  sensual  excitement,  but  the  exhaustion  con¬ 
sequent  upon  his  excesses  soon  again  delivered 
him  to  the  tortures  of  his  anguished  soul.  He 
tried  to  blunt  his  sensibility  by  new  cruelties  ;  but 
he  was  too  young,  and  was  naturally  too  good- 
natured  to  obtain  this  execrable  comfort  of  hard¬ 
ened  villains.  Catharine  hushed  her  own  scruples 
by  persuading  herself  that  she  was  only  account¬ 
able  for  four  or  six  of  the  assassinations  of  St. 
Bartholomew.  This  was  the  number  that  she 
had  upon  her  own  list.  And  her  confessor*  had 
no  difficulty  to  give  her  absolution  from  this  sin 
by  applying  to  the  horrid  crime  the  Machiavelian 
designation  of  “  coup  d’etat.” 

In  the  mind  of  Charles,  his  internal  tortures 
could  only  be  hushed  for  the  few  moments  that  he 
glanced  at  the  surrounding  circumst  ances  ;  at  such 
periods  the  inner  voice  was  stifled  by  the  sight  of 
the  dangers  that  threatened  him  by  their  imme¬ 
diate  presence.  He  was  acquainted  with  the 
temperament  of  his  second  brother  who  is  known 
in  history  by  the  name  of  Henry  III.  His  cha- 
racter  is  delineated  with  sufficient  clearness,  if  we 
simply  state  that  the  authoress  of  the  August- 
carnage  preferred  him  to  all  her  other  sons.  This 
mother  was  likewise  acquainted  with  Charles’  own 
disposition.  She  had  led  him  to  the  brink  of  that 
precipice,  the  terrors  of  which  he  now  beheld  with 
a  melancholy  shudder.  He  now  had  to  submit 

*  Gab.  Nande,  in  his  “  Considerations  Politiques  nur  lea 
coups  d'etat ,  chap,  iii,”  regrets  that  this-coup  d’etat  had 
i  only  been  half  executed. 


DUKE  OF  ALYA. 


427 


further  to  her  direction,  whithersoever  it  might 
tend.  Or  else,  was  he  ignorant  of  the  suspicion 
she  had  incurred,  of  having  availed  herself  of 
her  skill  as  a  poisoner  for  the  purpose  of  destroy¬ 
ing  certain  offensive  members  of  the  royal  family  v 
He  himself  had  been  the  blind  instrument  of  her 
love  of  dominion  on  so  many  occasions  that  he 
had  to  tremble  at  his  own  mother’s  wrath,  if  he 
should  have  dared  to  resist  her  suggestions  with 
the  Duke  of  Anjou  in  her  arms. 

Destiny  seemed  to  take  pity  on  him,  when  the  duke 
left  in  1573,  for  Poland,  to  assume  the  crown  of  this 
kingdom.  Yery  probably  the  queen-mother  is 
unnecessarily  accused  by  many  authors  of  the 
heartlessness  of  not  having  suffered  her  second 
son  to  depart  before  she  had  obtained  the  con¬ 
viction  that  Charles  would  soon  depart  this  life. 
It  is  true,  Charles  was  the  victim  of  disease.  But 
the  young  man  had  abandoned  himself  upon  the 
throne  to  the  excesses  of  an  excitable  sensuality, 
with  such  a  frenzy  that  it  seems  hardly  necessary 
to  call  into  account  the  consuming  agony  of  his 
later  years,  in  order  to  account  for  the  fact  that 
his  reckless  licentiousness  wasted  his  vital  energies 
and  finally  plunged  him  into  a  premature  grave, 
even  before  he  had  completed  his  twenty-fifth 
year.  The  appearance  of  Charles  was  a  sure 
proof  that  Catharine  might  safely  take  leave  of  her 
favorite  son  with  the  words  ;  “  Go,  my  son,  you  will 
not  be  gone  long.” 

Charles’  condition  was  not  improved  by  this 
relief  from  anxiety.  The  more  dimly  his  prospect 
was  pictured  to  him  by  his  sickly  condition  from 
day  to  day  ;  the  more  inaccessible  he  became  from 
day  to  day  to  the  gentle  influences  of  sympathy  ; 
the  more  the  real  causes  for  sudden  transitions 
from  wild  freaks  of  temper  to  depression  of  spirits 
accumulated  around  him. 

Catharine  seemed  determined  to  indemnify  her¬ 
self  for  the  absence  of  her  second  son  by  gratify¬ 
ing  her  lust  of  dominion.  Even  if  Charles  be¬ 
haved  savagely  toward  her  at  times,  she  crushed 
him  in  return  by  all  the  anxiety  which  the  true 
or  fancied  condition  of  things,  and  a  cunningly- 
devised  description  of  the  worst  possible  designs 
against  him  could  suggest  and  justify,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  which  he  would  allow  her  so  much 
more  willingly  to  grasp  his  sceptre  for  his  own 
safety.  The  only  strength  he  had  left  was  to  see 
himself  surrounded  by  her  intrigues,  and  to  feel 
the  hatred  she  drew  upon  his  name  by  planning 
assassinations,  breaking  pledges,  and  exasperating 
all  against  each  other  ;  he  had  to  bear  the  re¬ 
sponsibility  of  such  misdeeds. 

In  his  third  brother,  the  mania  of  making  him¬ 
self  appear  important,  of  which  he  had  already  fur¬ 
nished  evidences  before  Rochelle,  broke  out  afresh. 
For  some  time  he  amused  himself  with  arranging 
and  divulging  plans  for  his  escape  from  the  capi¬ 
tal.  He  seemed  desirous  of  escaping  in  order 
that  others  might  learn  to  measure  his  importance 
by  the  efforts  that  would  be  made  to  find  out  his 
whereabouts  and  to  bring  him  back  again. 
Behind  the  indiscretion  of  his  youth,  other  more 
experienced  mischief-maker’s  hid  their  plans. 
Under  cover  of  the  princes’  name,  a  party  of 
malcontents  sprung  up  at  the  court  which  was 
designated  “  the  'politicians in  contradistinction 


from  the  religious  party  of  the  Protestants.  In 
reality  this  appellation  was  not  merited,  for  their 
policy  was  only  useful  to  their  adversaries.  As 
long  as  the  Protestants  were  co-operating  with 
them,  Catharine  found  it  much  easier  to  defeat 
their  machinations  than  she  formerly  had  done. 
If  the  interests  of  the  Duke  of  Alenqon  had  not 
been  so  diametrically  opposed  to  the  designs  of  his 
second  brother  upon  the  throne  of  France,  and  to 
the  queen-mother,  it  might  be  supposed  with  a 
show  of  probability,  that  the  duke  acted  as  his 
mother’s  spy  among  the  malcontents,  rather  than 
as  her  adversary  ;  with  the  most  incomprehensible 
levity  he  made  the  most  reckless  revelations,  sac¬ 
rificing  to  this  woman’s  vengeance,  who  had  again 
become  the  regent  of  France,  all  those  who  had 
plotted  with  him  against  the  court.  Whenever 
she  wished  to  frighten  her  intractable  and  unhappy 
ward,  she  pictured  to  him  the  conspiracies  of  his 
third  brother  in  such  glaring  colors  that  the 
whole  court  had  to  run  to  Paris  in  their  night¬ 
clothes,  and  the  sick  Charles  imagined  he  would 
have  to  flee  before  his  brother  even  at  the  hour  of 
midnight.  “They  might  have  waited  until  I  am 
dead  !”  sighed  the  young  man  who  was  tired  of 
life,  and  was  driven  about  by  furies  without  and 
within. 

He  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  his  army 
was  marchidg  against  his  more  cherished  bro¬ 
ther,  who  had  finally  escaped  together  with  the 
Prince  Conde  and  the  King  of  Navarre,  from  the 
court  bondage  in  which  the  latter  especially  had 
been  held  captive. 

He  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  leave  his  sceptre  in  other 
hands  than  those  of  his  mother,  who  would  trans¬ 
mit  it  to  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  whom  she  had  so 
cunningly  and  cheerfully  dispatched  to  Poland. 
He  saw  the  Protestants  again  appear  in  the 
field,  who  proved  to  him,  by  their  reunion  with  all 
the  other  malcontents  of  the  kingdom,  that  hence¬ 
forth  discord  would  spit  out  her  flames  over  the 
soil  of  France  from  the  double  crater  of  political 
and  religious  discontent,  and  that  the  murders  he 
had  committed  in  the  night  of  the  24th  of 
August  were  as  fruitless  as  they  had  been  exe¬ 
crable.  He  lived  long  enough  to  die  with  the 
consoling  reflection  that  he  did  not  leave  behind 
him  a  son  who  would  inherit  from  him  the  weight 
of  his  crown. 

Note. — This  subject  which  Schiller  was  unablo  to  con¬ 
tinue  on  account  of  his  sickness,  was  completed  by  Profes¬ 
sor  Paulus  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  publication  of  some 
portions  of  this  collection,  in  the  ninth  volume  of  the 
second  division  of  the  Historical  Memoirs. 


THE  DUKE  OF  ALYA. 

AT  A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  CASTLE  OF  RUDOL- 
STADT,  IN  THE  YEAR  1547.* 

In  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  old  chronicle 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  (Res  in  Ecclesia  et  Po- 
litica  Christiana  gestae,  ab  anno  1500,  ad  an. 
1600.  Aut.  J.  Sceffing,  Th.  D.  Rudolst.  1676,)  I 

*  This  article  was  published  in  the  German  Mercury 
of  the  year  1788. 


423 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


met  with  the  following  anecdote  which  deserves, 
for  more  reasons  than  one,  to  be  transmitted  to 
posterity.  This  anecdote  is  likewise  related  in  a 
memoir,  entitled :  Mausolea  manibus  Metzelii 
posita  a  Fr.  Melch.  Dedekindo,  1738  ;  it  may 
likewise  be  read  in  Spannenberg’s  Adelspiegel, 
Part  I,  vol.  xiii.,  p.  445. 

It  was  a  German  lady,  belonging  to  a  house 
that  had  on  former  occasions  shone  by  its  he¬ 
roism,  and  had  given  one  emperor  to  Germany, 
whose  determined  conduct  almost  caused  the 
terrible  Duke  of  Alva  to  tremble.  In  1547,  when 
the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  after  the  battle  of 
Miihlberg,  passed  through  Thuringia,  on  his 
march  to  Franconia  and  Swabia,  the  countess 
dowager,  Catharine  of  Schwarzburg.  born  prin¬ 
cess  of  Henneberg,  obtained  a  written  pledge 
from  the  emperor,  that  her  subjects  wrere  not  to 
be  molested  by  the  Spanish  troops.  In  return 
she  bound  herself  to  have  bread,  beer,  and  other 
articles  of  food  transported  to  the  Saal-bridge, 
which  would  be  sold  at  moderate  prices,  and  would 
furnish  subsistence  to  the  Spanish  troops  that 
were  to  cross  the  Saale  at  this  point.  At  the 
same  time  she  took  care  to  have  the  bridge  which 
was  near  the  city,  removed  to  a  point  further  off, 
lest  her  rapacious  guests  should  be  tempted  by 
the  neighborhood  of  the  city  to  steal  and  plunder. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  villages  through  which  the 
army  was  to  pass,  were  permitted  to  deposit 
their  most  valuable  goods  in  the  castle  for  safe¬ 
keeping. 

In  the  mean  while  the  Spanish  general,  accom¬ 
panied  by  the  Duke  of  Brunswick  and  his  sons, 
approached  the  city,  and  invited  himself  to  break¬ 
fast  at  the  Countess  of  Schwarzburg’s  by  a  cou¬ 
rier  who  had  been  dispatched  in  advance.  Such 
a  modest  request  from  the  commander  of  an  army, 
could  not  well  be  refused.  She  replied  that  she 
would  give  what  was  in  her  power ;  the  duke 
would  meet  with  a  cordial  welcome.  At  the  same 
time  she  again  mentioned  the  emperor’s  written 
pledge,  and  begged  the  Spanish  general  to  have 
it  conscientiously  adhered  to. 

A  kind  welcome  and  a  well-furnished  table 
awaited  the  duke  at  the  castle.  He  admits  that 
the  Thuringian  ladies  keep  an  excellent  table  and 
do  justice  to  the  duties  of  hospitality.  Scarcely 
have  the  company  sat  down  to  breakfast,  when 
the  countess  is  called  out  by  a  messenger.  She 
is  told  that  in  some  of  her  villages  the  Spanish 
soldiers  have  driven  off  the  cattle.  Catharine  was 
a  mother  of  her  people ;  what  was  done  to  the 
poorest  of  her  subjects,  was  done  to  herself.  In¬ 
dignant  at  this  faithless  conduct,  but  without 
losing  her  presence  of  mind,  she  orders  her  ser¬ 
vants  to  arm  themselves,  and  to  barricade  the 
gates  of  the  castle ;  after  this,  she  returns  to  the 
hall  where  the  princes  are  still  eating  their  break¬ 
fast.  She  informs  them  in  the  most  emphatic 
language  of  what  she  had  just  heard,  and  how  the 
emperor’s  pledge  had  been  violated.  She  is  told 
with  a  laugh  that  this  is  the  usage  of  war,  and 
that  such  little  mishaps  are  unavoidably  connected 
with  the  passage  of  troops.  “  This  we  shall  see,” 
she  replied  in  an  angry  tone.  “  My  poor  subjects 
must  have  their  property  restored,  or,  by  hea¬ 
ver  !”  raising  her  voice  in  a  tone  of  menace, 


“princes’  blood  foi  oxen’s  blood!”  W'th  this 
emphatic  declaration  she  left  the  hall,  which  waf 
filled  in  a  few  moments  with  armed  men,  who. 
sword  in  hand,  placed  themselves  behind  the  chairs 
of  the  princes  to  wait  on  the  company.  At  thu 
entrance  of  this  warlike  band,  Duke  Alva,  changed 
color  ;  the  princes  looked  at  each  other  in  silence 
and  confusion.  Cutoff  from  the  army,  surrounded 
by  a  superior  force  of  able-bodied  warriors,  what 
was  left  for  him  to  do  but  to  submit  in  patience 
to  any  terms  that  would  reconcile  the  offended 
hostess.  Henry  of  Brunswick,  was  the  first  to 
recover  his  self-possession,  and  broke  out  in  a 
loud  fit  of  laughter.  He  adopted  the  sensible 
plan  of  turning  the  whole  proceeding  into  ridicule, 
and  praised  the  countess  for  the  motherly  care  she 
evinced  for  her  subjects,  and  for  the  courage  with 
which  she  protected  their  interests.  He  begged 
her  to  be  quiet,  and  pledged  himself  that  he  would 
get  the  Duke  of  Alva  to  consent  to  any  thing  fair 
and  just.  He  induced  him  to  issue  an  order  to 
the  army,  commanding  the  immediate  restoration 
of  the  robbed  cattle.  As  soon  as  the  countess  had 
been  assured  of  the  restitution  of  her  subjects’ 
property,  she  thanked  her  guests  very  warmly  for 
their  kindness,  and  parted  with  them  with  mutual 
expressions  of  regard. 

It  was  undoubtedly  this  event  that  procured  for 
the  Countess,  Catharine  of  Schwarzburg,  the 
surname  of  the  Heroic.  History  lauds  her  perse¬ 
verance  in  promoting  the  reformation  in  her  do¬ 
minions,  which  had  already  been  introduced  by 
her  husband,  Count  Henry  XXXVII.  ;  in  abolish¬ 
ing  monkish  institutions,  and  promoting  the  edu¬ 
cation  of  the  people.  Many  Protestant  ministers 
who  had  to  endure  persecutions  for  religion’s  sake, 
were  accorded  protection  and  support  in  her  do¬ 
minions.  Among  them  was  a  certain  Caspar 
Aquila,  minister  at  Saalfeld,  who,  in  his  earner 
years,  had  accompanied  the  imperial  army  to  the 
Netherlands  in  the  capacity  of  chaplain,  and  who, 
because  he  refused  to  christen  a  cannon-ball,  had 
been  loaded  in  a  mortar,  in  order  to  be  blown  into 
the  air,  from  which  fate  he  fortunately  escaped, 
because  the  powder  would  not  ignite.  Now  his 
life  was  in  danger  a  second  time,  and  a  price  of 
five  thousand  florins  was  set  on  his  head,  because 
the  emperor,  whose  interim  he  had  denounced  from 
the  pulpit,  was  angry  at  him.  At  the  request  of 
the  Saalfeldians,  Catharine  had  him  secretly  re¬ 
moved  to  her  castle,  where  she  kept  him  concealed 
for  many  months,  and  took  care  of  him  with  the 
most  generous  devotion  to  humanity,  until  he 
again  dared  show  himself  without  danger  to  life. 
She  died  universally  esteemed  and  mourned,  in 
the  fifty-eighth  year  of  her  age,  and  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  her  reign.  Her  remains  are  deposited  in 
the  church  of  Rudolstadt. 


MEMORABLE  EVENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF 
MARSHAL  VIE1LLEVILLE. 

In  the  historical  works  containing  a  narration 
of  the  events  which  occurred  during  the  remark 
able  reigns  of  Francis  I.,  Henry  II.  and  of  his 
three  sons,  the  name  of  Marshal  Yieilleville  is  sel- 


MARSHAL  YIEILLEVILLE. 


42? 


dom  mentioned.  Nevertheless  he  took  an  import¬ 
ant  part  in  the  most  distinguished  events  of  that 
age,  and  he  deserves  a  place  by  the  side  of  its 
greatest  statesmen  and  generals.  The  only  au¬ 
thor  who  renders  justice  to  the  Marshal,  is  Bran- 
tome,  whose  testimony  is  so  much  more  weighty, 
as  both  he  and  the  Marshal  aimed  at  the  same 
end,  though  they  belonged  to  opposite  parties. 

Vieilleville  was  not  one  of  those  powerful  na¬ 
tures  which  break  down  obstacles  by  the  force  of 
their  genius  or  passions,  and  by  a  few  prominent 
undertakings  that  affect  the  general  course  of 
events,  compel  history  to  record  their  names  upon 
its  pages.  A  merit  like  his,  consists  in  avoiding 
the  6clat  which  is  sought  by  more  violent  agita¬ 
tors  of  events,  and  in  wooing  peace  with  every 
body  rather  than  in  exciting  admiration  or  envy. 
Yieilleville  was  a  courtier,  in  the  highest  and  wor¬ 
thiest  acceptation  of  this  term,  when  it  designates 
one  of  the  most  difficult  and  glorious  parts  on 
the  stage  of  human  actions.  In  his  attachment 
to  the  throne,  "whose  occupant  changed  three 
times  during  his  lifetime,  he  maintained  the  most 
persevering  uniformity  ;  throne  and  king  were  so 
completely  identified  in  his  own  mind,  that  his 
dutiful  devotion  to  the  actual  possessor  of  ma¬ 
jesty  partook  of  the  character  of  personal  at¬ 
tachment.  The  beautiful  •  picture  of  the  ancient 
French  nobility  and  knighthood  is  again  revived  by 
him  ;  he  seems  such  a  worthy  "epresentative  of 
the  class  to  which  he  belongs,  that  he  reconciles 
us  for  a  moment  with  the  abuses  of  the  aristo¬ 
cracy.  He  was  magnanimous,  magnificent,  disin¬ 
terested  even  unto  self-forgetfulness,  obliging  to 
all  men,  honorable,  faithful  to  his  word,  constant 
in  his  inclinations,  active  for  his  friends,  generous 
toward  his  enemies,  brave  like  a  hero,  rigid  in  his 
attachment  to  law/  and,  in  spite  of  his  liberal 
spirit,  terrible  and  inexorable  toward  the  enemies 
of  public  order.  He  understood  in  a  high  degree 
the  art  of  accommodating  himself  to  the  most 
opposite  characters  without  sacrificing  his  own  ; 
of  pleasing  the  ambitious  without  blindly  doing 
homage  to  his  passion  ;  of  being  agreeable  to  the 
vain  without  flattering  him.  He  never  had  to 
throw  away  his  personal  dignity  like  a  heartless 
and  brainless  courtier,  in  order  to  be  his  king’s 
friend,  but  with  a  strong  soul  and  a  praiseworthy 
self-denial  he  possessed  the  power  of  subjecting 
his  wishes  to  the  circumstances  in  which  he  wras 
placed.  By  such  means,  and  by  a  discretion 
which  never  forsook  him,  he  succeeded  at  a  period 
when  every  body  had  to  belong  to  a  party,  in  re¬ 
maining  free  from  party-obligations,  without  losing 
his  sphere  of  action,  and  in  living  on  friendly 
terms  with  men  whose  interests  were  clashing  ; 
by  such  means  he  succeeded  in  preserving  the 
favor  of  three  successive  kings  from  the  com¬ 
mencement  to  the  end  of  his  public  life.  It  is 
deserving  of  notice  that  he  died  at  the  moment 
when  Catharine  Medicis  visited  him  with  her 
court  at  his  castle  of  Durestal,  and  that  he  was 
thus  permitted  to  terminate  in  his  sovereign’s 
arms,  as  it  were,  a  life,  sixty  years  of  which  had 
been  devoted  to  the  public  service. 

This  very  character  accounts  for  the  fact  that 
history  does  not  mention  him  more  prominently. 
The  historians  of  his  age  had  taken  sides  either 


for  or  against  the  new  doctrine,  and  their  pen  was 
guided  by  a  lively  interest  for  their  respective  party- 
leaders.  A  man  like  Marshal  Yieilleville,  whose 
head  was  too  cold  for  fanaticism,  did  not  offer  any 
prominent  points,  either  for  praise  or  censure.  He 
belonged  to  the  moderate  party  whose  adherents 
were  nicknamed  politicians ,  and  who  have  always 
had  the  misfortune,  in  time  of  political  excite¬ 
ment,  of  displeasing  both  parties  for  the  simple 
reason  that  they  wish  to  conciliate  both.  In  all 
party-strife  he  stood  firmly  by  the  King;  neither 
the  party  of  Montmorency  and  the  Guises,  noi 
that  of  Conde  and  Coligny  could  boast  of  count¬ 
ing  him  among  its  adherents. 

Characters  of  this  stamp  never  meet  with  a 
proper  appreciation  in  history,  which  delights  in 
reporting  the  deeds  of  force,  rather  than  the 
quietly  successful  management  of  discretion,  and 
which  is  obliged  to  single  out  decisive  actions, 
rather  than  to  encompass  the  tranquil  develop¬ 
ment  of  a  whole  life.  On  the  other  hand,  a  biog¬ 
rapher  would  rather  select  Ulysses  than  Achilles 
for  his  hero. 

Not  till  two  hundred  years  after  his  death,  the 
Marshal  Yieilleville  was  to  have  justice  done  to 
his  memory.  In  the  archives  of  his  family  castle 
Durestal,  the  memoirs  of  his  life,  in  ten  books, 
were  found,  with  the  name  of  Carloix,  his  private 
secretary,  attached  to  them.  They  are  written  in 
the  laudatory  style  peculiar  to  Brantome,  and  to 
all  the  historians  of  this  period  ;  but  it  is  not  the 
rhetorical  tone  of  the  flatterer  who  is  anxious  to 
win  the  favor  of  a  patron,  but  the  language  of  a 
grateful  heart  pouring  forth  its  gratitude.  Al¬ 
though  the  part  which  inclination  has  in  this  effu¬ 
sion,  is  not  concealed,  yet  the  historical  truth  is 
easily  separated  from  the  praises  which  emanate 
from  his  grateful  heart.  In  the  year  1767,  these 
memoirs  were  published  for  the  first  time,  in  five 
volumes,  although  these  were  known  to  some,  and 
have  even  been  used,  at  an  earlier  period. 

Francis  Scepeaux,  proprietor  of  Yieilleville, 
was  the  son  of  Kenatus  Scepeaux,  proprietor  of 
Yieilleville,  and  of  Margaret  la  Jaille,  of  the 
house  Estouteville.  His  parents  were  rich,  were 
proud  of  the  honor  of  their  family,  and  set  an 
example  to  the  nobility  of  Anjou  and  Maine; 
their  house  was  one  of  the  most  respected,  and 
they  always  entertained  a  number  of  distinguished 
guests.  At  an  early  age,  Francis  Yieilleville  was 
received  as  a  page,  at  the  court  of  the  mother  of 
Francis  I.,  who  was  then  the  regent  of  France, 
and  a  born  princess  of  Savoy.  An  accident  with 
which  he  met  at  her  court,  drove  him  away,  after 
a  stay  of  four  years.  On  his  way  to  the  queen’s 
table,  where  the  youth  had  to  be  in  attendance  on 
her  person,  a  nobleman  had  boxed  his  ears. 
After  dinner,  the  page  managed  to  slip  away 
from  his  governor,  repaired  to  the  nobleman,  who 
was  first  master  of  the  royal  kitchen,  and  pierced 
him  with  his  sword,  after  having  first  demanded 
satisfaction  for  the  insult.  He  was  only  eighteen 
years  old  when  this  accident  happened.  Upon 
hearing  of  this  act,  which  the  grandees  of  the 
court,  and  the  king  himself,  did  not  altogether 
disapprove  of,  because  the  officers  of  the  house¬ 
hold  had  not  the  right  to  abuse  pages,  the  king 
sent  for  Yieilleville,  in  order  to  recommend  him 


480 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


to  the  regent’s  favor,  and  obtain  forgiveness  for 
his  deed.  But  Vieilleville  had  already  fled  from 
court  to  his  father’s  residence,  the  castle  of  Du- 
restal,  of  whom  he  expected  the  means  of  under¬ 
taking  a  journey  to  Naples,  whither,  according  to 
report,  a  fine  army  was  to  march,  under  the  or¬ 
ders  of  Sir  Lautrec.  After  having  arranged 
every  thing,  and  having  associated  with  himself 
twenty-five  young  noblemen  from  Anjou  and  Bre¬ 
tagne — for  he  was  anxious  to  make  his  appear¬ 
ance  with  becoming  respectability,  and  in  a  man¬ 
ner  conformable  to  his  rank, — he  presented  himself 
at  Ohambery,  before  Sir  Lautrec,  who  received 
him  very  kindly  as  his  relative,  and  called  him  to 
his  standard.  Vieilleville  distinguished  himself 
on  every  occasion,  and  risked  his  life  at  the  tak¬ 
ing  of  Pavia,  on  which  occasion,  the  French,  re¬ 
membering  the  battle  which  they  here  lost  five 
years  ago,  and  where  their  king  was  taken  pri¬ 
soner,  committed  a  great  many  excesses,  which 
Vieilleville,  at  the  head  of  two  hundred  men, 
sought  to  prevent  to  the  best  of  his  power. 
Shortly  after,  Vieilleville,  and  one  of  his  noble¬ 
men,  Cornillon,  who  had  vowed  never  to  leave 
him,  were  taken  prisoners  on  board  a  galliot,  by 
Sir  Monaco.  His  ransom  was  fixed  at  three 
thousand  crowns,  and  that  of  his  companion  at 
one  thousand.  He  was  permitted  to  go  home  for 
these  amounts,  with  the  proviso  that  his  com¬ 
panion  would  lmve  to  remain  in  chains  all  his  life, 
unless  Vieilleville  returned  before  a  certain  period. 

Vieilleville,  afraid  of  not  being  able  to  return 
in  season,  on  account  of  the  long  journey,  and 
of  the  time  required  for  collecting  the  money,  de¬ 
clined  this  proposition,  simply  begging  that  Lau¬ 
trec  might  be  informed  of  his  captivity.  This 
chief  sent  the  money  for  his  own  deliverance,  but 
not  sending  the  ransom  for  his  friend,  Vieilleville 
sent  the  whole  amount  back,  with  a  request  that 
his  father  might  be  applied  to  for  the  money.  He 
preferred  languishing  in  captivity  to  abandoning 
a  friend  whose  fate  he  had  promised  to  share. 
Monaco,  admiring  this  noble  conduct,  contented 
himself  with  the  sum  that  had  been  sent,  and  re¬ 
stored  both  to  freedom.  Shortly  after,  Vieille¬ 
ville  took  the  son  of  Monaco  prisoner,  whom  he 
sent. home  again  without  a  ransom. 

At  this  time  Vieilleville  renewed  his  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  the  nephew  of  the  great  Andrew  Doria, 
Philip  Doria,  who  had  been  page  in  the  king’s 
service  at  the  period  when  Vieilleville  himself  was 
attached  to  the  queen-regent  in  the  same  capacity. 
One  day  Vieilleville  paid  him  a  visit  on  board  his 
galleys,  eight  of  which  he  commanded  in  the  king’s 
service.  Doria  offering  Vieilleville  one  of  his 
galleys,  this  one  selected  the  “  Regent ,”  on  board 
of  which  he  was  at  once  installed  as  commander, 
amid  many  solemnities.  In  the  evening  he  re¬ 
turned  to  the  camp,  about  two  miles  from  the  an¬ 
chorage.  These  visits  were  continued  for  six  days, 
during  which  period,  all  the  first  officers  of  the 
army  were  hospitably  entertained. 

Moncade,  viceroy  of  Naples,  having  been  in¬ 
formed  of  these  nightly  visitings  of  the  officers 
and  soldiers  of  the  galleys  in  the  French  camp, 
caused  six  galleys  to  be  armed  for  the  purpose  of 
surprising  Doria.  This  one,  however,  having  got 
vent  of  the  intended  assault,  was  found  so  well 


prepared  that  the  viceroy  himself,  who  happened 
to  be  on  board  of  one  of  them,  was  killed,  two 
were  sunk  and  two  others  captured.  Vieilleville 
who  had  fought  so  bravely  on  board  the  Regent 
that  of  a  crew  of  fifty  men  only  twelve  had  re¬ 
mained  alive,  insisted  upon  attacking  one  of  the 
two  remaining  galleys  with  his  scanty  force. 
Whilst  he  was  fighting  on  the  deck  of  the  hostile 
galley,  the  sailors  of  the  Regent  unfastened  the 
grapple-irons,  and  set  sail  for  Naples,  to  which 
port  another  galley  had  already  sailed  during  the 
combat.  Vieilleville  having  lost  most  of  hi3 
soldiers,  had  to  surrender. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  first  Spanish  galley  in 
port,  the  Prince  of  Orange  caused  the  captain  and 
several  of  the  crew  to  be  hung.  The  captain  of 
the  galley  on  board  of  which  Vieilleville  was  a 
prisoner,  hearing  of  this,  was  afraid  of  running 
into  port.  Vieilleville,  profiting  by  the  captain’s 
want  of  decision,  persuaded  him  to  enter  the 
king’s  service.  The  captain  did  so,  and,  together 
with  the  whole  crew,  took  the  oath  of  allegiance 
to  the  king  of  France. 

Meanwhile,  Count  Doria  had  caused  the  sup¬ 
posed  dead  body  of  Vieilleville  to  be  sought  after 
among  the  numerous  bodies  that  were  floating  on 
the  water.  He  was  quite  disconsolate  at  his 
friend’s  sad  fate.  In  order  to  obtain  news  of  him, 
he  ordered  captain  Napoleon,  a  Corsican,  to  cruise 
with  the  Re  1  "'t,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Naples. 
They  had  no  sailed  far  when  they  met  a  galley 
which  seemeu  one  of  the  emperor’s ;  but  a  white 
flag  was  floating  from  the  mast-head.  Soon  after 
they  heard  music  and  the  crew  shouted  “  France  !” 
Vieilleville  at  once  recognized  the  Regent,  and 
the  joy  of  meeting  again  was  universal.  Another 
galley  that  had  been  sent  after  him  from  Naples, 
was  captured  by  Vieilleville  by  means  of  a  rq^e, 
and,  instead  of  being  a  prisoner,  he  returned  to 
the  army  in  possession  of  two  galleys.  On  his 
arrival,  his  friend  Doria  had  left  for  France  with 
two  galleys.  The  siege  of  Naples  which  Lautrec 
had  undertaken,  proceeding  very  slowly,  Vieilleville 
resigned  his  commission.  This  was  fortunate,  for, 
three  months  after  his  departure,  the  plague  broke 
out  and  destroyed  most  of  the  officers. 

On  presenting  himself  before  the  king,  and 
asking  his  pardon  for  the  youthful  indiscretion 
which  had  resulted  so  fatally,  the  king  assured 
him  that  the  pardon  had  already  been  granted, 
more  especially  since  the  queen-regent  was  no 
longer  living.  He  commanded  him  to  be  a  fre¬ 
quent  attendant  at  court,  and  gave  him  to  his 
second  son,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  succeeded 
him  on  the  throne,  as  Henry  II.,  with  these  words  : 
“  He  is  not  older  than  thou,  my  son,  but  see  what 
he  has  already  accomplished ;  if  he  is  not  killed 
in  battle,  thou  wilt  at  some  future  period  honor 
him  with  the  baton  of  marshal.” 

Some  time  after,  Charles  V.  made  arrangements 
for  an  invasion  of  France,  on  which  account  the 
king  concentrated  his  army  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Lyons.  They  decided  upon  taking  possession 
of  Avignon,  in  order  to  prevent  the  imperials 
from  occupying  a  city  which  was  the  key  of  Pro¬ 
vence.  After  deliberating  for  a  long  time,  the 
king  finally  selected  Vieilleville  for  this  enterprise, 
although  many  objected  to  him  on  account  of  his 


MARSHAL  YIEILLEYILLE. 


431 


extreme  youth.  He  was  sent  off  to  Avignon  with  | 
six  thousand  foot,  without  artillery,  in  order  to 
facilitate  his  arrival  prior  to  the  emperor. 

Arriving  before  Avignon,  the  gates  of  which  he 
found  closed,  he  demanded  an  interview  with  the 
vice  legate,  who  appeared  upon  the  walls.  Vieille- 
ville  urged  him  to  come  down,  since  he  had  a 
communication  to  address  to  him  which  was  of 
importance  both  to  himself  and  to  the  city.  If 
the  legate  had  any  suspicion,  be  might  be  accom¬ 
panied  by  as  many  persons  as  he  pleased,  whereas 
Vieilleville  promised  to  have  only  the  six  persons 
who  were  near  him.  The  legate  came  to  the  gate 
with  an  escort  of  about  twenty  men,  and  some  of 
the  first  citizens  of  the  place.  Vieilleville  assured 
him  that  he  did  not  desire  to  occupy  the  city,  pro¬ 
vided  the  legate  would  bind  himself  by  an  oath 
and  by  giving  hostages  not  to  receive  an  imperial 
garrison.  The  legate  consented  to  the  oath,  but 
was  absolutely  unwilling  to  give  hostages. 

Four  of  the  six  soldiers  who  were  with  Vieille¬ 
ville,  had  the  title  of  captain,  although  they  were 
badly  dressed.  He  begged  that  they  might  be 
permitted  to  replenish  their  wardrobe  in  the  city, 
to  purchase  powder,  and  have  their  guns  repaired. 
This  permission  was  granted.  Their  plan  was  to 
place  themselves  beneath  the  gates  and  to  pre¬ 
vent  the  portcullis  from  being  let  down.  In  the 
mean  while  more  soldiers  came  up,  without  being 
heeded  by  the  opposite  party,  whose  attention 
was  centred  on  the  discussion  about  the  hostages, 
which  was  purposely  prolonged  by  Vieilleville. 
Threats  were  made  that,  unless  the  hostages  were 
given,  the  country  for  two  leagues  round  the  city 
would  be  laid  waste.  Vieilleville  seeing  himself 
sufficiently  strong,  knocked  the  legate  down,  drew 
his  sword,  and  penetrated  into  the  city.  At  the 
gate  two  or  three  of  his  men  were  shot,  but  double 
this  number  of  the  enemy  were  pierced  with  their 
swords. 

The  citizens  now  hastened  to  the  gate,  to  let 
down  the  portcullis,  but  here  they  were  prevented 
by  the  four  captains  who  fought  most  gallantly. 
At  the  report  of  the  guns,  some  twelve  hundred 
men  who  had  been  hidden  the  previous  night  in  the 
corn-fields  near  the  city,  rushed  forward  from  their 
ambush,  and  entered  the  city  with  the  greatest 
bravery.  In  the  mean  while  the  remainder  of  the 
corps  came  up  with  colors  flying  and  drums  beat¬ 
ing.  He  now  took  possession  of  the  keys  of  the 
gates  that  had  remained  closed,  except  the  Rhone 
gate  toward  Villeneuve  which  already  belonged  to 
France.  Being  in  possession  of  the  city,  Vieille¬ 
ville  now  restored  order,  and  protected  every 
quiet  citizen  and  every  female  from  insult.  This 
was  not  easy,  and  he  had  to  cut  down  a  captain 
and  a  few  privates  who  insisted  upon  plundering 
the  town.  The  constable  now  encamped  near 
Avignon,  and  Vieilleville  went  back  to  the  king 
whom  he,  met  at  Tournon.  On  presenting  him¬ 
self  before  the  king,  he  was  addressed  by  the  latter 
in  these  words  :  “  Approach,  fair  light  among  the 
knights.  I  should  call  you  sun,  if  you  were  older, 
for  if  you  continue  in  this  way  you  will  shine 
above  all  others.  In  the  mean  while  parry  your 
king’s  blow  who  loves  and  honors  you.”  With 
these  words,  the  king,  touching  him  with  his 
sword,  dubbed  him  knight. 


After  this  period  he  was  requested  by  his  rela¬ 
tive,  Sir  Chateaubriand,  who  was  governor  and 
lieutenant-general  of  the  king  in  Bretagne,  to  take 
charge  of  the  governor’s  company  of  fifty  gen¬ 
darmes,  who  otherwise  would  have  to  remain  it 
Bretagne,  and  would  not  be  afforded  an  opportu¬ 
nity  to  distinguish  themselves.  At  the  same  time 
Chateaubriand  promised  to  procure  for  him  the 
lieutenancy  of  Bretagne  during  his  absence. 
Vieilleville  took  charge  of  the  company,  but  he 
declined  a  lieutenancy,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  a 
governorship  for  himself. 

It  seems  strange  that  Vieilleville  should  not 
have  been  able  to  obtain  a  company  of  gensdarmes 
for  himself.  But  at  that  time  it  was  not  so  easy 
to  enjoy  such  a  distinction,  and  Vieilleville  was 
unwilling  to  be  indebted  to  favor  for  what  he  ex¬ 
pected  to  earn  by  his  own  efforts.  As  a  proof  of 
this,  we  may  quote  Vieilleville’s  reply  to  the  king, 
when,  after  Chateaubriand’s  death,  his  majesty  of¬ 
fered  him  this  company  :  “  He  had  not  yet  done 
any  thing  entitling  him  to  such  an  honor.”  After 
which  the  king  replied  in  a  tone  of  amazement 
approaching  to  anger  :  “  Vieilleville,  I  have  been 
very  much  mistaken  in  you,  for  I  should  have  sup¬ 
posed  that,  if  you  had  been  away  two  hundred 
leagues,  you  would  have  run  day  and  night  to  ob¬ 
tain  the  company  ;  I  offer  it  to  you  without  your 
asking  for  it,  and  I  do  not  see  what  more  favor¬ 
able  opportunity  you  expect  to  find.”  “The  day 
of  a  battle,  Sire,”  replied  Vieilleville,  “  when  your 
Majesty  will  be  convinced  that  I  deserve  it.  If  I 
accepted  the  company  now,  my  comrades  might 
turn  this  distinction  into  ridicule,  saying  that  I 
owed  it  to  my  connection  with  Sir  Chateaubriand  ; 
but  I  had  rather  die  than  to  be  promoted  for  any 
other  cause  than  my  own  personal  efforts.” 

A  few  hours  before  the  death  of  Francis  I.,  this 
monarch,  mindful  of  Vieilleville’s  services,  sent  for 
the  dauphin  for  the  purpose  of  recommending  the 
former  to  his  favor.  “  I  know,  my  son,”  said  the 
king,  “that  you  will  promote  St.  Andr6  before 
Vieilleville  ;  your  inclination  prompts  you  to  do 
so.  You  would  not  be  in  great  haste  if  you  would 
coolly  contrast  one  with  the  other.  At  least,  I 
beg  of  you,  if  you  do  not  intend  to  promote  them 
together,  to  promote  Vieilleville  soon  after  St. 
Andre.”  The  dauphin  promised  he  would,  simply 
reserving  to  himself  the  privilege  of  promoting  St. 
Aiidr^  first.  The  king  then  sent  for  Vieilleville, 
and,  extending  his  hand  to  him,  said  :  ‘‘  Feeble  as 
I  am,  all  I  can  say  to  you  is,  that  I  die  too  soon 
for  you  ;  but  here  is  my  son  who  has  promised 
me  never  to  forget  you.  His  father  never  was  un¬ 
grateful  and  it  is  his  wish  that  the  second  baton 
of  marshal  which  the  king  will  have  to  dispose 
of,  should  be  conferred  upon  you,  for  I  know  tor 
whom  the  first  baton  is  intended.  But  I  pray 
that  this  baton  may  not  be  conferred  upon  any 
one  who  is  not  as  worthy  of  it  as  you  are.  Is  not 
this  your  opinion,  my  son  ?”  The  dauphin  an¬ 
swered  in  the  affirmative.  The  king  threw  his  arm 
around  Vieilleville ;  all  three  wept.  A  little 
while  after,  the  dauphin  and  Vieilleville  retired, 
and  the  king  died. 

Henry,  the  former  Duke  of  Orleans,  now  was 
kino-,  for  by  the  death  of  his  elder  brother  he  had 
become  dauphin  of  France.  Seven  days  after  the 


432 


MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 


king’s  ascension  to  the  throne,  Yieilleville  was 
sent  to  England  as  special  ambassador  charged 
with  the  delicate  trust  of  renewing  to  Edward, 
who  was  not  yet  of  age,  and  to  his  council,  the 
French  king’s  assurances  of  peace.  He  acquitted 
himself  of  this  office  with  much  dignity  and  to  the 
king’s  perfect  satisfaction. 

Soon  after  the  king’s  funeral,  Marshal  Biez  and 
his  brother-in-law  Yervius,  were  put  upon  their 
trial  for  having  surrendered  Boulogne  to  the 
English.  The  latter  was  condemned  to  death, 
the  former  to  imprisonment,  and  to  the  loss  of 
his  estates  and  his  title.  Of  the  hundred  lances 
which  Marshal  Biez  had  had  under  his  command, 
the  king  of  his  own  accord  offered  fifty  to  Yieille¬ 
ville.  Yieilleville  declined  the  favor  because  he 
did  not  wish  to  be  the  successor  of  such  a  man. 
“Why  not?”  asked  the  king.  “  Sire,”  replied 
Yieilleville,  “  I  should  feel  as  though  I  had  mar¬ 
ried  the  widow  of  a  condemned  criminal.  There 
is  no  need  of  hastening  my  promotion,  for  I  know 
that  your  Majesty  has  resolved  to  take  Boulogne 
back  again  immediately  after  your  solemn  entry 
into  Paris.  It  is  possible  that,  on  this  occasion, 
some  honorable  captain  may  perish,  whose  post 
you  may  confer  upon  me,  or  that  I  myself  may 
fall ;  for,  in  order  to  serve  my  King,  I  shall  ex¬ 
pose  my  life,  and  if  I  fall  I  shall  not  need  a  com¬ 
pany.”  This  was  said  in  presence  of  Marshal 
Andre.  The  king  sought  to  persuade  him,  but 
Yieilleville  insisted  upon  declining.  “  I  had 
rather  be  a  lieutenant  under  Marshal  Andre,  than 
to  own  the  company  of  Marshal  Biez  who  has 
proved  a  traitor.” 

Marshal  St.  Andre,  who  had  expressed  a  simi¬ 
lar  wish  toward  the  king,  on  a  former  occasion, 
was  rejoiced  at  this  declaration.  “  Remember 
this  speech,  my  friend,”  said  he,  “  you  have  made 
it  in  the  king’s  presence.”  Yieilleville  now  was 
forced  to  accept  the  lieutenancy,  although  he 
had  made  this  proposition  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  decline  the  king’s  offer  of  the  company. 

This  company  of  gens-d’armes  had  been  very 
carelessly  organized  by  the  marshal’s  father.  It 
consisted  principally  of  the  sons  of  hotel  and  tav¬ 
ern  keepers,  who  were  named  after  the  saints, 
painted  upon  the  signs  over  the  doors.  For  this 
reason,  this  whole  company  had  become  an  object 
of  ridicule  to  the  citizens  of  Lyons.  Some  thanked 
God,  for  having  sent  a  company  of  saints  from 
paradise,  to  watch  over  them  ;  others  designated 
them  as  the  gens-d’armes  of  the  litany.  The  com¬ 
pany  could  not  show  fifty  horses  that  were  fit  for 
service.  For  this  reason,  and  because  the  gover¬ 
nor  was  personally  popular  at  court,  this  company 
never  was  ordered  into  active  service.  They  were 
said  to  be  indispensable  to  the  governor,  in  order 
to  keep  such  a  large  city  as  Lyons,  quiet.  On 
parade  these  persons  borrowed  the  required  horses, 
and  equipments,  and  this  disorder  continued 
for  nine  years,  until  after  the  death  of  the  old 
Marshal  St.  Andre,  after  which  his  son,  who  was 
ashamed  of  them,  allowed,  their  abuses  to  con¬ 
tinue.  For  this  reason  he  was  glad  to  have 
Yieilleville  as  a  lieutenant,  since  he  knew  his  inex¬ 
orable  rigidity  in  matters  of  discipline  and  honor. 

Yieilleville  had  ordered  his  company  to  Cler¬ 
mont  in  Auvergne,  where  arms  and  horses  could  not 


be  borrowed  so  easily.  Here  he  made  hi3  ap¬ 
pearance  with  sixty  or  eighty  brave  noblemen, 
from  the  best  houses  of  Bretagne,  Anjou  and 
Maine,  who  had  fought  in  the  wars  in  Piedmont. 
Immediately  after  his  arrival, he  was  shown  a  list  of 
about  forty,  who  had  remained  behind  on  account 
of  sickness,  as  shown  by  the  certificates  of  the 
physicians.  He  struck  their  names  off  the  roll. 
The  same  proceeding  was  instituted  against  the 
race  of  valets  and  tax-farmers,  who  had  been  re¬ 
ceived  into  the  company,  through  the  favors  of  a 
few  noble  ladies  and  gentlemen.  The  remaining 
few  had  to  manoeuvre  on  horseback,  and  not  un¬ 
derstanding  any  thing  of  the  service,  the  old  troop¬ 
ers  laughed  at  them  right  heartily.  He  sent 
them  back  into  their  taverns,  with  the  advice  to  wait 
upon  the  guest,  and  told  them  that  the  ranks  of 
the  company  would  be  filled  with  noblemen. 
Some  of  them  grumbled  at  this  treatment,  and 
used  impertinent  language,  but  Yieilleville’s  es¬ 
cort  assailed  them  with  their  canes,  whereupon  the 
band  scattered  across  the  fields,  amid  the  laughter 
of  the  company.  In  this  way  Yieilleville  got  rid 
of  this  rabble,  who  had  never  put  a  spur  to  their 
heels  in  the  service  of  the  king,  and  replaced  them 
by  noblemen  who  valued  their  honor  and  had  the 
means  of  procuring  suitable  equipments.  In  con¬ 
sequence  of  these  proceedings,  other  noblemen 
from  Gascogne,  Perigord,  and  Limousin,  who  had 
formerly  been  unwilling  to  serve  among  these 
vagabonds,  had  their  names  inscribed  on  the  roll 
of  the  company,  so  that  it  numbered  at  the  next 
muster  upward  of  five  hundred  horses,  and  be¬ 
came  one  of  the  best  companies  of  gens-d’armes  in 
the  kingdom. 

Some  time  after,  Yieilleville  accompanied  the 
king  through  Burgundry  to  Savoy.  All  the  large 
cities  were  entered  in  solemn  procession.  On  ar¬ 
riving  at  St.  Jeande  Maurienne,  where  a  bishop  re¬ 
sided,  this  functionary  begged  the  king  to  honor 
this  town  with  a  royal  entry,  promising  him 
on  this  occasion  a  festive  reception,  such  as  he  had 
never  met  with  before.  The  king  whose  curiosity 
to  see  this  novel  entertainment  had  been  excited, 
promised  to  comply  with  the  bishop’s  request,  and 
on  the  following  morning  held  his  solemn  entry 
into  the  city.  He  had  scarcely  advanced  two 
hundred  steps  beyond  the  gate,  when  he  was  met 
by  a  company  of  one  hundred  men  disguised  as 
bears,  so  accurately  that  they  seemed  like  these  ani¬ 
mals.  They  suddenly  emerged  from  some  street 
with  colors  flying,  at  the  sound  of  the  fife,  and 
carrying  a  spear  on  their  shoulders,  took  the  king 
in  their  midst,  and  conducted  him  to  the  church, 
amid  the  peals  of  laughter  of  the  court.  After¬ 
ward  they  conducted  the  king  to  his  lodgings,  in 
front  of  which  they  performed  a  variety  of  leapg 
and  ludicrous  attitudes  ;  they  clambered  like  bears 
up  the  walls  of  houses,  up  columns  and  arcades, 
and  raised  a  howl  resembling  the  growl  Qf  bears. 
Seeing  the  king  liked  this  sport,  they  together 
uttered  such  a  fearful  howl  that  the  horses  which 
had  been  left  in  the  street  in  charge  of  the  ser¬ 
vants,  took  fright,  running  away  and  knocking 
down  and  wounding  a  number  of  people,  although 
this  stampede  seemed  to  increase  the  fun.  They 
wound  up  with  a  dance  all  round,  in  which  the. 
Swiss  Guard  participated. 


MARSHAL  YIEILLEYILLE. 


433 


From  this  town  the  king  crossed  Mont  Cenis, 
and  entered  Piedmont,  over  which  the  king’s 
father,  the  late  Francis  I.,  had  appointed  Prince 
Melphi  as  viceroy.  On  going  to  meet  the  king, 
the  prince  treated  Vieilleville  with  marked  re¬ 
spect,  and  prepared  lodgings  for  him  in  Turin,  on 
which  occasion  the  escort  of  the  Constable  Mont¬ 
morency  had  to  vacate  several  apartments  which 
they  had  retained  for  their  master,  and  which  the 
prince  took  possession  of  fo  Vieilleville.  The 
constable  was  offended  at  this  liberty,  and  sug¬ 
gested  to  the  prince  that  the  constable  of  the 
kingdom  possessed  the  privilege  of  quartering 
every  person  according  to  his  rank.  To  which  the 
prince  replied  :  “  Sir,  here  we  are  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountains.  On  your  side,  in  France, 
you  may  give  your  orders,  and  enforce  them  even 
with  a  cane  ;  but  here  things  are  different,  and  I 
must  request  you  not  to  make  any  arrangements 
that  would  not  be  executed.”  In  his  demonstra¬ 
tions  of  respect  for  Vieilleville,  the  prince  went 
so  far  that  he  frequently  requested  him  to  order 
the  word,  nor  would  he  permit  that  the  word 
which  the  constable  ordered  for  the  king’s  body¬ 
guard,  should  be  universally  regarded.  Being  a 
courtier  of  delicate  perceptions,  Vieilleville  availed 
himself  of  these  distinctions  as  little  as  possible, 
in  order  not  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  other  gran¬ 
dees.  All  who  expected  orders  on  behalf  of  the 
king,  applied  to  him.  All  the  captains  attended 
his  levee  ;  he  kept  open  house,  and  his  table  was 
so  richly  furnished  that  the  table  of  the  prince 
lost  greatly  by  the  contrast. 

In  the  mean  while  the  king  received  news  that 
an  emeute  had  broken  out  in  Guyenne,  and  that 
the  governor  of  the  province  and  several  officers 
of  the  salt-works  had  been  murdered  in  the  city 
of  Bordeaux.  The  constable  suggested  to  the 
king  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  district  being 
always  in  a  state  of  revolt,  had  better  be  extermi¬ 
nated.  He  offered  to  execute  this  mission.  The 
king  dispatched  him  indeed  to  Bordeaux,  but 
with  orders  to  punish  none  but  the  authors  of  the 
crime,  and  to  observe  strict  discipline.  He  asso¬ 
ciated  with  him  the  Duke  Aumale  to  whose  suite 
Vieilleville  belonged.  At  the  approach  of  the 
troops  the  mob  speedily  dispersed,  so  that  the 
constable  entered  the  city  without  the  least  resist¬ 
ance.  Within  one  month  he  caused  one  hundred 
and  forty  persons  to  be  executed  with  the  most 
horrid  tortures.  The  three  rebels  who  had  thrown 
the  royal  officers  into  the  Charente  with  these 
words  :  “  Go,  gentlemen,  salt  the  fish  in  the 
Charante !’  were  broken  on  the  wheel,  burned, 
and  afterward  thrown  into  the  river  with  these 
words  :  “  Go,  scoundrel,  and  fry  the  fish  which 
thou  hast  salted  with  the  bodies  of  thy  king’s 
servants.” 

Upon  the  whole  journey  to  Bordeaux,  Vieille¬ 
ville  had  commanded  the  company  of  Marshal 
Andre,  whose  lieutenant  he  was,  and  had  pre¬ 
served  such  a  strict  discipline  that  every  thing 
that  the  company  used,  was  paid  for  as  in  a 
tavern.  He  never  mounted  his  horse  until  the 
hosts  had  solemnly  affirmed  that  every  debt  had 
been  paid.  Upon  arriving  in  a  large  village,  three 
leagues  from  Bordeaux,  his  servants  found  a  large 
number  of  beautiful  pikes,  guns,  caps,  cuirasses, 
Vol.  II.— 28 


helmets,  bucklers,  and  halberts,  concealed  beneath 
a  heap  of  hay  and  straw.  The  host,  whom  he 
interrogated  on  the  subject  privately,  told  him 
with  fear  and  trembling,  that  his  neighbors  had 
concealed  these  arms  in  his  barn,  because  they 
were  well  convinced  that  he  was  an  innocent  man. 
And  since  I  have  not  heard  an  unkind  word 
during  two  days  that  you  have  been  quartered  in 
my  house,  I  will  give  you  the  further  information, 
that  thirty-five  trunks  and  boxes  have  been 
brought  hither  by  noblemen  who  did  not  feel  safe 
in  their  own  homes,  and  that  I  have  caused  these 
boxes  to  be- walled  up  ;  for  it  is  well  known  that 
I  never  take  any  part  in  these  disorders  ;  but  I 
beg  of  you,  gracious  sir,  see  to  it  that  neither 
they  nor  I  suffer  any  injury.  Vieilleville,  who  saw 
that  he  was  an  innocent  simpleton,  commanded 
him  not  to  say  a  word  of  all  this  to  any  body, 
but  to  lock  up  the  arms  publicly  in  his  barn  ;  he 
certified  to  the  man  that  these  arms  had  been 
purchased  and  paid  for,  and  would  be  sent  for  by 
the  innkeeper,  who  was  directed  to  apply  to 
Vieilleville  in  case  he  should  be  threatened  with 
violence.  Touched  by  this  humanity,  this  man, 
who  imagined  he  had  forfeited  his  life,  almost 
worshiped  his  protector,  whom  he  begged  on  his 
knees  to  accept  at  least  the  arms,  especially  the 
pikes  that  were  entirely  new  and  looked  so  hand¬ 
some.  But  Vieilleville  commanded  him  to  hush, 
unless  he  preferred  being  delivered  into  the  hands 
of  justice. 

The  company  was  quartered  in  a  village  a  league 
from  Bordeaux  ;  Vieilleville  took  up  lodgings  in 
the  house  of  parliament-councilor  Valvyn.  This 
gentleman  came  to  meet  him,  esteeming  himself 
fortunate  to  have  an  officer  of  such' character  and 
mind  under  his  roof,  so  much  more  as  he  had  to 
suffer  a  good  deal  in  consequence  of  the  false 
accusations  of  the  constable,  and  was  almost  a 
prisoner  in  his  own  house.  Vieilleville  assured 
him  of  his  assistance,  and  promised  to  defend  his 
cause.  He  had  scarcely  entered  the  parlor  when 
Madame  Valvyn  and  her  two  daughters  made 
their  appearance,  who  were  possessed  of  extraor¬ 
dinary  beauty.  She  was  still  overcome  by  a  fright 
she  had  had  the  previous  right,  during  which  her 
sister’s  house,  who  was  the  widow  of  a  councilor 
of  parliament,  had  been  broken  into  ;  for  this 
reason  she  had  taken  her  two  nieces  under  her 
roof,  and  now  recommended  these  four  young 
ladies  to  his  protection  in  the  most  urgent  man¬ 
ner.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  before  him,  but 
Vieilleville  raised  her  with  the  assurance  that  he 
too  had  daughters,  and  that  he  would  perish  ra¬ 
ther  than  sutler  any  of  them  to  be  harmed.  The 
mother,  being  comforted  by  this  assurance,  now 
related  to  him  that  the  servants  of  the  gentleman 
who  was  quartered  in  her  sister’s  house,  and  more 
especially  a  young  nobleman,  had  attempted  to 
break  into  the  young  ladies’  apartment,  but  that 
these  had  jumped  out  of  the  window  upon  a  heap 
of  rubbish,  and  had  sought  refuge  in  her  house. 
Vieilleville  asked  her,  whether  the  man  was  not 
the  Bastard  of  Beuil.  “  They  call  him  by  this 
name,”  said  she.  “  Well,”  replied  Vieilleville,  “  it 
is  no  wonder,  for  honorable  girls  will  never  be  left 
alone  by  the  son  of  a  wh***  ;  it  grieves  him  that 
all  women  should  not  be  like  his  mother.”  In  the 


434 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


mean  while  the  widow  made  her  appearance,  com¬ 
plaining  that  the  Bastard  had  insulted  her,  by 
asking  her  to  give  him  the  girls.  After  dinner  he 
repaired  to  the  constable’s  residence,  where  he 
complained  to  Sancerre  of  the  bad  conduct  of  his 
adopted  son.  In  order  to  appease  Vieilleville’s 
host,  Sancerre  went  with  him,  and  took  supper 
with  him,  tendering  his  apology  to  the  ladies  and 
protesting  that  they  should  not  be  insulted  here¬ 
after.  But  they  had  no  confidence  in  him,  and, 
as  long  as  the  army  was  in  Bordeaux,  they  never 
left  their  retreat.  By  this  means  they  avoided  a 
good  deal  of  disagreeable  and  shameful  treatment 
to  which  the  other  citizens  were  exposed  ;  for  all, 
without  distinction  of  sex,  had  to  ask  pardon 
upon  their  knees.  The  family  Valvyn,  however, 
was  not  subjected  to  this  ignominy,  although 
the  C’onstable  enjoined  Vieilleville  not  to  keep 
them  back;  whereupon  Vieilleville  declared  in  a 
tone  of  indignation  that,  if  his  hosts  were  to  be 
subjected  to  such  infamous  treatment,  he  was  de¬ 
termined  to  accompany  them  and  share  their  dis¬ 
grace,  but  that  he  would  not  suffer  this  to  take 
place  without  creating  an  excitement. 

It  frequently  happened  that  soldiers  who  were 
quartered  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bordeaux,  came 
to  town  for  the  purpose  of  purchasing  provisions 
or  witnessing  the  executions.  One  of  the  gens- 
d’armes  and  two  arquebusiers  improved  this  circum¬ 
stance  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  money  from 
the  curate  of  their  village.  They  told  him  that 
two  of  those  whom  they  had  seen  hung,  had  con¬ 
fessed  that  he  had  assisted  in  ringing  the  alarm- 
bell  of  the  village,  and  that  they  had  received 
orders  to  arrest  him,  but  were  willing  to  let  him 
escape,  provided  he  paid  them  handsomely.  The 
poor  curate  who  was  not  altogether  innocent, 
offered  them  eight  hundred  dollars  ;  but  not  con¬ 
tent  with  this  sum,  they  compelled  him,  holding  a 
dagger  to  his  throat,  to  reveal  the  place  where  he 
had  hidden  the  precious  ornaments  of  the  church. 
The  dread  of  death  induced  him  to  give  the  de¬ 
sired  information.  Hereupon  they  bound  him, 
and  carried  him  to  a  distant  apartment,  where 
they  intended  to  murder  him,  after  having  pre¬ 
viously  secured  their  treasures.  But  the  priest’s 
nephew  ran  to  Bordeaux,  where  he  informed 
Vieilleville  of  the  whole  transaction.  Vieilleville 
at  once  mounted  his  horse,  and  repaired  quietly, 
and  without  the  robbers  knowing  any  thing  about 
it,  to  the  parsonage,  where  he  arrived  at  the  very 
moment  when  they  were  on  the  point  of  leaving 
with  three  horses  heavily  laden  with  booty.  The 
first  man  he  met  was  cut  down  by  him  with  these 
words  :  “  Villain,  are  we  heretics  commissioned  to 
assault  defenseless  priests,  and  rob  churches  ?” 
The  other  two  were  killed  by  their  own  comrades, 
lest  the  company  should  be  exposed  to  the  infamy 
of  seeing  two  of  its  members  swing  at  the  gallows 
for  common  robbery.  The  priest  was  discovered 
bound,  and  two  servants  near  him,  holding  knives 
to  his  throat  to  prevent  him  from  crying.  He 
threw  himself  at  Vieilleville’s  feet,  thanking  him 
for  the  preservation  of  his  life  and  the  restoration 
of  his  property  ;  but  this  one  ordered  him  to  bury 
the  dead  and  to  say  a  mass  for  their  souls. 

After  the  constable  had  given  a  most  hor¬ 
rid  proof  of  his  severity  by  punishing  the  in¬ 


stigators  of  the  rebellion,  he  disbanded  the  army, 
and  passed  the  company  that  was  to  remain  in 
garrison,  in  review.  Jokingly  he  informed  Vieillc- 
ville  that  he  intended  to  act  himself  as  the  com¬ 
missary  of  his  (Vieilleville’s)  company;  for  he 
knew  that  St.  Andre’s  company  was  not  complete, 
and  numbered  only  twenty  serviceable  horses. 
Whereupon  Vieilleville  requested  him  very  mo¬ 
destly,  not  to  spare  his  company  if,  on  disbanding 
the  troops,  he  should  find  this  to  be  the  state  of 
things.  At  the  same  time  he  cautioned  the  con¬ 
stable,  if  he  had  a  mind  to  pass  St.  Andre’s  com 
puny  in  review,  to  see  to  it  that  he  did  not  fare  as 
the  other  commissaries.  “  How  is  this  ?”  asked 
the  constable,  who  fancied  that  something  un¬ 
pleasant  was  intended.  “  I  shall  retain  you  to 
dinner,”  replied  Vieilleville.  At  the  muster,  the 
constable,  to  the  great  amazement  of  all  present, 
found  this  company  in  excellent  condition.  It 
presented  an  extensive  front,  for  Vieilleville  had 
caused  the  saddle-horses  of  the  noblemen,  which 
were  generally  left  in  the  rear,  to  be  mounted  by 
the  servants,  who  had  to  form  a  line  with  the  sol¬ 
diers.  Vieilleville  received  the  constable  and  his 
staff  ,in  front  of  the  company,  riding  a  dapple 
horse  that  was  valued  at  two  thousand  crowns, 
and  taking  the  opportunity  of  exhibiting  his  bril¬ 
liant  horsemanship.  Not  far  from  the  village  he 
entertained  the  constable  and  his  staff  at  dinner, 
in  tents  constructed  of  green  boughs,  in  a  very 
elegant  and  artistic  manner. 

From  Bordeaux  he  conducted  his  company  to 
their  ordinary  quarters  in  Xaintonge,  where  they 
were  stationed,  after  which  he  repaired  to  his 
castle,  where  the  marriage  of  the  young  Marquis 
Espinay  with  his  daughter,  was  celebrated.  On 
this  occasion,  a  numerous  and  brilliant  company 
was  entertained  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner. 

At  the  same  time,  he  arranged  more  than  ten 
affairs  of  honor.  Although  he  found  them  ex¬ 
ceedingly  complicated,  yet  his  great  experience 
in  his  intercourse  with  the  world,  and  his  know¬ 
ledge  of  human  nature,  which  he  had  acquired  on 
his  travels  through  a  number  of  countries,  enabled 
him  to  compound  all  such  difficulties  with  so 
much  skill,  that  even  the  marshals  of  France,  who 
constituted  the  highest  court  of  honor  for  the 
French  nobility,  applied  to  him  for  advice. 

Eight  days  after  the  wedding,  Vieilleville  was 
ordered  to  appear  at  court.  He  brought  Espinay 
along,  whom  he  desired  to  introduce  at  the  earli¬ 
est  opportunity,  thinking  that  the  king,  immedi¬ 
ately  after  his  entry  into  Paris,  would  proceed  to 
the  reconquest  of  Boulogne.  One  morning,  he 
was  visited  by  D’Apechon,  the  brother-in-law  of 
Marshal  St.  Andre,  accompanied  by  Messieurs 
Sennecterre,  Biron,  Forguel,  and  La  Roue,  who 
presented  to  him  a  document  signed  by  the  king, 
in  which  the  confiscated  estates  of  the  Protes¬ 
tants  in  Guyenne,  Limousin,  Quercy,  Perigord, 
Xaintonge, .and  Aulnay,  were  conferred  upon  him. 
They  had  recommended  him  for  this  favor,  in  the 
hope  that,  after  deducting  the  expense  of  levying 
upon  the  property,  no  less  a  sum  than  twenty 
thousand  crowns  would  remain  in  the  hands  of 
each  of  them.  Vieilleville  thanked  them  for  hav¬ 
ing  thought  of  him  on  this  occasion,  but  he  de¬ 
clared  that  he  could  not  consent  to  enrich  himself 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


435 


by  such  odious  means  ;  for  that  the  object  simply 

was  to  harass  the  poor  people,  and  to  ruin  honest 

Families.  He  said  that  the  constable  had  scarcely 

%> 

returned  from  these  provinces  with  his  large  ar¬ 
my;  that  he  considered  it  beneath  his  dignity  to 
plunge  the  king’s  distracted  subjects,  who  had 
already  suffered  so  much,  into  a  still  deeper  abyss 
of  misery,  and  that  he  would  never  consent  to 
seeing  his  name  dragged  through  the  courts  in 
connection  with  these  confiscations;  “for,”  con¬ 
tinued  he,  “we  should  have  our  names  registered 
in  every  parliament,  and  should  be  deservedly 
designated  as  the  devourers  of  the  nation  ;  to 
draw  down  upon  one’s  self  the  malediction  of  so 
mahv  women,  girls,  and  children,  who  will  have 
to  'die  in  almshouses  and  hospitals,  for  the 
suih  of  twenty  thousand  crowns  is  to  cheap  a 
price  to  purchase  hell  with.  Moreover,  all  the 
lawyers  and  justices  whose  profits  we  diminish, 
would  become  our  mortal  enemies.”  Hereupon 
he  pierced  the  patent,  which  had  his  name  written 
upon  it,  with  his  dagger  ;  D’Apechon,  who 
blushed  for  shame,  did  the  same ;  Biron  followed 
suit,  and  they  all  left,  leaving  the  royal  patent  on 
the  floor.  But  some,  who  had  calculated  with 
absolute  certainty  upon  the  advantages  they  ex¬ 
pected  to  enjoy,  became  so  enraged  at  Vieille- 
ville’s  honesty,  that  they  picked  up  the  paper  and 
tore  it  into  flinders. 

Shortly  after,  Boulogne  was  besieged  by  the 
king.  Vieilleville,  and  his  son-in-law  Espinay, 
were  present  during  the  siege.  When  ambassa¬ 
dor  in  England,  the  Duke  of  Somerset  had  indulged 
toward  him  in  a  few  equivocal  allusions  to  French 
bravery.  Vieilleville  requested  Espinay  to  put 
on  his  best  armor,  as  on  the  day  of  a  battle.  He 
did  the  same,  and,  in  company  with  three  noble¬ 
men,  they  rode  up  quietly,  close  to  the  gates  of 
Boulogne.  The  trumpeter  sounding  the  trumpet, 
Vieilleville  was  asked  what  he  wanted.  He  de¬ 
sired  to  know  whether  Somerset  was  in  the  place  ; 
that  Vieilleville  had  arrived,  and  wished  to  break 
a  lance  with  him.  The  answer  was  returned  that 
the  duke  was  sick  in  London,  though  the  com¬ 
mon  report  was  that  he  was  in  the  fortress.  He 
then  invited  any  other  brave  knight  to  the  com¬ 
bat,  but  no  one  came.  “  Some  young  lord  may 
undoubtedly  be  found,”  said  he,  “who  will  measure 
swords  with  a  young  nobleman  from  Bretagne, 
who  is  not  quite  twenty  years  old.  Let  him 
come,  for  we  do  not  wish  to  return  to  camp  with¬ 
out  a  combat ;  the  honor  of  your  nation  is  at 
stake.”  At  last,  the  son  of  Lord  Dudley  made 
his  appearance  upon  a  beautiful  Spanish  horse, 
and  accompanied  by  a  brilliant  cortege.  As 
soon  as  the  Englishman  was  seen  by  the  French, 
one  of  Vieilleville’s  suite  said  to  the  latter  :  “  This 
young  lord  is  yours  ;  do  you  not  see  how  he  rides 
in  the  English  fashion,  and  almost  touches  the 
top  of  the  saddle  with  his  knees?  Sit  firmly  in 
your  saddle,  and  do  not  lower  your  lance  until 
within  three  or  four  paces  from  him  ;  if  you  lower 
your  lance  whilst  yet  at  a  distance,  you  will  lose 
the  line  of  vision,  for  the  eye  is  dazzled  by  the 
visor.”  An  agreement  was  made  that  the  one 
who  was  thrown  was  to  be  his  antagonist’s  pri¬ 
soner,  and  that  horse  and  armor  were  to  be  his 
own. 


Each  one  now  took  his  position  ;  and,  with 
lance  in  array,  they  tilted  against  each  other. 
The  Englishman  fell,  and  dropped  his  lance, 
which  had  missed  its  mark.  Espinay  had  hit  him 
so  rudely  in  the  side,  that  his  lance  broke.  There 
upon  Taillad6,  one  of  Espinay’s  suite,  jumped  ofl 
his  horse,  and  mounted  the  Spanish  charger; 
Dudley  was  raised  on  his  feet,  the  trumpets 
sounded  victory,  and  the  French  returned  to  their 
camp  with  the  prisoner,  leaving  the  English  in  a 
state  of  confusion. 

The  king  had  already  heard  of  the  encounter, 
and  surrounded  by  a  numerous  staff,  he  rode  to 
meet  Vieilleville.  As  soon  as  they  espied  the  king 
they  dismounted  ;  Espinay  presented  his  prisoner 
to  the  king,  and  committed  him  to  the  king’s 
good  pleasure.  The  king,  drawing  his  sword, 
dubbed  him  knight. 

Soon  after,  a  fearful  tempest  rose  which  obliged 
the  king  to  raise  the  siege.  Young  Dudley  now 
requested  Espinay  to  fix  his  ransom;  he  was  un¬ 
able  to  remove  further  into  the  countrv  and  de- 

V 

sired  to  return  to  England,  where  he  had  pressing 
business.  One  of  Espinay’s  suite  informed  him 
that  Dudley  was  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  Count 
Bedford,  and  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  marry¬ 
ing  her.  Upon  hearing  this  Espinay  told  Dudley 
that  he  might  leave  whenever  it  suited  his  conve¬ 
nience  ;  that  the  Espinays  did  not  go  to  war  for 
the  purpose  of  enriching  themselves,  for  their 
possessions  were  sufficiently  large  ;  but  that  their 
object  was  to  acquire  glory  and  to  maintain  the 
honorable  name  of  their  family.  He  requested 
the  Englishman  to  hold  him  in  kind  remembrance, 
and  to  send  him  four  English  chargers,  provided 
he  was  willing  to  make  him  a  present. 

The  German  princes,  who  were  assembled  at 
Augsburg,  coacluded  to  send  a  deputation  to  the 
King  of  France,  for  the  purpose  of  requesting  aid 
against  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  who  had  taken 
several  German  princes  prisoners,  and  held  them 
in  durance  vile.  The  embassy  was  composed  of 
the  Duke  of  Siinmern,  of  Count  Nassau,  and  his  son 
who  became  celebrated  at  a  later  period  under  the 
name  of  William  of  Orange,  and  of  several  other 
gentlemen  and  savants.  The  king  sent  a  deputa¬ 
tion  as  far  as  St.  Dizier  to  meet  them,  and  had  all 
their  comforts  cared  for.  They  only  traveled  five 
or  six  hours  a  day  previous  to  the  dinner-hour  ; 
they  sat  at  dinner  until  nine  or  ten  o’clock  in  the 
evening,  and  during  this  time  business  must  not 
even  be  broached.  The  road  from  St.  Dizier  to 
Fontainebleau  traverses  the  richest  wine-growing 
districts  of  France,  and  this  road  had  been  se¬ 
lected  by  the  Germans  for  the  express  purpose  ot 
having  abundant  opportunities  of  gratifying  their 
desire  for  wine. 

Vieilleville,  who  had  been  sent  to  meet  them, 
found  them  two  leagues  from  Fontainebleau,  in  the 
village  of  Moret,  where  they  w7ere  taking  some 
rest.  He  welcomed  them  on  behalf  ot  the  king, 
with  which  they  were  much  pleased,  for  the  wel¬ 
come  was  accompanied  by  the  most  excellent  en¬ 
tertainment.  On  this  occasion  he  learned  that 
Count  Nassau  was  one  of  his  relatives ;  the 
count  addressed  himself  more  particularly  to  him, 
for  he  was  excellently  versed  in  business,  and 
|  had  a  good  knowledge  of  the  French  language. 


436 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


One  day,  when  Vieilleville  had  invited  to  dinner 
several  members  of  the  company,  two  assessors 
of  the  imperial  court  of  Spires,  and  the  burgo¬ 
masters  of  Strasburg  and  Nuremberg,  Count 
Nassau  took  Vieilleville  on  one  side,  in  order  to 
inform  him  of  the  precise  object  of  their  mission. 
The  conversation  having  lasted  about  an  hour, 
the  four  judges  and  burgomasters  became  impa¬ 
tient,  and  addressed  the  Count  in  German  in  a 
very  rough  manner.  The  count  ridiculed  their 
wrath  in  a  very  clever  manner,  by  calling  out  in 
French,  of  which  they  did  not  understand  any 
thing  :  “Do  not  be  astonished,  gentlemen,  at  the 
wrath  of  these  Germans,  they  are  not  used  to  rise 
so  soon  from  table,  after  having  tasted  such  ex¬ 
quisite  viands,  and  drank  such  excellent  wines.” 

Vieilleville  related  to  the  king  every  thing  he 
had  heard  and  seen.  The  king  was  so  well 
pleased  with  this  report  that  he  sent  for  Vieille¬ 
ville,  and  made  him  a  member  of  the  Council  of 
State.  The  ambassadors  had  an  audience  of  the 
King,  after  which  the  Council  of  State  was  as¬ 
sembled,  where  Henry  II.  expressed  his  opinion 
that  it  was  not  advisable  for  France  to  go  to  war 
with  the  emperor.  After  the  king  had  spoken, 
the  Constable  Montmorency  spoke  out  of  order, 
voting  against  the  king;  the  other  members 
spoke  after  him,  until  it  was  Vieilleville’s  turn, 
who  showed  by  the  most  conclusive  arguments 
that  the  honor  of  the  crown  required  the  king 
to  assist  the  German  princes.  He  then  informed 
the  king  in  secret  that  Count  Nassau  had  told 
him  it  was  the  emperor’s  design  to  take  posses¬ 
sion  of  Metz,  Toul,  Verdun,  and  Strasburg. 
which  would  be  highly  prejudicial  to  the  king.  He 
advised  the  king  to  occupy  these  cities  very  quietly, 
for  they  constituted  a  sort  of  protecting  wall 
for  the  provinces  of  Champagne  fl,nd  Picardy. 
“As  regards  the  unfavorable  opinion,  Sir  Con¬ 
stable,  which  you  have  expressed  just  now,”  turn¬ 
ing  to'  this  officer,  “that  the  Germans  change 
their  minds  as  often  as  they  evacuate  their  bowels, 
and  that  some  secret  treason  might  be  hidden  be¬ 
neath  their  offers,  I  would  rather  lose  my  whole  for¬ 
tune  than  to  have  them  be  apprised  of  such  a  thing ; 
for,  if  such  sovereign  princes,  one  of  whom  places 
the  globe  of  the  empire,  which  indicates  the 
monarchy,  into  the  emperor’s  left  hand  at  his 
coronation  ;  the  other  places  into  his  right  hand 
the  sword,  which  means  protection  ;  and  the  third 
places  the  imperial  crown  upon  his  head  ;  are  de¬ 
void  of  faith  and  honesty,  among  what  class  of 
men  are  they  to  be  found  ?” 

Upon  these  representations  war  was  resolved 
upon,  and  at  the  end  of  Marq.li,  1552,  the  army 
was  to  be  assembled  ,  on  the  frontier  of  Cham¬ 
pagne.  This  was  accomplished  with  an  incredible 
rapidity.  By  a  ruse  the  constable  placed  himself 
in  possession  of  Metz,  where  the  king  shortly 
after  made  his  entry.  On  this  occasion  the  king- 
mustered  his  army,  and  found  a  corps  of  five 
hundred  noblemen  whose  names  he  had  never 
heard.  This  corps  was  placed  under  the  com¬ 
mand  of  young  Espinay,  Vieilleville’s  son-in-law, 
who  performed  many  brave  deeds  at  the  head  of 
his  company. 

The  occupation  of  Metz  was  the  only  fruit  of 
this  expedition,  for  the  other  cities  having  heard 


of  the  assault,  were  found  adequately  prepared. 
The  German  princes  likewise  informed  the  king, 
that  they  had  concluded  a  peace  with  the  em¬ 
peror.  This  potentate  had  scarcely  got  rid  of 
his  domestic  enemies,  when  he  marched  a  power¬ 
ful  army  against  the  French  king  for  the  purpose 
of  retaking  the  frontier  towns  he  had  lost.  At  the 
first  report  of  these  armaments  the  Duke  of  Guise, 
at  the  head  of  a  numerous  body  of  nobles,  threw 
himself  into  the  city  of  Metz  that  was  to  receive 
the  first  shock.  The  defense  of  Verdun  was  con¬ 
fided  to  Marshal  St.  Andre,  and  Toul,  which  was 
destined  for  Vieilleville,  had  already  been  occupied 
by  the  Duke  of  Nevers,  even  without  the  king’s  or¬ 
ders.  The  king  consented  to  this  arrangement, 
notwithstanding  his  desire  to  reward  Vieilleville, 
whom  he  sent  to  Verdun  to  assist  St.  Andr6, 
whose  lieutenant  he  still  was,  in  the  defense  of 
the  place  by  his  bravery  and  wise  counsels. 

Vieilleville  caused  Verdun  to  be  strongly  forti¬ 
fied,  but  was  informed,  to  his  great  chagrin,  that 
the  Duke  of  Alva  would  not  attack  this  place,  and 
had  already  commenced  the  siege  of  Metz.  He 
therefore  proposed  to  harass  the  imperial  army 
which  had  to  extend  itself  over  a  large  surface,  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  field,  and  to  circumscribe 
its  operations  within  the  narrowest  limits.  He 
likewise  caused  considerable  losses  to  the  enemy 
by  unexpected  assaults.  Being  informed  that  the 
city  of  Estain  in  Lorraine,  which  had  been  de¬ 
clared  neutral  by  the  emperor,  and  the  French, 
sent  a  quantity  of  provisions  into  the  enemy’s 
camp,  he  resolved  to  take  possession  of  it.  He 
arrived  before  the  gates  accompanied  by  twelve 
noblemen  each  of  whom  had  a  servant  with  him  :  he 
was  himself  attended  by  four  soldiers  disguised  as 
servants.  He  was  followed  at  some  distance  by 
a  small  body  of  men  who  were  to  join  him  with 
the  utmost  dispatch  as  soon  as  they  should  hear 
the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  Standing  outside  the 
gate,  he  sent  for  the  mayor  and  the  bailiff,  and 
rebuked  them  for  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the 
enemies  of  the  crown.  They  excused  themselves, 
saying  that  they  had  to  obey  the  orders  of  their  mas¬ 
ters,  and  that  the  citizens  were  anxious  to  sell  their 
provisions  on  advantageous  terms.  “Well,”  said 
Vieilleville,  “  can  we  obtain  something  for  our 
money?”  “  Why  not ?”  they  answered.  “Well, 
then,”  replied  Vieilleville,  addressing  himself 
to  his  servants,  “  go,  and  buy  six  dollars’  worth 
of  feed  for  our  horses.  In  the  meanwhile,  trum¬ 
peter,  sound  a  merry  tune,  for  soon  we  shall  be  in 
clover.”  The  few  lansquenets  who  accompanied 
the  bailiff,  indeed  attempted  to  prevent  the  ser¬ 
vants  from  entering  the  town,  but  they  were 
badly  cut  up.  The  four  soldiers  at  once  took  pos¬ 
session  of  the  portcullis,  so  that  it  could  not  be 
let  down.  The  twelve  horses  had  likewise  passed 
under  the  archway,  and  the  corps  having  come  up, 
the  whole  entered  the  town,  and  took  possession 
of  it.  Ten  or  twelve  Spaniards,  among  whom  was 
a  relative  of  Duke  Alva,  happened  to  be  in  the 
bailiff's  office.  As  soon  as  they  heard  the  noise, 
they  scampered  over  the  walls.  This  irritated 
Vieilleville  so  much  that  he  caused  the  bailiff’s 
nephew,  who  had  facilitated  their  escape,  to  bo 
hung. 

Six  days  after  this  expedition,  he  surprised  the 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


487 


village  Rougerieules,  where  six  companies  of  lans¬ 
quenets  and  as  many  squadrons  of  horse  were 
quartered.  The  Germans  were  cut  down  or  taken 
prisoners.  At  seven  in  the  morning  the  thing 
was  accomplished,  and  Vieilleville  returning  to  the 
camp,  so  that  the  Margrave,  Albert  of  Branden¬ 
burg,  who  had  been  sent  against  him,  found  only 
empty  quarters. 

Vieilleville  now  returned  to  Verdun,  where  he 
intended  to  allow  himself  and  his  soldiers  a  little 
rest,  for  he  had  not  slept  in  a  bed  for  three  weeks, 
nor  had  he  been  able  to  change  his  clothes.  He 
was  rejoiced,  on  entering  the  cathedral  of  Ver¬ 
dun,  at  seeing  the  flags  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  enemy,  and  sent  to  Marshal  St.  Andre,  sus¬ 
pended  from  the  columns  in  two  rows.  To  these 
lie  added  his  last  trophy,  consisting  of  eleven 
flags  and  standards,  so  that  the  whole  number 
which  was  sent  to  the  king  amounted  to  twenty- 
two. 

Eight  days  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  Vieille¬ 
ville  received  an  order  from  the  court  to  repair  to 
Toni,  and  assist  the  Duke  of  Nevers  in  the  defense 
of  this  plaoe,  which  would  most  probably  be  at¬ 
tacked  by  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who  had  not  been 
able  to  accomplish  any  thing  before  Metz.  He 
was  empowered  to  take  as  many  troops  from  Ver¬ 
dun  as  he  deemed  necessary,  taking  care,  however, 
not  to  weaken  Marshal  St.  Andre  too  much. 
Vieilleville  only  took  a  small  number,  and  left  the 
most  experienced  captains  with  the  marshal. 

The  very  next  day  the  Duke  of  Nevers  held  a 
council  of  war,  where  it  was  decided  to  harass  the 
Albanese  and  Italians,  numbers  of  whom  were 
quartered  at  Pont-h-Mousson,  as  much  as  pos¬ 
sible,  and  to  put  a  stop  to  their  marauding  expe¬ 
ditions.  Vieilleville  offered  to  make  a  beginning 
with  the  soldiers  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
Verdun,  and  to  take  ample  revenge  for  the  rob¬ 
beries  which  the  Spanish  garrison  had  committed. 
Immediately  after  the  breaking  up  of  the  council, 
he  sent  two  of  his  confidants,  one  of  whom  was  a 
spy,  to.  Pont-h-Mousson,  charging  them  to  pay 
the  strictest  heed  to  whatever  they  might  hear 
or  see,  and  instructing  the  spy  very  minutely 
what  answers  to  return  to  the  questions  that 
might  be  asked  of  him.  He  was  to  say  that  he 
belonged  to  the  house  of  Christine,  the  dowager- 
duchess  of  Lorraine,  niece  of  the  Emperor,  and 
that  he  was  intrusted  with  letters  to  the  imperial 
cam»p.  He  sallied  forth  at  a  late  hour,  in  order 
to  have  a  valid  excuse  for  not  traveling  any  fur¬ 
ther  this  day,  by  which  means  he  would  be  able  to 
discover  the  strength  of  the  enemy  and  the  plans 
he  might  possibly  entertain.  Tying  a  yellow 
scarf,  which  was  the  Lotharingian  sign  of  neu¬ 
trality,  round  his  waist,  this  determined  youth  set 
out  upon  his  journey,  and  in  less  than  three  hours 
arrived  before  the  gates  of  Pont-a-Moussin.  He 
was  asked,  whence  he  came?  whither  he  was 
bound  ?  what  was  his  business  ?  and,  whether  he 
had  any  letters  about  him  ?  He  asked  to  be  ad¬ 
mitted  to  the  presence  of  the  commanders,  so  cer¬ 
tain  wras  he  of  his  answers.  They  were  Don  Al- 
pkonso  de  Arbolancqua,  a  Spaniard,  and  Fabricio 
Colonna,  an  Italian.  Being  admitted,  he  an¬ 
swered  their  questions  so  skillfully,  that  they  did 
not  catch  him  in  a  single  inconsistency,  nor  were 


they  able  to  discover  the  object  of  his  under¬ 
taking.  He  asked  leave  to  retire  to  his  lodgings 
inquiring  at  the  same  time  whether  they  had  any 
message  to  transmit  to  his  imperial  majesty.  He 
hoped  to  reach  the  emperor  to-morrow,  and  pro¬ 
mised  to  deliver  their  message  very  faithfully. 

They  inquired  of  him  whether,  having  passed 
through  Toul,  troops  had  arrived  in  Verdun 
under  command  of  a  certain  Vieilleville.  To 
which  he  replied:  “This  cursed  French  toad! 
Some  time  ago  he  caused  one  of  my  brothers  to  be 
hung  for  an  act  of  kindness,  because  he  had  helped 
some  Spaniards  that  happened  to  be  at  the  bailiff’s 
house,  to  escape  from  Estain,  which  Vieilleville 
took  by  a  ruse.  May  the  plague  destroy  him  !  1  shall 
either  perish,  or  else  be  avenged  on  "him,  for  this 
hanging  was  a  gross  injustice,  considering  that  it 
is  our  duty  to  serve  our  master  to  the  best  of  our 
power,  as  I  am  now  serving  the  emperor  and  my 
mistress.  If  two  of  these  gentlemen  had  been 
taken,  many  secret  affairs  of  his  imperial  majesty 
would  have  become  known  to  the  enemy.  This 
tyrant  has  killed  my  poor  brother  for  no  other 
cause  than  because  he  alleges  that  the  neutrality 
had  been  broken  by  the  inhabitants  of  Estain.  A 
curse  upon  him  !” 

Fabricio  Colonna  and  Don  Alphonso,  who  were 
well  informed  of  Vieilleville’s  expeditions  and,  more 
particularly  of  this  last-mentioned  circumstance, 
pricked  up  their  ears  in  amazement.  They  took 
him  aside,  promising  him  to  avenge  his  brother’s 
death  if  he  would  do  as  they  should  tell  him.  He 
replied  that  he  would,  and  that  he  should  not  be 
chary  with  exposing  his  life  ;  but  he  begged  them 
to  first  let  him  go  to  the  emperor’s  camp,  in  order 
to  execute  his  lady’s  message.  They  asked  him 
why  he  did  not  carry  any  letters,  “  Because,” 
said  he,  “  my  message  involves  certain  political 
secrets  of  the  King  of  France.  If  I  were  seized 
with  letters  on  my  person,  I  might  plunge  the 
whole  province  into  ruin  ;  for  such  a  step  would 
involve  a  violation  of  neutrality,  and  I  should  run 
the  risk  of  being  either  hung  or  put  upon  the 
rack.”  This  explanation  being  satisfactory  to 
them,  and  believing,  moreover,  that  they  had  won 
him  for  their  own  party,  they  had  him  conducted 
back  to  his  lodgings,  and  gave  orders  that  at 
early  dawn  the  gate  of  Metz  should  be  opened 
to  him,  and  that  nobody  was  to  meddle  with  his 
business. 

At  daybreak,  he  presented  himself  at  the  gate, 
which  was  opened  to  him  without  any  difficulty. 
He  went  to  the  camp  where  he  managed  so  well 
to  win  the  confidence  of  Duke  Alva,  that  this 
general  intrusted  him  even  with  letters  to  the  two 
commanders,  containing  directions  concerning 
their  conduct,  and  enjoining  them  to  be  particu¬ 
larly  watchful  of  a  certain  French  captain, 
Vieilleville,  who  had  recently  arrived  in  Toul, 
with  troops  from  Verdun,  and  had  inflicted  great 
losses  upon  the  corps  of  the  Margrave  Albert. 
The  bearer  of  this  dispatch  who  was  knowmas  a 
zealous  servant  of  his  imperial  majesty,  was  es¬ 
pecially  recommended  to  their  care.  They  were 
requested  not  to  hesitate*  to  avail  themselves  of 
his  services. 

On  receiving  this  letter,  the  two  commanders, 
praised  his  attachment  to  the  imperial  cause,  as- 


438 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


suring  him  that  there  was  no  need  of  any  certifi¬ 
cates  from  the  duke,  and  that  his  discourse  of 
yesterday  had  convinced  them  of  his  sentiments 
in  favor  of  the  emperor.  They  told  him  that  if 
he  designed  to  make  his  fortune,  he  might  do  so 
by  procuring  for  them  an  opportunity  of  captur¬ 
ing:  the  French  commander  Yieilleville.  To  this 
he  replied  that,  if  he  succeeded  in  accomplish¬ 
ing  this  feat,  he  should  not  desire  any  other 
reward,  than  to  be  permitted  to  tear  the  heart  out 
of  his  body,  in  revenge  for  his  brother’s  death. 
He  invited  them  to  assist  him  in  this  enterprise 
with  all  their  power,  considering  that  his  brother 
had  been  hung  in  he  emperor’s  service. 

He  shed  tears  on  making  this  speech.  At  this 
sight  they  no  longer  doubted  his  honesty,  em¬ 
braced  him,  and  Don  Alphonso  hung  a  gold  chain 
worth  fifty  crowns  around  his  neck.  But  he  de¬ 
clined  the  present,  saying  that  on  this  occasion  lie 
worked  rather  for  himself  and  his  revenge,  and 
that  he  must  defer  accepting  presents  to  some 
other  occasion,  when  he  would  be  exclusively  de¬ 
voted  to  the  emperor’s  interest.  At  the  same 
time,  he  requested  them  not  to  urge  him  any  fur¬ 
ther,  and  to  leave  his  hands  united.  He  requested 
them  to  permit  him  to  present  himself  at  once  be¬ 
fore  his  kind  mistress,  and  promised  to  bring  them 
good  news  on  his  return. 

His  apparently  generous  refusal  to  accept 
any  presents,  and  his  fine  speeches  beguiled  Don 
Alphonso  and  Fabricio  so  completely  that  they 
permitted  him  to  depart  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
their  confidence,  and  in  the  expectation  of  his 
speedy  return. 

Having  stayed  away  three  days,  Yieilleville 
thought  he  had  been  found  out  and  hung.  The 
news  which  the  agent  had  collected,  suggested  a 
stratagem  to  Yieilleville,  which  he  at  once  carried 
out  without  mentioning  a  word  to  any  body.  He 
sent  the  agent  back  to  Pont-a-Mousson,  who  was 
to  inform  the  Spaniards  that  at  day-break  Yieille¬ 
ville  would  ride  over  to  Condesur -Moselle,  where 
he  expected  to  meet  his  mistress,  with  whom  he 
had  some  important  business  to  transact ;  that  the 
duchess  was  afraid,  in  case  the  war  between  the 
king  and  the  emperor  was  prolonged,  her  son 
might  lose  his  dominions  as  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
had  lost  his,  on  which  occasion  he  was  to  use 
the  slang  phrase  that  had  been  applied  to  this  po¬ 
litical  manoeuvre,  namely  “  that  her  son  would 
have  to  dance  by  the  Piedmontese  fiddle.”  He 
was  to  add  moreover  that  Yieilleville  who  was  ap¬ 
prehensive  of  the  garrison  of  Pont-YMousson, 
would  be  attended  with  an  escort  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  horse,  some  of  which  would  be  fully 
clad  in  steel.  He  was  told  to  walk  his  horse,  in 
order,  that  Yieilleville  might  have  time  to  make 
his  arrangement. 

The  agent  left  at  eleven  o’clock  at  night,  and 
arrived  at  Pont-YMousson  at  two  o’clock,  af¬ 
ter  midnight.  The  Spaniards  were  rejoiced  at 
the  news  he  brought  them  ;  with  the  utmost  dis¬ 
patch  they  made  their  arrangements  for  this  lucky 
capture  which  they  considered  certain.  The 
whole  garrison,  which  *was  double  the  number  of 
the  enemy  against  whom  it  was  led,  had  to  march, 
go  that  Duly  fifty  arquebusiers  remained  behind  for 


ordinary  duty.  The  Spaniards  were  sure  of  the 
victory. 

As  soon  as  the  agent  had  left  Toul,  Yieilleville 
assembled  all  his  captains  at  the  residence  of  the 
Duke  of  Nevers,  where  he  informed  them  that  he 
was  bound  on  some  daring  undertaking,  but  that 
they  must  not  become  impatient,  if  they  should  have 
to  remain  ten  hours  in  the  saddle.  He  assured  them 
that  they  would  win  honor  and  material  advan¬ 
tages,  if  they  succeeded.  All  were  willing  and  rode 
out  of  town  for  two  hours  and  a  half,  as  far  as  the 
bridge,  near  the  forest  of  Ronquieres.  There 
Yieilleville  distributed  the  troupsin  several  detach¬ 
ments,  in  ambush,  himself  occupied  the  plain  with 
one  hundred  and  twenty  horses,  and  arrested  every 
body  who  chanced  this  way,  in  order  to  prevent 
any  information  from  being  given  to  the  enemy. 
As  soon  as  the  enemy  should  appear  in  sight,  they 
were  ordered  to  do  precisely  as  he  should  ;  the 
trumpeters  had  strict  orders  not  to  sound  their 
bugles  on  pain  of  death.  He  had  previously  re¬ 
connoitred  the  surrounding  country,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  select  the  very  best  spot  for  his  ambush. 

Three  hours  after  these  arrangements  had  been 
terminated,  the  enemy  came  in  sight.  “  Let  us 
now  turn  about,  in  the  direction  of  Toul,  as  if  we 
were  fleeing  ;  first  let  us  go  at  a  trot,  and  if  they 
should  dash  after  us  at  a  gallop,  we  will  gallop  like¬ 
wise,  until  they  have  passed  our  ambush.  If  they 
do  this,  they  are  ours  without  our  losing  a  man.” 

The  enemy,  who  saw  them  run,  made  after  them 
at  full  speed,  and  with  the  most  fearful  cries  of 
victory.  As  soon  as  they  had  passed  the  ambush, 
Yieilleville  ordered  a  halt,  and  the  bugles  wero 
sounded.  The  squadron  wheeled  about,  and  pre¬ 
senting  their  front  to  the  enemy,  prepared  for  the 
attack.  At  the  same  moment  the  soldiers  rushed 
from  their  hiding  places,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
horse  on  one  side,  fifty  light  cavalry  on  the  other, 
and  two  hundred  mounted  arquebusiers  attacking 
them  from  another  side,  amid  horrid  cries  and  the 
beating  of  drums,  which  surprised  the  enemy  to 
such  a  degree  that  they  cried  treason  !  treason  ! 
In  the  mean  while  Yieilleville  cut  down  every  body 
who  came  in  his  path.  On  all  sides  resounded 
cries  for  mercy.  Whole  ranks,  horses  as  well  as 
men,  were  shot  down,  so  that  the  combat  seemed 
more  like  a  carnage,  and  Yieilleville  was  obliged 
to  put  a  stop  to  the  effusion  of  blood.  Those  who 
had  not  been  killed,  surrendered  at  discretion. 
Two  hundred  and  thirty  were  killed,  and  twenty- 
three  wounded,  among  whom  was  the  commander 
Oolonna.  The  rest  were  prisoners,  not  one  even 
remaining  who  could  have  related  this  disaster  to 
his  comrades  at  Pont-a-Mousson. 

After  this  brilliant  feat,  Yieilleville  sent  part 
of  his  troops,  together  with  the  captive  com¬ 
mander,  to  the  Duke  of  Nevers  ;  the  rest  of  the 
wounded  and  prisoners  were  lodged  in  a  place  of 
safety.  He  sent  word  to  the  duke  that  he  could 
not  yet  send  him  the  three  standards  he  had  taken 
from  the  enemy,  for  he  required  them  to  carry 
out  an  enterprise  which  had  just  then  come  into 
his  mind.  When  urged  to  say  what  this  under¬ 
taking  was,  Yieilleville  replied  that  he  was  not 
one  of  the  fools  who  sell  the  bear’s  grease  before 
first  catching  the  animal.  Nor  was  he  willing  to 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


439 


imitate  Colonna  who  had  given  him  over  to  his 
agent,  in  order  to  obtain  the  opportunity  of  killing 
him,  and  who  now  was  himself  depending  upon 
his  mercy. 

After  the  company  had  left,  Yieilleville  sum¬ 
moned  his  agent, .saying  to  him  :  “  Take  my  white 
standard,  my  helmet,  and  my  arm-pieces,  and  go 
to  Pont-k-Mousson.  A  quarter  of  an  hour’s  ride 
from  the  gate,  commence  to  gallop,  and  call  “vic¬ 
tory  say  that  Colonna  had  beaten  Yieilleville 
and  his  whole  corps,  and  that  he  had  taken  him 
prisoner  with  thirty  or  forty  other  French  noble¬ 
men.  In  proof  of  this  statement,  show  them  my 
arms.  I  give  you  four  strange  servants  who  will 
help  you  carry  them.  Take  likewise  a  bundle  of 
broken  lances  with  the  white  French  flag  attached 
to  them,  in  order  to  give  more  weight  to  your 
statement.  Show  them  a  merry  countenance,  and 
tell  them  that  you  will  tear  the  heart  out  of  my 
body,  unless  I  redeem  it  within  two  hours  with  ten 
thousand  crowns.  Forget  not,  on  reaching  the 
gate,  to  ascend  to  the  top  as  if  for  the  purpose  of 
suspending  your  trophies,  and  remain  near  the 
portcullis,  to  prevent  its  being  let  down.  God  will 
do  the  rest.” 

Saligny  at  once  set  about  executing  these  orders, 
which  was  done  with  the  strictest  punctuality.  In 
the  mean  while  Yieilleville’s  soldiers  had  to  hide 
their  white  scarfs  and  flags,  and  to  adorn  them¬ 
selves  with  the  red  scarfs  of  the  dead,  and  with 
any  other  imperial  signs  within  their  reach.  Of 
the  standards  that  had  been  taken,  he  gave  one  to 
Sir  Montbourger,  another  to  Sir  Thur6,  and  the 
third  to  Mesnil-Barr6,  with  orders  to  kill  every 
soldier  who  came  out  of  the  fortress  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  seeing  the  French  prisoners.  Citizens 
were  to  remain  unmolested.  If  Don  Alphonso 
himself  should  come  out  for  the  purpose  of  con¬ 
gratulating  Colonna  upon  so  great  a  victory,  he 
was  to  be  seized  and  disarmed  without  any  harm 
being  otherwise  done  to  him.  “  Now,  forward,” 
said  he,  “  the  city  is  ours,  provided  no  one  betrays 
himself.” 

Every  body  was  amazed,  for,  not  having  said 
any  thing,  nobody  knew  for  what  purpose  the 
agent  was  sent.  On  approaching  the  town,  the 
agent  and  his  four  companions  galloped  toward 
the  gates,  crying  :  “Yictory !  the  cursed  dog  of  a 
Frenchman,  Yieilleville,  and  all  his  companions, 
have  been  beaten.  Fabricio  is  leading  him  a  pri¬ 
soner  to  Don  Alphonso.  Here  are  his  arms,  his 
scarf,  his  arm  -pieces.  The  battle-field  is  covered 
with  upwards  of  a  hundred  killed,  the  rest  have 
either  tied  or  are  wounded.  If  I  had  had  my  own 
way  about  it,  every  man  would  have  been  cut 
down.  Yictory!” 

The  soldiers  were  so  rejoiced  at  this  news,  that 
they  could  not  await  the  hour  of  Yieilleville’s  ar¬ 
rival,  and  were  anxious  to  show  all  honor  to 
Fabricio.  When  Don  Alphonso  saw  Yielleville’s 
standard,  his  scarf,  and  arm-pieces,  which  were  so 
beautiful  as  to  be  worthy  of  a  prince,  he  made  no 
further  inquiry,  but  mounted  his  horse,  and  in 
company  of  twenty  horsemen,  rode  to  meet  Fa¬ 
bricio.  Orvaulx  and  Olivet,  dressed  in  red,  ran 
toward  him  with  the  cry  :  “  Yictory  !  victory  !  the 
French  have  all  been  killed.”  Alphonso,  who  was 
well  pleased  with  this  cry,  and  with  the  language, 


continued  his  march.  All  at  once  he  is  assailed 
by  a  superior  number,  surrounded,  his  escort  is  cut 
down,  and  himself  is  taken  prisoner.  One  by  one, 
who  came  after  him,  shared  the  same  fate. 

Yieilleville  now  ordered  Mesnil-Barre  to  give 
Don  Alphonso  the  standard,  which  happened  to 
be  that  of  his  own  company,  and  to  cause  him  to 
ride  between  the  other  two.  One  of  them,  named 
Le  Grec,  who  understood  Spanish,  had  to  tell  him 
that  if,  on  approaching  the  city-gate,  he  did  not 
cry  “  Yictory  !”  he  would  have  his  brains  blown 
out.  Mesnil-Barre  was  charged  with  the  execu¬ 
tion  of  this  order.  When  a  gun-shot  from  the 
gates,  they  set  spurs  to  their  horses,  and  galloped 
toward  the  gates.  Le  Grec,  who  was  in  advance, 
related  such  marvels  in  Spanish,  that  the  garrison, 
on  seeing  Alphonso  among  those  who  galloped  and 
shouted,  opened  the  gates  and  let  the  Frenchmen 
in.  But  when  attempting  to  raise  the  bridge, 
they  were  not  allowed  time  to  do  so,  for  suddenly 
the  language  was  changed,  and  they  were  cut  down. 
The  arquebusiers  ran  up,  occupying  the  gates, 
and  Yieilleville  was  master  of  the  town.  An  un¬ 
expectedly  large  quantity  of  provisions  was  found 
there,  which  the  duchess-dowager  of  Lorraine  had 
sent  up  secretly  by  the  river  for  the  use  of  the 
imperial  army. 

Next  morning  Don  Alphonso  was  found  dead, 
lying  on  his  bed  in  full  uniform.  Yincent  de  la 
Porta,  a  Neapolitan  nobleman,  to  whose  care  he 
had  been  confided  by  Yieilleville,  had  not  been 
able  to  persuade  him  to  take  off  his  clothes, 
although  he  urged  Alphonso  to  do  so.  Cold  could 
not  have  been  the  cause  of  his  death,  for  the  noble¬ 
man,  and  the  six  soldiers  who  kept  watch  in  the 
room,  kept  up  such  a  rousing  fire  that  the  heat 
of  the  room  almost  became  unendurable.  He 
died  of  a  broken  heart  caused  by  the  reflection  of 
having  allowed  himself  to  fall  into  the  trap  in 
such  a  careless  and  inconsiderate  manner.  Add 
to  this  the  fear  of  appearing  before  his  master, 
who  was  very  much  incensed  against  the  higher 
officers  of  his  army,  as  Don  Alphonso  had  been 
informed  the  day  previous  to  his  captivity,  in  a 
letter  sent  to  him  by  Duke  Alva.  The  letter  was 
translated  into  French  by  Le  Grec,  and  contains 
a  few  ludicrous  passages.  After  a  few  compli¬ 
ments,  the  letter  goes  on  : 

“The  emperor,  who  well  knew  that  the  breach 
at  Metz  was  quite  considerable,  but  that  not  one 
of  his  officers  dared  to  enter  it,  had  himself  car¬ 
ried  there  by  four  soldiers,  and  asked  in  a  tone  of 
great  anger,  after  having  seen  the  breach  :  ‘  But 
why,  in  the  name  of  God,  do  you  not  make  the 
assault?  It  is  wide  enough,  and  level  with  the 
ditch,  what  then  is  wanting?’  I  answered  him 
that  we  knew  for  certain  that  the  Duke  of  Guise 
bad  caused  a  large  and  extensive  battery  to  be  con¬ 
structed  behind  the  breach,  which  he  had  armed 
with  an  innumerable  quantity  of  guns,  sufficient 
to  destroy  any  army  that  might  dare  to  make  the 
assault.  ‘  Why,  the  devil,’ continued  the  empe¬ 
ror,  ‘  have  you  not  made  the  attempt  ?’  I  had  to 
answer  him  that  we  were  not  before  Duren,  ln- 
ffolstadt,  Passau,  and  other  cities  which  surren¬ 
der  after  being  scarcely  invested  ;  that  this  city 
was  protected  by  ten  thousand  brave  soldiers, 
i  among  whom  were  sixty  to  eighty  of  the  first 


440 


MISCELLANEOUS  WAITINGS. 


noblemen,  and  nine  to  ten  princes  of  royal  blood, 
as  his  majesty  might  infer  from  the  numerous  and 
bloody  sallies  of  the  garrison,  where  we  had  al¬ 
ways  lost  a  good  many  men.  These  representa¬ 
tions  excited  his  wrath  still  more.  ‘  By  God,’ 
said  he,  ‘I  see  that  I  have  no  men  near  me ;  I 
must  take  leave  of  the  world  and  of  my  plans, 
and  hide  myself  in  a  cloister;  for  I  am  betrayed, 
sold,  or  at  any  rate  so  badly  served  as  no  other 
monarch  is  or  can  be;  but,  by  Heaven,  I  shall 
turn  monk  before  three  years  have  elapsed.’ 

“  I  assure  you,  Don  Alphonso,  I  should  have 
quitted  his  service  at  once,  if  I  were  not  a  Span¬ 
iard.  For  if  he  has  been  badly  served  during 
this  siege,  he  must  lay  the  blame  on  Brabanqon, 
general  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  who  is  half  a 
Frenchman,  and  has  had  the  chief  conduct  of 
the  operations  during  this  siege.  Metz  is  more¬ 
over  in  French  atmosphere  ;  he  boasted  of  having 
an  understanding  with  some  of  the  leading  citi¬ 
zens  of  the  town,  among  whom,  such  ancient 
noble  families  as  the  Tallanges,  the  Baudoiches, 
the  Gornays.  We  have  attacked  the  city  on  its 
strongest  side,  our  mines  have  been  discovered, 
and  have  been  rendered  useless.  Thus  all  our 
efforts  have  unfortunately  failed.  We  have  had 
to  war  against  men  and  weather.  He  is  not 
sorry  for,  on  the  contrary,  insists  upon  justifying 
his  mistakes,  and,  in  order  to  save  his  own  obsti¬ 
nacy,  charges  his  mistakes  and  our  want  of  suc¬ 
cess  upon  us.  Every  day  he  sees  his  infantry 
perish  by  hundreds,  especially  our  Germans,  who 
are  sticking  ear-deep  in  the  mud.  Do  send  us 
the  eleven  boats  with  refreshments,  which  the 
Duchess  of  Lorraine  has  promised  us,  for  our 
army  is  suffering  most  woefully.  But  above  all 
things,  be  on  your  guard  against  Yieilleville,  who 
has  recently  arrived  in  Toul  with  troops  from 
Verdun,  and  whose  skill  and  cunning  the  empe¬ 
ror  dreads  so  much,  that  he  publicly  asserts  that, 
but  for  Vieilleville,  he  would  now  be  King  of 
France  ;  for  when  he  attempted  to  invade  this  king¬ 
dom,  Vieilleville  anticipated  his  movements  in 
Provence,  and  by  taking  possession  of  Avignon 
before  he  was  able  to  reach  this  place,  the  consta¬ 
ble  was  enabled  to  concentrate  his  army,  and  to 
prevent  him,  the  emperor,  from  advancing  any 
further.  I  mention  these  things  to  vou,  being 
my  relative,  for  I  should  be  sorry  if  our  own  peo¬ 
ple,  whom  he  favors,  however,  less  than  others, 
gave  our  master  just  cause  of  being  dissatisfied,” 
Ac.  Alter  reading  this  letter,  it  became  evident 
what  had  been  the  real  cause  of  Alphonso’s 
death,  for  he  had  omitted  to  heed  any  of  these 
warnings  and  instructions. 

On  hearing  of  these  stirring  events,  the  Duke  of 
Nevers  arrived  before  the  gates  of  PontA-Mous- 
son,  at  the  moment  when  dinner  was  just  pre¬ 
pared.  Vieilleville  went  to  meet  him  ;  it  was 
concluded  to  send  a  courier  to  the  king,  to  whom 
Duke  Alva’s  letter  to  Alphonso  was  likewise 
given  in  charge.  Another  spy,  named  Habeer, 
was  at  once  sent  into  the  Imperial  camp,  to  find 
out  whether  Duke  Alva  intended  to  undertake 
any  thing  against  PontA-Mousson  ;  for  the  town 
w'as  badly  tortified,  and  it  was  Vieilleville’s  opinion 
to  abandon  it,  rather  than  to  waste  any  time  or 
money  on  repairing  the  fortifications.  By  aban¬ 


doning  the  place,  the  neutralitv-laws  would  re- 
main  inviolate,  and  the  emperor  would  have  no 
valid  reason  to  occupy  the  .other  towns  of  Lor¬ 
raine. 

Next  day,  Vieilleville  proposed,  under  cover 
of  the  imperial  colors,  to  undertake  an  expedition 
into  the  surrounding  country,  and  to  allure  the  ene¬ 
my  by  such  demonstrations.  In  spite  of  the  dis¬ 
suasions  of  his  friends,  the  Duke  Nevers  was 
determined  to  be  present;  however,  he  allowed 
Vieilleville  to  make  the  needful  arrangements, 
and  to  take  the  command.  They  started  about 
four  hundred  strong,  making  numerous  prisoners 
on  their  way,  wrho  mistook  them  for  Spaniards 
and  Germans.  They  marched  as  far  as  Corney, 
half  way  between  PontA-Mousson  and  Metz,  and 
two  leagues  from  the  Imperial  camp.  Not  find¬ 
ing  any  thing  in  this  place,  Vieilleville  insisted 
upon  marching  half  a  league  further,  although 
the  roads  were  not  safe.  They  met  a  convoy  of 
two  hundred  wagons,  escorted  by  two  hundred 
men,  all  of  which  fell  into  their  hands.  It  was 
too  late  to  return  to  PontA-Mousson  that  evening, 
for  snow  was  falling  in  thick  flakes,  and  they  de¬ 
termined  to  pass  the  night  in  Corney.  The  fol¬ 
lowing  morning,  the  hunt  was  continued ;  six 
wagon-loads  of  wine  and  other  delicacies  fell  into 
their  hands,  which  the  duchess  had  sent  to  the 
emperor,  her  uncle,  for  his  own  private  table. 
Eighty  noblemen,  and  twelve  privates,  had  charge 
of  these  delicacies,  among  which  were  found 
twelve  salmons,  and  a  quantity  of  meat-pies. 
When  the  red  colors  were  seen  by  the  guard,  they 
exclaimed  :  “  Here  is  the  escort  which  the  empe¬ 
ror  has  sent  to  meet  us !”  But  what  was  their 
amazement,  wThen  they  heard  the  cry  :  “  France  !” 
and  all  wTere  taken  prisoners. 

One  of  the  captured  noblemen  inquired  whe¬ 
ther  this  squadron  was  not  commanded  by 
Vieilleville?  “Why?”  asked  Vieilleville  him¬ 
self.  “  Because  it  is  he  who  has  taken  Pont-a- 
Mousson  by  assuming  the  imperial  colors,  at  which 
the  emperor  is  dreadfully  incensed.  Yesterday  I 
was  at  his  levee,  and  I  heard  him  say  that,  if 
Vieilleville  was  ever  caught,  he  wrould  fare  badly. 
‘  This  traitor  V ieilleville,’  said  he,  ‘  has  taken  Pont- 
i\-Mousson  by  assuming  my  colors  ;  he  has  mur¬ 
dered  my  poor  Don  Alphonso,  and  all  the  sick, 
and  has  moreover  taken  the  provisions  that  were 
designed  for  me.  But  I  vow  by  Heaven  that,  if 
he  ever  falls  into  my  hands,  I  will  teach  him  to 
commit  such  perfidious  acts,  and  to  assume  my 
name,  my  standard,  and  my  colors  to  my  own 
prejudice.  Even  the  most  powerful  and  bravest 
prince  might  be  deceived  by  such  means.  Let 
him  rest  assured  that  he  shall  be  impaled  alive, 
if  he  falls  into  my  hands.  From  this  moment  I  con¬ 
demn  him  to  this  punishment.  What  sort  of  men 
are  you,  who  command  my  armies  without  under¬ 
taking  any  thing  against  this  man?  Even  yester¬ 
day  I  was  informed  by  a  faithful  servant  that  this 
Vieilleville  continues  his  marauding  expeditions 
under  cover  of  my  colors,  and  that  he  murders 
thousands  of  my  men,  who  do  not  suspect  any 
thing.  The  devil !  Can  you  bear  such  things  ? 
Are  you  not  more  interested  in  my  honor  and  my 
service?’  At  these  angry  words,  the  princes  and 
counts  who  filled  the  room,  began  to  murmur, 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


441 


and  retired  full  of  rage.  Yieilleville  had  better 
be  on  his  guard  ;  for  he  was  told  that  the  enemy 
was  very  much  incensed  by  his  conduct,  especially 
the  Spaniards  whose  countryman,  Alphonso  de 
Arbolancqua,  he  had  murdered  in  such  a  cruel 
manner.” 

Yieilleville  replied  to  this,  that  Alphonso  had 
been  found  dead  in  his  bed,  and  that  no  one  had 
been  the  direct  cause  of  his  death  ;  he  asserted 
that  Yieilleville  would  rather  have  died  than  to 
be  guilty  of  such  an  atrocity.  He  said  that  he 
did  not  fear  the  emperor’s  threats,  and  that  he 
owed  it  to  his  honor  to  show  that  the  inhumanity 
of  which  he  was  accused,  was  a  baseless  fiction. 
By  this  speech  Yignaucourt  remarked  that  Yieille¬ 
ville  himself  was  talking  to  him  ;  the  other  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  party  gave  him  the  wink,  and  induced 
him  to  discontinue  his  remarks. 

After  this,  Vieilleville  determined  to  return 
with  the  Duke  of  Nevers.  Scarcely  had  they  ar¬ 
rived  to  within  half  an  hour’s  march  from  Corney, 
when  Hubert  came  dashing  along,  begging  them 
not  to  pass  the  night  in  Corney ;  the  Prince  In- 
fantasque  would  be  there  about  midnight  with 
three  thousand  archers  and  a  thousand  horse,  and 
had  vowed  to  the  emperor  that  he  would  take 
Yieilleville,  dead  or  alive.  “Welcome,  Habert,” 
said  he,  “  you  bring  me  good  news.”  And  now 
he  urged  the  Duke  of  Nevers  to  retreat  to  Pont-a- 
Mousson,  for  Vieilleville  was  unwilling  to  expose 
this  prince  to  any  danger;  himself  had  resolved 
to  remain,  and  to  await  this  Spaniard  with  his 
grandiloquent  speeches.  “  Will  you,”  asked  he, 
“second  my  resolution?  You  have  not  yet 
waged  war  by  any  other  means  than  stratagem 
and  surprise.”  He  thereupon  took  the  red  stand¬ 
ards,  tore  them  in  flinders,  and  commanded  his 
troops  to  remove  the  Spanish  scarfs  and  to  re¬ 
place  them  by  French  colors.  All  answered  that 
they  were  ready  to  die  at  his  feet,  and  tore 
every  strip  of  red  color  they  had  about  them. 
The  Duke  of  Nevers  represented  to  him  the  te¬ 
merity  of  defending  himself  in  a  village  that  was 
not  fortified,  and  where  the  enemy  might  pene¬ 
trate  on  all  sides.  “Never  mind,”  replied  Yieille¬ 
ville,  “  I  know  what  will  defeat,  or,  at  any  rate, 
drive  away  this  army.  See  yonder  copsewood, 
and  this  forest  on  our  left  side  ;  in  each  I  hide  two 
hundred  horse,  with  orders  to  fall  upon  the  Span¬ 
iards  at  the  moment  when  they  are  marching  to 
the  attack  on  the, village;  if  a  hundred  Princes 
Infantasque  were  present,  they  would  all  run 
away.  Leave -*this  matter  to  me ;  with  God’s 
blessing,  I  hope  to  carry  this  plan  out  success¬ 
fully,  and  in  less  than  two  hours  I  shall  be 
avenged.” 

The  Duke  perceiving  that  Yieilleville  could  not 
be  dissuaded  from  his  enterprise,  he  insisted  upon 
sharing  its  dangers  with  him,  any  of  his  admoni¬ 
tions  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  They  re¬ 
solved  to  go  to  Corney,  in  order  to  make  their 
arrangements ;  they  were  only  a  thousand  paces 
distant  from  the  village,  when  they  saw  a  man 
running  across  the  field,  whereupon  they  halted. 
It  was  the  mayor  of  Yillesabron  who  had  done 
them  good  service  before.  He  told  them  to  save 
themselves,  for  the  Margrave  Albert  of  Branden-  j 
burg  was  likewise  approaching  with  four  thousand  ; 


foot,  two  thousand  horse,  and  six  guns.  After 
this  communication  they  were  compelled,  to 
Yieilleville’s  great  sorrow,  to  leave  the  village. 
The  eight  Lotharingian  noblemen  were  set  free. 
Before  leaving,  Yignaucourt  said  he  did  not  won¬ 
der  at  Yieilleville  accomplishing  such  feats,  see¬ 
ing  how  well  he  was  served  ;  “  for,”  said  he,  “  I  will 
take  an  oath  that  I  have  seen  this  man  Habert  in 
the  emperor’s  apartment,  where  he  pretended  he 
had  been  sent  by  Colonel  Schertel,  whom  he  had 
left  sick  in  Strasburg.  He  felt  certain  that  he 
had  seen  the  mayor  four  days  ago  selling  bread 
and  wine  in  the  margrave’s  camp. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  the  first  day  of  Janu¬ 
ary,  1553.  Yieilleville  was  informed  by  deserters 
that  the  emperor  had  raised  the  siege  of  Metz, 
whereupon  he  told  the  duke  Nevers  :  “  I  always 

was  of  opinion  that  the  emperor  was  too  old  and 
gouty  to  despoil  the  virginity  of  such  a  fair  young 
maiden.”  The  duke  not  understanding  this  speech, 
“  I  allude,”  said  Yieilleville,  “to  the  city  of  Metz, 
which  in  German  means  Metze  (maiden),  and  in 
French  pucelle.  They  found  this  allusion  so  in¬ 
genious  that  it  was  reported  in  the  dispatch,  which 
was  sent  to  the  king  without  delay,  in  order  that 
they  might  be  the  first  who  announced  to  him  such 
a  joyful  piece  of  news. 

Yieilleville  now  spent  three  months  in  peace  and 
quiet  on  his  estate^of  Durestal,  where  he  recruited 
himself  from  the  fatigues  of  the  war.  In  the  mean 
while  the  court  had  determined  to  appoint  him  to 
governorship  of  Metz  where  Sir  Gonnor  was  in 
command ;  the  Dukes  of  Guise  and  Nevers  spoke 
particularly  in  his  favor,  for  they  had  been  eye¬ 
witnesses  of  his  bravery.  But  here  too  the  con¬ 
stable  stepped  in  between  him  and  the  king ;  he 
suggested  that  Sir  Gonnor  who  had  defended  the 
city  during  the  siege,  could  not  be  removed,  and 
that  Vieilleville  would  probably  prefer  being 
made  the  king’s  lieutenant  in  Bretagne  where  his 
family  resided  and  his  estates  were  located ;  that 
the  duke  Estampes,  present  governor  of  Bre¬ 
tagne,  was  very  sick  and  would  probably  die 
soon,  in  which  case  his  present  lieutenant,  Sir 
Gye,  would  succeed  him  to  the  governorship,  and 
Yieilleville  might  fill  Gye’s  place. 

Yieilleville  was  secretly  informed  of  this  ar¬ 
rangement  a  fortnight  after  Easter  1553,  by  the 
secretary  Malestroit,  who  requested  him  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  either  to  accept  or  decline  the  offer.  The 
king’s  patent  dated  April  22nd,  1553,  was  actu¬ 
ally  received,  and  was  drawn  up  to  suit  the  con¬ 
stable’s  wishes.  Yieilleville  showed  the  king  in  a 
most  respectful  manner,  by  what  reasons  he  was 
prompted  to  decline  accepting  the  king’s  gracious 
offer.  In  the  first  place ,  Estampes  was  not  danger¬ 
ously  sick ;  such  an  acceptance  would  alienate 
them  from  each  other,  whereas  they  now  lived  on 
the  best  terms  with  each  other ;  moreover  he 
was  two  years  older  than  the  Duke  of  Estampes. 
Secondly ,  he  had  many  friends  and  relatives  in 
Bretagne  who  would  fall  back  upon  their  connec¬ 
tion  with  him,  and  would  oblige  him  to  do  vio-, 
lence  to  his  feelings  in  punishing  them  for  the 
violations  of  the  law  they  might  be  guilty  of, 
and  which,  as  a  just  judge,  he  could  not  allow 
to  remain  unpunished.  Thirdly ,  he  was  still  too 
voung  to  be  placed  on  the  retired  list  in  a  province, 


442 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITIS  GS. 


where  he  would  not  have  any  thing  to  do  except 
to  walk  on  the  beach,  and  watch  the  tide  ;  he  was 
only  forty  two  years  old,  and  hoped  to  be  able  to 
serve  his  Majesty  in  front  of  the  enemy.  Fourthly , 
he  would  find  it  rather  hard,  to  serve  under  Sir 
Gyc,  who  was  his  own  subject  and  with  whom  he 
did  not  live  on  the  best  terms.  He  was  well 
aware  that  his  Majesty  had  desired  to  appoint  him 
to  the  governorship  of  Metz,  and  that  he  was 
amazed,  some  body  must  always  intervene  be¬ 
tween  the  king  and  himself,  in  order  to  frustrate 
the  kind  intentions  which  his  Majesty  entertained 
in  his  behalf. 

After  reading  this  letter,  the  king  became  in¬ 
censed  at  being  thus  opposed  in  all  his  arrange¬ 
ments,  sent  for  the  constable,  and  told  him  that 
Vieilleville  must  have  the  governorship  of  Metz, 
that  G-onnor  must  quit  it,  and  that  Vieilleville 
would  have  to  leave  for  Metz  on  the  spot.  This 
took  •place.  He  was  given  full  power  over  life 
and  death,  and  the  powers  of  the  commanders 
of  Touland  Verdun  were  so  limited,  that  these  of¬ 
ficers  seemed  more  like  captains  of  Vieilleville. 
He  had  the  pay  of  the  garrison  for  two  months  in 
advance,  and  had  it  distributed,  so  however  that 
every  man  had  to  present  himself  before  the  com¬ 
missary  according  to  the  order  of  the  muster-roll. 
Formerly  the  captains  of  companies  had  received 
the  pay  for  the  company,  and  had  been  guilty  of 
a  good  many  malversations  in  office.  By  this  ar¬ 
rangement  the  citizens  of  Metz  gained  considera¬ 
bly,  for  under  the  former  management  they  had  had 
to  depend  upon  the  captain’s  favor,  if  the  private 
soldiers  had  contracted  any  debts.  After  Gonnor 
had  surrendered  every  thing  that  was  contained 
in  the  arsenals,  he  left  Metz,  recommending  to 
Vieilleville’s  care  the  sergeant-major  of  the  city, 
Captain  Nycollas,  and  the  provost  Vaures;.he 
praised  them  very  highly  in  their  presence,  a  pro¬ 
ceeding  which  excited  Vieilleville’s  distrust,  of 
which,  however,  he  showed  no  apparent  signs. 

He  found  the  garrison  in  a  state  of  disorder  ; 
it  had  become  overbearing,  in  consequence  of 
having  stood  a  siege  against  such  a  powerful  em¬ 
peror,  and  not  a  week  passed  by  without  half  a 
dozen  disputes  occurring  as  to  who  had  fought 
with  most  bravery.  Very  frequently  these  dis¬ 
putes  broke  out  among  the  officers,  who  defended 
the  honor  of  their  soldiers;  at  other  times  the 
soldiers  cut  each  other’s  throats  for  their  respec¬ 
tive  officers.  On  this  account,  Vieilleville  was 
very  much  embarrassed.  He  was  afraid  that  ex¬ 
cessive  severity  might  excite  a  rebellion,  which 
was  so  much  more  to  be  dreaded,  since  Count 
M  ansfeld  had  a  considerable  number  of  troops  in 
the  province  of  Luxembourg,  where  he  had  the 
supreme  command.  A  large  body  of  his  troops 
was  stationed  in  Thionville,  four  leagues  from 
Metz.  The  inhabitants,  moreover,  were  in  a  state 
of  despair,  for,  after  the  emperor’s  departure,  it 
was  evident  that  Metz  would  remain  under  French 
supremacy.  The  citizens  were  likewise  tormented 
by  having  soldiers  to  take  care  of,  for  neither 
priest,  nor  nobleman,  nor  nersons  connected  with 
the  courts  of  justice,  were  exempt  from  such  bur¬ 
dens.  On  the  other  hand,  Vieilleville  considered 
it  contrary  to  his  dignity  and  honor,  to  allow  such 
corduct  to  continue.  He  therefore  determined  to 


show  his  courage,  and  to  establish  authority  and 
obedience  at  any  sacrifice. 

He  assembled  the  captains,  and  explained  to 
them  that  he  intended  to  have  the  penalty,  in¬ 
curred  by  violations  of  the  military  law,  rigidly 
enforced  against  every  body,  without  distinction 
of  rank.  The  captains,  who  well  knew  how 
firmly  he  adhered  to  his  intentions  after  he 
had  carefully  reflected  on  his  plans,  offered  to 
assist  him  with  all  the  means  and  influence  in 
their  power;  nevertheless  they  expressed  a  desire 
that  he  might  have  been  less  rigid  in  distributing 
the  last  pay  to  the  soldiers.  He  told  them  that 
it  was  infamous  on  the  part  of  any  man  to  be  go¬ 
verned  by  avarice,  and  that  this  vice  was  incon¬ 
sistent  with  military  honor.  I  am  resolved  to 
carry  out  all  my  arrangements  and  instructions, 
and  to  die  rather  than  to  be  remiss  in  my  duty. 
In  the  afternoon,  the  orders  were  read  aloud,  es¬ 
pecially  in  the  great  square,  where  the  cavalry 
were  assembled  with  all  their  officers.  He  was 
seated  on  his  beautiful  horse,  surrounded  by  his 
German  body  guard,  all  fine  men  who  had  been 
sent  to  him  by  Count  Nassau,  with  large  hal¬ 
berts  and  battle-axes,  dressed  in  black  and  gold, 
for  these  were  his  colors  which  Lady  Vieilleville 
had  selected  for  him  before  her  marriage,  and 
which  he  retained  ever  after.  These  solemn  cere¬ 
monies  made  such  a  deep  impression  that  no  dis¬ 
putes  were  heard  of  for  two  months,  except  a  fight 
over  a  game  of  cards  between  two  soldiers,  one 
of  whom  was  killed.  Vieilleville  obliged  the  cap¬ 
tain,  in  whose  company  the  surviving  soldier  was 
serving,  to  produce  him  in  court,  after  which  the 
head  of  the  murdered  soldier  was  cut  off  first,  and 
afterward  that  of  the  guilty  party. 

Shortly  after,  he  was  informed  that  a  few  soldiers 
who  had  strayed  from  the  city,  under  a  pretext  of 
killing  game,  attacked  the  countrymen  who  came 
to  town  with  provisions,  and  robbed  them  of  their 
money.  About  midnight  three  of  them  were 
caught,  who,  being  put  upon  the  rack,  gave  the 
names  of  seven  of  their  accomplices.  He  caused 
them  to  be  arrested  in  their  beds,  and  was  himself 
present  at  these  proceedings,  with  his  guard. 
These  ten  highwaymen  were  conducted  to  his 
lodgings,  where  they  were  shown  to  four  mer¬ 
chants  whom  they  had  robbed.  Being  recognized, 
they  were  at  once  condemned,  three  of  them  having 
their  bones  broken  upon  the  wheel,  and  the  rest 
being  hung.  Next  morning  the  captains  heard 
of  their  execution  sooner  than  of  their  imprison¬ 
ment.  * 

This  caused  a  great  consternation  among  the 
troops,  which  was  still  increased,  by  the  fact  that 
his  severity  toward  his  own  domestics  was  still 
more  inexorable.  One  of  his  servants,  who  had 
been  in  his  employ  for  seven  years,  was  hung  the 
very  next  morning  after  breaking  into  the  apirt- 
ment  of  a  girl  whom  he  loved  ;  and  one  oi  his 
cooks  who  had  opened  a  hotel  in  Metz,  and  who, 
contrary  to  order,  had  purchased  provisions  of 
the  country-people  at  the  gate,  whereas  they 
should  have  been  exposed  for  sale  in  the  markets 
designated  for  such  purposes,  was  pulled  with 
ropes  so  violently  that  he  became  paralyzed  until 
his  death. 

Duriug  the  siege,  several  officers  and  soldiers 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


443 


of  the  garrison  having  sent  the  men  upon  the 
walls  to  attend  to  the  needful  repairs,  abused  their 
wives  and  daughters  in  a  shameful  manner,  mur¬ 
dered  the  men,  whom  they  afterward  pretended 
had  been  killed  by  the  enemy's  shot,  and  kept  the 
women  concealed  for  fiendish  purposes.  Twenty- 
six  of  these  were  missing.  The  former  governor 
remained  deaf  to  the  complaints  that  were  made 
to  him  on  this  account,  partly  because  he  feared  a 
rebellion,  and  partly  because  he  himself  kept  a 
girl  contrary  to  the  will  of  her  mother,  and  caused 
her  to  be  addressed  as  Lady  G  on  nor.  The  pa¬ 
rents  and  relatives  of  these  unfortunates,  seeing 
how  justly  Vieilleville  proceeded  in  all  things, 
determined  to  petition  him  on  the  subject  at  a 
very  early  hour,  when  no  officer  had  yet  made  his 
appearance.  He  rebuked  them  for  having  allowed 
6ix  months  to  elapse  without  giving  him  notice  of 
such  iniquities.  They  replied,  they  had  been 
afraid  of  being  turned  away,  even  as  Sir  Gonnor 
had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  grievances.  “  I 
thank  you,”  said  the  governor,  “  for  having  meas¬ 
ured  my  conscience  by  that  of  my  predecessor  ; 
nevertheless,  you  shall  have  satisfaction,  even  be¬ 
fore  I  retire  to  rest,  provided  you  can  inform  me 
where  your  relatives  are  kept  concealed.”  Here¬ 
upon,  one  of  them,  whose  name  was  Bastoigne, 
and  wdiose  wife,  sister,  and  sister-in-law  had  been 
carried  off,  assured  him  that  he  knew  in  what  houses 
they  were  kept.  “Well,”  said  Vieilleville,  “now 
go  home,  and  this  evening  at  nine  o’clock  you 
shall  have  your  missing  friends.  I  select  this  hour 
purposely,  in  order  to  spare  to  these  ruined  fe¬ 
males  the  disgrace  of  a  public  exposure.  In  the 
mean  while  keep  every  thing  perfectly  quiet,  lest 
the  women  should  be  removed  before  I  can  act.” 

Hereupon  he  made  his  arrangements,  had 
guards  put  out,  and  in  company  with  a  few  sol¬ 
diers,  instituted  a  search  in  the  houses  which  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him.  First  he  repaired  to 
the  house  of  Captain  Roiddes,  who  kept  the  beau¬ 
tiful  wife  of  a  notary  public,  named  Le  Coq,  broke 
the  door  open,  and  entered  the  apartment,  at  the 
moment  when  the  captain  and  his  paramour  were, 
on  the  point  of  retiring  for  the  night.  The  delin¬ 
quent  at  first  attempted  resistance;  but  on  see¬ 
ing  the  governor,  he  fell  at  his  feet,  asking  him 
what  he  desired.  The  governor  replied,  he  was 
looking  for  a  chicken  that  he  had  been  feeding 
these  eight  months.  The  captain,  who  was  very 
brave,  and  was  much  better  skilled  in  fighting 
than  in  talking,  vowed,  with  an  oath,  that  he  kept 
neither  chicken  nor  hen,  nor  any  other  kind  of 
poultry.  All  began  to  laugh,  even  Vieilleville 
moderated  his  severe  tone,  saying :  “  Dullard,  I 
demand  Le  Coq’s  wrife  this  instant,  or  to-morrow 
morning  your  head  shall  roll  at  your  feet.”  A 
soldier  who  was  devoted  to  the  captain,  in  the 
meanwhile  allowed  the  lady  to  escape  by  a  back 
door,  into  a  street.  But  here  he  was  arrested  by 
a  halberdier,  and  fared  rather  badly  when  under¬ 
taking  to  resist  this  authority.  The  lady  had,  in 
the  mean  while,  fled  to  her  husband,  in  order  to 
prove  her  innocence,  whereupon  the  captain,  who 
was  already  in  the  hands  of  the  guard,  for  the 
purpose  of  being  conducted  to  the  place  of  exe¬ 
cution,  was  released  again  from  confinement. 
Theothe1  officers  hearing  of  these  transactions, 


all  the  girls  and  women  whom  they  kept  confined 
were  permitted  to  escape,  and  to  return  to  their 
families.  Vieilleville  continued  his  search  for  six 
hours  longer,  until  he  was  informed  that  every 
lost  female  had  been  restored. 

Seven  noble  families  in  Metz  had  claimed  the 
right,  from  time  immemorial,  of  electing  from 
among  their  own  number  the  chief-mayor  of  the 
city,  an  office  of  considerable  importance.  They 
had  become  so  inflated  with  their  own  eminence, 
that,  when  a  child  was  baptized  in  one  of  these  fami¬ 
lies,  the  hope  was  expressed  it  would  one  day  be 
chief-mayor  of  Metz,  or  King  of  France.  Vieille¬ 
ville  was  determined  to  put  a  stop  to  this  privi¬ 
lege.  At  the  next  election,  when  they  invited 
him  to  be  present,  he  told  them  that  they  had 
rather  ask  him  whether  such  an  election  was 
agreeable  to  his  own  sense  of  duty.  He  told 
them  that  they  could  no  longer  elect  a  mayor  in 
the  name  of  “  His  Imperial  Majesty  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire ,  and  of  the  Imperial  Court  of 
Spires  ;  and  that  the  words:  in  the  name  of  the 
Most  Christian,  Invincible  Crown  of  France,  and 
of  the  Sovereign  Parliament  of  Paris,  must  be 
substituted  in  the  place  of  the  former.”  He  con¬ 
tinued,  that  he  had  appointed  a  good  citizen, 
Michel  Praillon,  chief-mayor,  and  that  they  might 
be  present  in  court,  at  his  installation,  on  the 
morning  following.  The  departing  chief-mayor, 
upon  hearing  of  this,  sank  on  his  knees,  more  es¬ 
pecially  as  Vieilleville  had  no  orders  from  the 
king  for  any  such  innovation  ;  he  had  to  be  car¬ 
ried  home,  where  he  died  in  two  days,  as  a  true 
adherent  of  the  ancient  privileges  of  his  house. 

Vieilleville  installed  the  new  mayor  with  his 
own  hands,  and  took  charge  of  the  appropriate 
solemnities.  This  change,  and  the  deliverance 
of  their  daughters  and  wives,  won  for  him  the 
affection  of  the  citizens,  and  made  them  willing 
to  be  good  French  subjects.  They  even  informed 
him  that  a  petition  to  the  Imperial  Chamber  was 
being  drawn  up,  and  pointed  out  the  place  where 
it  was  deposited.  Some  persons  were  arrested  on 
these  premises  during  the  night,  at  the  time  when 
they  were  engaged  on  the  document.  'The  au¬ 
thor,  and  the  person  who  was  to  transmit  the 
paper,  were  carried  off,  and  nothing  further  was 
ever  heard  of  them  ;  the  probability  is  that  they 
were  drowned.  The  other  participants,  who  be¬ 
longed  to  the  nobility,  were  released,  after  receiv¬ 
ing  a  severe  reprimand,  and  begging  pardon  on 
their  knees. 

He  not  only  reorganized  the  police  of  the  city  ; 
he  likewise  made  it  his  business  to  clear  the  sur¬ 
rounding  country  of  the  robbers  who  infested  it 
and  rendered  the  roads  unsafe.  Every  week, 
several  hundred  men  of  the  garrison  had  to  ride 
out  and  scour  the  country.  He  harassed  the  Im¬ 
perial  garrisons  of  Thionville  and  Luxembourg  so 
constantly,  that  from  the  first  of  May,  1553,  when 
he  took  charge  of  the  governorship,  until  the 
April  following,  they  lost  about  twelve  hundred 
men,  whereas  his  own  loss  was  only  one  hundred 
and  seventy.  The  prisoners  were  ransomed  im¬ 
mediately,  for  a  month’s  pay.  He  took  care  to 
send  the  bravest  troops  on  such  expeditions, 
called  them  by  name,  and  accompanied  them  »3 
far  as  the  gates,  where  he  took  leave  of  them 


444 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  a  few  kind  words  to  the  captains  on  behalf 
of  those  whom  he  committed  to  their  charge. 

In  order  to  make  head  against  Yieilleville, 
Count  Mansfeld,  who  had  the  command  in  Lux¬ 
embourg,  requested  reinforcements  of  the  Queen 
of  Hungary,  Regent  of  the  Netherlands.  They 
were  sent  to  him  under  Count  Mesgue.  But 
Mansfeld,  being  unable  to  accomplish  any  thing, 
laid  down  his  command,  which  was  now  com¬ 
mitted  to  Count  Mesgue’s  charge,  who  "was  glad 
to  be  appointed  to  the  office,  although  he  was 
very  unsuccessful.  Vieilleville  had  excellent  spies, 
among  whom  several  Burgundians,  named  Ma- 
ranges,  did  excellent  service.  There  was  no  wed¬ 
ding  or  fair  held  within  a  circuit  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  leagues  in  the  enemy’s  country,  to  which 
Vieilleville  did  not  dispatch  a  few  hundred  horse¬ 
men  as  uninvited  guests.  If  Count  Mesgue  sent 
troops  to  intercept  Vieilleville's  marauders,  this 
one  was  at  once  informed  of  such  proceedings, 
and  sent  additional  forces  to  support  his  first 
command.  During  such  encounters,  the  most 
daring  deeds  were  sometimes  performed,  and  the 
enemy  was  uniformly  defeated. 

He  was  informed  that  the  Card'nal  Lenoncourt, 
Bishop  of  Metz,  was  collecting  a  good  amount  of 
evidence  against  him.  to  be  laid  before  the  king’s 
secret  council.  “  Well,”  said  he,  “in  order  to 
enable  him  to  make  the  list  of  his  complaints  very 
full,  I  will  furnish  him  an  opportunity  of  doing 
so.”  Hereupon  he  convoked  the  masters  of  the 
mint  who  struck  the  Cardinal’s  coin  (for  the  bis¬ 
hop  was  empowered  to  have  his  own  coin  struck) 
and  rebuked  them  for  driving  all  good  coin  out 
of  the  circulation,  and  substituting  base  coin  in  its 
stead.  He  commanded  them  under  penalty  of 
death,  not  to  strike  any  more  coin,  and  caused 
their  stamps  and  their  tools  to  be  broken  in 
pieces  by  the  provost,  and  urging,  as  a  justifica¬ 
tion  for  his  conduct,  that  it  was  not  fair  that  the 
king  should  have  a  subject  who  had  the  same 
privileges  as  his  master. 

This  was  one  of  the  most  useful  reforms  in¬ 
stituted  by  Vieilleville,  for  innumerable  frauds 
were  perpetrated  in  the  mint.  The  king  was 
very  much  pleased  with  the  change.  The  cardi¬ 
nal,  on  hearing  of  this  proceeding,  came  very  near 
destroying  himself,  for  he  was  of  a  very  vehement 
temper.  He  associated  himself  with  the  Duke  of 
Vaudemont,  governor  of  Lorraine,  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  ousting  Vieilleville  from  his  command, 
and  was  assisted  in  this  undertaking  by  the  Car¬ 
dinal  Lorraine. 

Vieilleville  was  informed  by  a  courier  from 
Malestroit  that  the  dauphin’s  governor,.  Humi¬ 
eres,  was  dying,  and  that  it  was  the  king’s  inten¬ 
tion  to  give  Vieilleville  the  company  of  gens- 
d’armes  which  Humieres  had  possessed.  The 
constable  opposed  this  arrangement,  and  wished 
this  company  to  be  given  to  the  governor’s  son. 
Vieilleville  might  have  the  squadron  of  light  cav¬ 
alry  stationed  at  Metz,  that  had  belonged  to  the 
former  governor,  Gonnor.  The  Constable  had 
even  won  the  dauphin  over  for  his  request,  and 
had  instructed  him  to  intercede  with  the  king  in 
behalf  of  Humieres’  son,  who  it  was  the  con¬ 
stable’s  wish  should  succeed  his  father  in  the  own¬ 


ership  of  his  company  of  gens-d’armes.  Without 
hesitation,  Vieilleville  dispatched  his  secretary  to 
the  king,  urging  him  in  the  most  emphatic  man¬ 
ner,  to  adhere  to  his  first  intentions  concerning 
this  company.  The  secretary  arrived  in  St.  Ger¬ 
main  before  Humieres  had  died.  The  king,  after 
reading  Vieilleville’s  letter,  said  :  “  I  shall  give 
him  this  company  ;  he  has  waited  long  enough  ; 
his  faithful  services  entitle  him  to  it;  after  Hu¬ 
mieres’  death,  I  shall  not  swerve  from  my  present 
resolution,  no  matter  who  growls  at  it.”  At  the 
same  time,  Vieilleville  requested  the  squadron 
of  light  cavalry  for  his  son-in-law,  Espinay. 
“  Granted,”  said  the  king,  “with  pleasure.”  The 
patent  was  sent  to  him  without'loss  of  time. 

Vieilleville  harassed  Count  Mesgue  unceasingly. 
His  troops  frequently  roved  to  the  very  gates  of 
Luxembourg,  challenging  the  imperialists.  Mesgue 
was  so  disturbed  at  this  that  he  proposed  an 
armistice  to  Vieilleville.  But  the  latter  replied 
in  a  scornful  manner,  that  both  of  them  would 
deserve  to  be  cashiered,  if  they  assumed  rights 
which  only  belonged  to  their  masters.  He  ad¬ 
vised  Count  Mesgue  to  study  the  laws  and  privi¬ 
leges  of  war  a  little  better  than  he  had  done,  and 
advised  him  to  go  back  to  the  university  of  Lou 
vain,  which  he  had  only  left  a  short  while  ago 
The  count  was  so  ashamed  of  his  ignorance  that 
he  begged  Vieilleville  not  to  mention  the  subject 
auy  further,  and  to  send  back  the  letter  wherein 
this  thing  had  been  broached.  Vieilleville  pro¬ 
mised  to  do  so,  on  condition  that  Mesgue  would 
send  to  him  a  cargo  of  fish  from  Antwerp.  The 
bargain  having  been  struck,  the  fish  was  sent, 
and  Vieilleville  and  his  men  consumed  them  with 
great  relish  and  mirth. 

Toward  the  end  of  September, 1554,  President 
Marillac  who  wished  to  take  a  journey  to  Paris, 
was  escorted  to  the  capital  by  a  select  squadron  of 
cavalry,  and  a  body  of  arquebusiers  on  foot.  Count 
Mesgue,  on  hearing  of  this,  resolved  to  be  avenged 
on  this  occasion  for  the  many  insults  he  had  re¬ 
ceived  from  Vieilleville.  He  contrived  his  ar¬ 
rangements  so  quietly  that  Vieilleville  only  heard 
of  them  after  the  enemy  had  already  issued  from 
the  gates  of  Thionville.  He  at  once  mounted  the 
rest  of  his  cavalry,  and  sent  them  off  in  two  dif¬ 
ferent  detachments  under  the  command  of  Espinay 
and  Dorvoulx.  Both  corps  only  numbered  one 
hundred  and  twenty  men.  Three  hundred  light 
troops  were  ordered  to  occupy  asmall  castle,  Domp- 
champ,  where  about  fifteen  or  twenty  men  and 
a  captain  were  already  stationed.  He  caused  all 
the  gates  of  the  city  to  be  locked,  put  the  keys  in 
his  pocket,  and  sat  down  near  the  gate,  where  he 
had  news  of  the  enemy’s  progress  brought  to  him 
every  fifteen  minutes.  He  doubled  the  guards, 
and  some  of  the  captains  had  to  walk  on  the 
walls,  in  order  to  make  observations.  The  other 
captains,  together  with  Messieurs  Boisse  and 
Croze,  were  present  with  three  hundred  men  and 
his  body-guard.  At  nine  o’clock  he  had  his  sup¬ 
per  brought  to  him,  and  shortly  after,  both  de¬ 
tachments  sent  word  that  they  had  reconnoitred 
the  enemy,  and  found  him  with  eight  companies 
of  infantry  and  eight  or  nine  hundred  horse  ;  that 
this  force  was  too  powerful  to  be  resisted,  and  that 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE.  445 


they  should  retreat  toward  Dompchamp,  which 
they  would  reach  in  three  hours.  They  desired 
further  instruction. 

Hearing  of  this  movement  which  looked  like  a 
retreat,  Vieilleville  took  a  dreadful  resolution. 
He  caused  sixty  heavy  arquebuses  to  be  taken 
down,  with  which  he  armed  a  corresponding  num¬ 
ber  of  his  most  powerful  guards.  Captain  Croze 
was  directed  to  take  one  hundred  arquebusiers  and 
ten  or  twelve  drummers,  and  to  remain  quiet  on  a 
retired  little  farm  near  Dompchamp,  until  the 
combat  should  have  begun.  He  put  on  his  gilt 
armor  and  marched  out  of  town  upon  his  charger 
Yvoy  ;  the  town  itself  was  left  in  charge  of  Cap¬ 
tain  Boisse,  who  he  knew  would  guard  the  place 
with  care  in  case  he  himself  should  remain  on  the 
field.  After  making  all  his  arrangements  he 
marched  rapidly  forward  with  his  seventy  mus¬ 
keteers,  firmly  resolved  to  conquer  or  to  die. 

As  soon  as  he  had  joined  the  other  troops  he  at 
once  proceeded  tomakehis  arrangements.  Among 
other  things,  he  placed  his  infantry  between  the 
horses,  an  arrangement  that  was  frequently  re¬ 
sorted  to  after  him  by  other  commanders.  The 
enemy  advanced  toward  him  in  a  direct  line  to 
within  five  hundred  paces  ;  he  marched  forward 
with  measured  tread,  first  firing  a  volley  in  order 
to  prevent  the  enemy  from  seeing  his  small  num¬ 
ber.  Both  corps  met,  the  enemy  imagining  that 
Vieilleville  would  be  routed  without  difficulty,  for 
they  were  ten  to  the  French  one.  The  musket¬ 
eers  did  not  lose  a  shot.  Vieilleville,  having  Es- 
pinay  and  Thevales  by  his  side,  fell  upon  the 
enemy,  cutting  down  all  who  came  before  him. 
Croze  with  his  drummers,  rushed  from  his  ambush, 
attacking  the  enemy  furiously  in  the  flank.  Che¬ 
valier  la  Rogue  fell  upon  them  with  terrible  effect 
from  another  quarter.  The  infantry  had  remained 
behind,  because  the  enemy  was  supposed  to  be  in 
small  number.  All  their  commanders  having  been 
killed,  the  troops  now  began  to  rush  back,  falling 
upon  their  own  infantry  whose  ranks  they  broke. 
More  than  fifteen  hundred  of  their  men  were 
killed,  the  rest  were  taken  prisoners.  Each  sol¬ 
dier  had  one  or  two  prisoners  ;  even  two  sutler- 
women  drove  a  few  wounded  soldiers  in  front  of 
them,  whom  they  had  caught  without  arms. 
Count  Mesgue  had  fled  across  the  woods  as  far 
as  the  Moselle,  which  he  traversed  with  two  other 
fugitives  in  a  small  boat,  after  which  he  safely 
reached  Thionville.  Vieilleville’s  loss  was  eight 
killed,  and  twelve  wounded.  He  re-entered  Metz, 
and  straightway  marched  to  the  cathedral  where 
he  thanked  God  for  this  victory,  The  thunder  of 
the  cannon  and  the  peals  of  all  the  bells,  must 
have  announced  the  victory  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Thionville. 

It  happened,  by  astrange  coincidence,  that  on  the 
very  day  when  this  brilliant  battle  was  fought,  the 
king  decorated  him  with  the  royal  order.  The 
officer  whom  he  had  sent  to  the  king  with  the 
standards  that  had  been  taken,  met  the  royal 
bearer  of  the  order  on  his  way  to  Vieilleville. 
The  Duke  of  Nevers  was  to  hang  the  order  round 
Vieilleville’s  neck.  But  Vieilleville,  in  a  very 
■polite  note  to  the  Duke,  declined  receiving  the 
order  out  of  any  other  hands  than  the  king’s;  he 


|  had  made  this  vow  when  Francis  I.  dubbed  biro 
|  knight. 

|  The  sergeant-major  of  the  whole  district,  and 
the  provost  whom  Gonnor  had  recommended  so 
earnestly  to  Vieilleville’s  favor,  were  very  excel¬ 
lent  men  in  all  matters  of  public  service,  and  were 
highly  considered  in  Metz.  But  they  permitted 
themselves  to  perpetrate  a  number  of  fraudulent 
transactions.  They  frequently  permitted  crimi¬ 
nals  who  had  been  condemned  to  death,  to  escape 
on  payment  of  a  sum  of  money,  saying  that  the 
fellows  had  been  drowned,  not  having  been  worth 
the  hanging.  Such  a  criminal  whom  they  pre¬ 
tended  they  had  drowned,  was  caught  again  at  a 
time  when  another  criminal  who  had  been  con¬ 
demned  to  death,  had  already  been  dragged  by 
these  two  high  functionaries  through  the  dun¬ 
geons  of  the  city  for  upward  of  two  months. 
Having  received  strict  orders  to  have  this  pris¬ 
oner  executed,  they  had  him  taken  to  the  place 
of  execution  enveloped  in  a  large  cloak,  which 
concealed  the  hands  that  had  been  left  untied  ;  he 
was  likewise  said  to  be  a  Lutheran,  in  order  to 
make  it  unnecessary  for  him  to  carry  a  crucifix. 
When  the  fellow  was  standing  on  the  ladder,  he 
suddenly  jumped  down,  leaving  the  cloak  in  the 
sheriff’s  hand,  and  ran  away  so  fast  that  nobody 
knew  what  had  become  of  him.  It  was  found  out 
that  the  two  functionaries  had  been  paid  one 
thousand  crowns  by  one  of  the  prisoner’s  relatives, 
in  consideration  of  which  bribe  he  was  to  be  per¬ 
mitted  to  run  away.  Vieilleville,  incensed  at  this 
conduct,  had  them  arrested  and  put  upon  the 
rack,  where  they  confessed  their  crimes.  A  coun¬ 
cil  of  war  condemned  both  to  death,  the  sergeant- 
major  was  strangled  in  prison,  and  the  provost 
and  his  secretary  were  publicly  hung. 

There  were  two  Franciscan  cloisters  in  Metz, 
one  of  which  was  inhabited  by  monks  from  Ny- 
velle,  a  small  town  in  the  Netherlands.  Father 
Guardian  made  frequent  visits  to  his  relatives  in 
Metz,  and  on  every  journey  paid  his  respects  to 
the  Queen  of  Hungary  who  learned  through  him 
the  state  of  affairs  in  Metz,  and  was  moreover 
made  acquainted  with  a  good  many  particulars 
concerning  France  and  Germany  ;  in  short,  he  was 
a  regular  spy.  He  became  an  accomplice  ir.  a  plan 
to  take  Metz.  For  this  purpose  he  introduced 
some  seventy  of  the  bravest  soldiers  into  the  for¬ 
tress,  all  disguised  as  Franciscan  monks.  It  had 
been  arranged  that  Count  Mesgue  was  to  receive 
reinforcements,  and  that  he  was  to  appear  near 
the  gate  of  the  bridge  Vffrai,  as  if  designing  to 
make  an  assault.  By  an  invention  of  his  own, 
Father  Guardian  was  to  set  fire  to  upward  of  one 
hundred  houses  ;  every  body  would  hasten  to  put 
the  fire  out,  during  which  the  monks  were  to  ap¬ 
pear  on  the  walls  and  draw  their  comrades  up.  A 
few  thousand  soldiers  of  the  garrison  were  expected 
to  revolt  as  soon  as  they  should  see  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  plunder  the  citizens,  and  would  bawl  : 
“ Liberty  !  liberty  !  down  with  Vieilleville  /” 

The  monk  managed  matters  quite  successfully: 
in  less  than  three  weeks  the  soldiers  were  in  the 
cloister.  But  at  this  period  Vieilleville  was  in¬ 
formed  by  one  of  his  adroitest  spies,  that  the 
Queen  of  "Hungary  was  sending  reinforcements  to 


446 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


Count  Mesgue — consisting  of  twelve  hundred  light 
arquebusiers,  eight  hundred  horse,  and  a  con¬ 
siderable  number  of  Netherlandish  noblemen.  It 
was  certain  that  the  count  meditated  some  enter¬ 
prise,  but  it  was  impossible  to  find  out  what 
it  was.  Two  Franciscans,  of  middle  size,  had 
been  seen  closeted  with  the  count,  but  it  had 
been  impossible  to  trace  their  whereabouts; 
they  were  supposed  to  have  come  from  Brussels. 

Yieilleville  at  once  called  a  few  captains  to  his 
house,  and  sent  for  Guardian,  asking  him  whether 
all  his  monks  were  here,  and  informing  him  at  the 
same  time  that  he  wished  to  see  them.  Finding 
every  thing  in  order,  he  repaired  to  the  other 
convent,  and  inquired  for  Guardian.  He  was 
told  that  Guardian  had  gone  to  Nyvelle  to  attend 
to  his  brother’s  funeral.  Yieilleville  demanded  to 
see  the  monks  and  to  be  informed  of  their  num¬ 
ber.  Three  or  four  replied  that  they  had  gone  to 
the  city  to  collect  alms.  He  saw  by  their  change 
of  color  that  something  wrong  was  brewing.  He 
at  once  instituted  a  search,  and  found  in  the  very 
first  apartment  two  pretended  Franciscans  who 
feigned  sickness  and  had  concealed  their  military 
pantaloons  under  their  blankets.  Threatened 
with  death,  they  at  once  confessed  whence  they 
came,  but  they  were  unable  to  say  what  they  had 
come  for,  they  expected  to  learn  this  as  soon  as 
the  father  should  have  returned  from  Luxem¬ 
bourg.  Yieilleville  caused  the  cloister  to  be 
closed,  and  appointed  a  trusty  captain  with  a 
strong  guard,  who  had  orders  to  let  every  body  in 
but  no  body  out.  At  the  same  time  all  the  gates 
of  the  city  were  closed,  and  likewise  the  bridge- 
gate  at  Yffiay  which  was  on  the  road  to  Luxem¬ 
bourg,  and  where  Captain  Salcede  was  on  guard. 
To  this  place  he  repaired  himself,  dismissed  his 
guard,  and  remained  with  a  nobleman,  a  page,  and 
his  servants,  in  company  with  Salcede  and  his  men. 

He  informed  Captain  Salcede  that  he  expected 
some  person  at  the  gate,  and  that  Salcede  himself 
must  see  this  person,  even  if  he  should  have  to  re¬ 
main  in  the  watch-house  all  night.  Salcede  might 
take  his  dinner  at  the  gate,  if  it  were  only  garlic 
and  turnips  ;  he  requested  the  captain  to  be  in  a 
hurry. 

Salcede  came  at  once,  bringing  a  very  nice 
dinner,  which  tasted  very  well  in  the  open  air. 
Scarcely  had  they  sat  down,  when  the  sentinel 
reported  the  arrival  of  two  Franciscan  monks. 
Yieilleville  took  a  halbert,  and,  attended  by  two 
soldiers,  took  his  place  at  the  barrier.  The  monks, 
who  were  amazed  at  seeing  him  here,  doing  duty 
like  a  common  soldier,  dismounted.  He  requested 
them  to  repair  to  the  quarters  of  Captain  Sal¬ 
cede  ;  the  two  soldiers  had  orders  to  accompany 
them  thither.  Now  he  sent  every  body  away ;  he, 
Salcede,  and  his  lieutenant  Ryolus  remaining 
alone.“  Well,  Mr.  Hypocrite,”  said  he,  accosting 
the  father,  “you  come  from  a  conference  with 
Count  Mesgue.  Confess  at  once  what  you  are 
transacting  together,  or  else  you  will  be  killed  on 
the  spot.  If  you  confess  the  truth,  I  shall  spare 
your  life,  even  if  it  had  been  your  intention  to 
take  my  own.  You  cannot  get  into  your  cloister, 
it  is  full  of  soldiers,  and  your  monks  are  prisoners  ; 
two  of  them  have  admitted  that  they  are  disguised 
soldiers  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary.”  The  father 


fell  at  his  feet,  asserting  that  these  two  were  his 
relatives,  and  had  killed  their  brother  on  account 
of  an  inheritance.  In  the  mean  while  news  was 
sent  by  the  captain  on  watch  at  the  cloister  that 
six  monks  had  entered  it,  who  wore  soldiers’ 
clothes  under  their  monkish  garb.  Yieilleville 
now  threatened  to  put  the  father  on  the  rack,  un¬ 
less  he  confessed.  The  monk,  seeing  that  every 
thing  was  betrayed,  more  particularly  when  the 
letter  which  Vieilleville’s  spy  had  sent  to  him 
from  Luxembourg  was  shown  him,  said  that  he 
well  saw  how  God  assisted  him  and  watched  over 
the  city,  for  without  this  news,  Metz  would  have 
been  lost  to  the  king,  and  would  have  fallen  into 
the  Emperor’s  hands.  The  troops  that  had  been 
ordered  on  this  expedition,  were  in  St.  Jean,  only 
six  hours’  march  from  Metz;  they  were  to  be 
there  about  nine  o’clock  in  the  evening.  In  one 
word,  he  coufessed  the  whole  conspiracy.  Yieille¬ 
ville  now  committed  him  in  charge  of  Captain 
Ryolus,  with  orders  to  have  him  bound,  and  not 
to  let  him  talk  to  any  living  being. 

In  this  emergency  Yieilleville  acted  with  the 
presence  of  mind  which  he  showed  in  all  unfore¬ 
seen  events.  He  ordered  up  his  company  ;  Messrs. 
Espinay  and  Lancque  had  to  do  the  same.  Cap¬ 
tains  St.  Coulombe  and  St.  Marie  had  to  furnish 
three  hundred  arquebusiers.  The  new  serjeant- 
major,  St.  Chamans,  had  to  pile  fifty  bundles  of  dry 
wood  upon  the  gates,  with  orders  to  kindle  them  be¬ 
tween  six  and  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening.  The 
whole  town  was  in  a  state  of  excitement ;  nobody 
knew  what  was  to  pay. 

When  every  thing  was  got  ready,  he  said: 
“Now  let  us  march  quietly  and  quickly;  in  less 
than  three  hours  you  shall  see  strange  things.” 
He  had  selected  a  very  adroit  captain  as  the 
leader  of  his  soldiers  ;  he  summoned  him  to  his 
presence,  and  revealed  to  him  his  whole  plan. 
He  wished  this  captain  to  place  him  in  am¬ 
bush,  whence  he  could  attack  the  enemy ;  if  they 
should  fail  in  this,  they  would  attack  any  how, 
although  they  were  only  one  to  the  enemy’s  three. 
The  captain  placed  him  in  a  thick  forest,  at  one 
end  of  which  a  village  was  situated.  Here  Yieille¬ 
ville  distributed  his  men  in  small  detachments 
at  intervals  of  a  thousand  paces,  so  that  the  enemy 
would  lose  his  senses  and  would  fancy  himself  at¬ 
tacked  by  the  whole  garrison,  which  was  known 
to  consist  of  five  thousand  two  hundred  foot, 
and  one  thousand  horse.  He  left  the  road  to 
Thionville  open,  because  he  did  not  wish  to  pur¬ 
sue  the  fugitives,  in  accordance  with  the  golden 
rule  :  “  Build  a  silver  bridge  for  a  fleeing  enemy.” 

News  was  brought  that  the  enemy  might  arrive 
in  one  hour.  The  report  was  that  a  fire  was  seen 
in  Metz,  that  the  enemy  was  much  stronger  than 
was  expected,  that  the  country  was  flooded  with 
hostile  troops.  Soon  the  vanguard  of  sixty  men 
came  trotting  through  the  woods.  The  halber¬ 
diers  were  lying  flat  on  their  bellies,  and  the 
arquebusiers  had  retreated  to  the  background  as 
far  as  possible,  to  prevent  the  matches  being 
smelled.  The  enemy  was  heard  to  say :  “  But 
spurs  to  your  horses,  we  are  too  slow.  There  are 
nothing  but  moles  in  the  forest.  Thunder !  how 
shall  we  be  able  to  make  a  fortune,  and  do  the 
;  emperor  a  service  ?”  Another  said:  “We  shall 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


447 


cause  him  to  blush,  for  we  shall  accomplish  with 
three  thousand  men  what  he  could  not  accomplish 
with  a  hundred  thousand.”  Another  speech  was: 

“  I  shall  have  great  fun  this  night ;  the  town  is 
full  of  pretty  girls  and  women.”  The  whole  baud 
now  penetrated  into  the  forest,  Count  Mesgue 
bringing  up  the  rear  with  a  splendid  corps  of 
cavalry.  He  pushed  them  forward  with  all  his 
might,  so  that  they  marched  in  great  disorder. 
The  whole  corps  was  followed  by  a  body  of 
Netherlandish  nobles,  consisting  of  eight  hundred 
men. 

After  these  too  had  entered  the  forest,  Vieille- 
ville’s  first  detachment  rushed  from  its  ambush, 
crying:  “  France!  France !  Vieilleville!”  The 
noblemen  called  to  their  servants  for  arms;  the 
arquebusiers  now  came  up,  each  of  them  killing 
his  man  ;  at  the  same  time  the  drummers  made  a 
terrible  noise.  The  vanguard  attempted  to  turn 
about  and  assist  the  rear,  but  the  second  corps 
now  rushed  from  its  ambush,  and  the  confusion 
became  so  terrible  that  the  Spaniards  lost  their 
senses.  The  Count  Alesgue  cried  :  “We  are  be¬ 
trayed!  God,  what  is  this!”  and  tried  to  defend 
himself.  The  third  corps  now  rushed  from  its 
ambush,  and  the  enemy’s  cavalry  galloped  to  the 
village,  where  they  hoped  to  make  a  stand  ;  but 
here  Vieilleville’s  fourth  corps  awaited  them,  and 
even  a  fifth,  which  attacked  them  in  the  centre 
and  cut  them  up  so  dreadfully  that  Count  Mesgue 
had  to  dash  through  his  own  infantry  in  order  to 
save  his  life.  The  flight  now  became  general,  and 
the  victory  was  complete. 

Four  hundred  and  fifty  prisoners  were  made, 
and  eleven  hundred  had  remained  on  the  field 
of  battle.  Vieilleville  had  only  lost  fifteen  men, 
aud  only  few  a  had  been  wounded. 

This  happened  on  a  Thursday,  in  the  month  of 
October,  1555;  Vieilleville’s  prudence  and  ac¬ 
tivity  discovered  and  punished  an  act  of  treason 
on  the  same  day.  The  monks  of  Metz  were  more 
closely  guarded,  but  the  thirty  soldiers  who  had 
disguised  themselves  as  monks,  were  set  free  by 
Vieilleville,  because  they  had  risked  their  lives 
for  their  master.  He  ordered  them,  however,  to  be 
led  through  the  city  with  their  monkish  gowns  on 
their  arms,  and  carrying  white  staves  in  their 
hands,  and  to  have  their  names  published  on 
every  public  square  with  these  words:  “These 
are  the  monks  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary,”  &c. 

Vieilleville  sent  a  courier  to  the  king  with  news 
of  this  victory.  The  courier  was  likewise  charged 
with  requesting  for  him  leave  of  absence  for  two 
months,  giving  as  one  of  his  reasons  that  he  had 
not  seen  the  king’s  countenance  during  three 
years  that  Vieilleville  had  been  in  possession  of 
the  governorship  of  Metz.  Vieilleville  had  several 
causes  for  requesting  leave  of  absence.  In  the 
first  place  he  did  not  wish  to  be  present  at  Father 
Guardian’s  execution,  since  he  had  promised  him 
he  would  do  i  im  no  bodily  harm  ;  yet  he  con¬ 
sidered  it  very  wrong  to  let  such  a  villain  live. 
Next  he  had  in  his  head  a  plan  for  the  construc- 
of  a  citadel  in  Metz,  which  would  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money,  since  three  churches  would  have 
to  be  demolished,  and  the  king  would  have  to 
buy  two  hundred  and  fifty  houses,  in  order  to  re¬ 
move  the  inhabitants  to  some  other  locality,  and, 


by  this  means,  gain  space  for  the  work.  He  feared 
that,  unless  he  arranged  the  plan  with  his  own 
hands,  the  constable  would  oppose  him,  so  much 
rather  as  the  Duke  of  Guise  expected  to  march  with 
a  numerous  army  to  Italy,  for  the  purpose  of  re¬ 
taking  Naples.  Immense  sums  were  required  to 
complete  this  armament,  and  it  was  almost  im¬ 
possible  to  procure  the  money.  He  was  likewise 
informed  that  the  Cardinal  Lenoncourt  talked 
against  him  in  every  social  circle,  and  that  the 
Cardinal  Lorraine  backed  him  in  this  nefarious 
conduct. 

Leave  of  absence  was  granted,  and  La  Chapelle 
Biron  was  sent  to  Metz  to  take  charge  of  the 
governorship  during  Vieilleville' »  absence.  Vieille¬ 
ville  having  placed  every  thing  into  the  hands  of 
the  new  governor,  he  left  for  the  capital,  taking 
with  him  only  Count  Soult,  for  whom  he  had  in¬ 
tended  his  second  daughter,  who  was  one  of  the 
queen’s  maids  of  honor.  Immediately  after  his 
arrival  at  court,  the  Cardinal  Lenoncourt  retired 
to  one  of  his  abbeys  near  Fontainebleau.  He 
met  with  a  very  gracious  reception  at  the  hands 
of  the  king,  who  decorated  him  on  this  occasion 
with  his  order.  The  Cardinal  Lorraine,  in  his  ca¬ 
pacity  of  chancellor  of  the  order,  and  the  consta¬ 
ble  as  the  oldest  knight  of  the  order,  were  not 
present  at  this  solemnity.  The  latter  excused 
himself  with  his  headache  to  which  he  was  sub¬ 
ject,  and  the  former  with  a  fit  of  colic.  The  king, 
however,  understood  the  real  meaning  of  these 
empty  apologies. 

It  was  the  Cardinal  Lorraine’s  intention  to  at¬ 
tack  Vieilleville  in  the  king’s  private  council  on 
account  of  his  infringements  of  the  Bishop  of 
Metz’s  privileges.  He  therefore  requested  the 
king  to  be  present,  and  to  take  cognizance  of  the 
important  revelations  he  intended  to  make.  The 
good  king,  not  knowing  what  was  to  come,  at 
once  convoked  the  council,  where  the  Cardinal 
commenced  a  speech  that  threatened  to  be  very 
long.  He  showed  how  the  French  kings  had  al¬ 
ways  been  the  supporters  of  the  church,  illus¬ 
trated  this  assertion  by  a  number  of  extracts  from 
history,  and  wound  up  with  saying  that  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  church,  even  a  pillar  of  whose  wood 
popes  had  been  made,  had  been  restrained  in  his 
ecclesiastical  privileges.  Vieilleville  at  once  rose, 
requesting  the  king  to  impose  silence  upon  the 
cardinal  who  evidently  intended  this  discourse 
for  his  benefit.  He  wondered  that  the  cardinal 
had  commenced  on  such  a  high  key;  he  had  sup¬ 
posed  that  the  holy  Father  and  his  See  must  have 
been  in  danger  of  the  Turks,  and  that  the  King 
of  France  was  to  have  been  urged  to  dispatch  an 
army  of  crusaders  against  the  infidels.  It  was 
not  the  holy  Father  who  was  meant,  but  simply  the 
Cardinal  Lenoncourt  ;  he  felt  assured  that  the 
money  involved  in  the  equipment  oi  a  large  army, 
would  remain  intact  in  the  coffers  ol  the  king. 
He  now  reviewed  the  complaints  which  the  cardi¬ 
nal  could  possibly  make,  and  answered  them  one 
by  one  with  much  eloquence  and  warmth.  He 
hoped  the  Cardinal  Lenoncourt  himself  would 
appear  as  his  accuser,  and  not  hide  himself  behind 
the  influence  of  the  Cardinal  Lorraine,  in  the  hope 
that  he,  Vieilleville,  might  thus  be  prevented 
from  justifying  and  defending  himself.  The  king 


448 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


asked  the  Cardinal  whether  this  was  the  only  rea¬ 
son  why  he  had  desired  his  royal  presence  in  the 
council?  To  which  the  Cardinal  replied,  that 
there  were  other  points  which  had  not  yet  been 
mentioned.  The  king  said  that  Vieilleville  did 
not  desire  to  be  believed  on  his  word,  but  that  he 
requested  to  be  confronted  with  his  accuser. 
Thereupon  the  king  commanded  the  chancellor 
to  invite  Lenoncourt  to  be  present  in  council  on 
the  day  following.  In  the  mean  while  the  king 
stated  that  he  approved  of  every  thing  Vieille¬ 
ville  had  done  in  the  administration  of  his  office; 
he  spoke  with  much  emphasis,  and  rose  from  his 
seat  with  a  good  deal  of  excitement.  The  Cardi¬ 
nal  Lorraine  feigned  an  attack  of  colic,  left  the 
council-chamber,  and  immediately  sent  word  to 
Lenoncourt  of  what  had  happened,  advising  him 
to  depart  as  soon  as  possible.  Those  who  were 
sent  to  invite  him  to  the  council,  found  him 
gone. 

Vieilleville  now  laid  his  plan  of  a  citadel  before 
the  king,  who  found  it  so  excellent  that  he  at 
once  consented  to  the  work.  But  he  enjoined 
Vieilleville  to  keep  the  matter  quiet,  for  if  the 
constable  and  the  Duke  of  Guise  should  hear  of  it, 
they  would  certainly  oppose  the  work,  in  order  not 
to  see  their  chances  of  raising  three  millions  of 
crowns  for  their  Italian  campaign,  lessened.  I 
have  faithful  servants  in  Paris,  said  the  king,  and 
I  shall  at  once  repair  to  the  capital,  where  I  have 
no  doubt  I  shall  be  able  to  raise  the  needful  funds 
for  the  construction  of  this  work.  The  king  had 
now  spent  eight  months  in  Fontainebleau,  and 
wished  to  have  the  buildings  and  grounds  reno¬ 
vated. 

Vieilleville  being  placed  in  possession  of  the 
funds,  he  returned  to  Metz  to  begin  the  work  im- 
mediatelv.  It  was  high  time  that  he  should  have 
come  back,  for  during  his  absence,  two  soldiers, 
wrho  found  that  La  Chapelle  was  not  very  watch¬ 
ful  at  the  gates,  had  spun  a  new  conspiracy. 
Vieilleville  had  caused  their  brothers  to  be  broken 
upon  the  wheel  for  having  abused  a  prostitute 
during  the  night  by  cutting  off  her  nose.  The  girl 
had  screamed  so  loud  that  the  whole  city  had  be¬ 
come  roused,  and  Vieilleville  himself  had  mounted 
his  horse,  and  had  called  the  garrison  to  arms. 
They  had  applied  to  Count  Mesgue ;  a  drummer, 
named  Balafre,  acted  as  their  agent.  The  Queen 
of  Hungary,  whom  Comba  had  visited,  had  given 
them  twelve  hundred  crowns  to  establish  a  tavern  ; 
provided  with  a  passport  from  La  Chapelle,  who 
frequently  received  presents  from  them,  they 
traded  with  Thionville,  carrying  provisions  up 
and  down  the  river.  Count  Mesgue  had  been 
introduced  by  them  into  the  town  on  two  occa¬ 
sions,  where  he  had  had  an  opportunity,  under 
cover  of  a  disguise,  to  examine  every  thing  he  de¬ 
sired  to  know:  Vieilleville  happened  to  inquire 
of  the  captain  of  these  soldiers,  whose  name  was 
La  Mothe-Gondrin,  why  these  soldiers,  who  held 
a  somewhat  higher  rank  than  their  comrades, 
troubled  themselves  with  keeping  a  tavern,  which 
seemed  beneath  their  dignity.  The  captain  replied 
that,  since  their  brothers  had  been  executed,  they 
had  lost  their  affection  for  the  service  ;  that  they 
soon  intended  to  quit  it,  but  that  they  desired, 
before  doing  so,  to  make  a  little  more  money. 


As  soon  as  Vieilleville  heard  of  their  being 
brothers  of  the  executed  criminals,  he  conceived 
a  suspicion,  and  immediately  sent  for  Comba,  tell¬ 
ing  him  that,  inasmuch  as  he  spoke  Spanish  quite 
fluently,  he  would  haye  it  in  his  power  to  do  the 
king  a  service  ;  he  was  asked  to  come  along,  money 
and  horses  being  all  ready  for  him.  He  conducted 
him  to  the  lodgings  of  Captain  Beauchamp,  whom 
lie  ordered  to  bind  Comba  until  the  irons  could  be 
sent  for,  and  to  keep  this  arrest  so  quiet  that  no¬ 
body  could  know  any  thing  about  it.  His  comrade 
Baubonnet,  was  informed  not  to  wait  for  Comba, 
who  had  been  sent  away  for  four  days  on  some 
errand. 

Discoveries  are  sometimes  made  in  a  very  strange 
manner.  This  was  the  case  in  this  instance.  The 
captain’s  servant  was  a  brother  of  the  drummer 
Balafre,  whom  he  had  often  seen  in  Comba’s  com¬ 
pany.  Through  the  keyhole,  this  servant  now  saw 
how  Comba  was  bound,  and  ran  to  inform  his 
brother  of  it.  Balafre  requested  a  private  audi¬ 
ence  of  Vieilleville,  threw  himself  at  his  feet, 
confessed  the  whole  plot,  and  stated  that  he  had 
been  sent  seven  times  by  Comba  to  Count  Mesgue 
with  letters  for  this  personage.  Vieilleville  took 
a  diamond  from  his  finger  and  gave  it  to  the  drum¬ 
mer,  with  a  promise  that  his  fortune  would  be 
secured  to  him  if  he  would  serve  Vieilleville 
faithfully  in  this  business.  He  conducted  the 
drummer  to  Comba,  who  was  ordered  to  write 
to  Count  Mesgue  that  he  might  send  his  flock 
by  the  road  which  his  confidant  should  point 
out  to  him.  Vieilleville  himself  dictated  the 
letter,  after  Balafre  had  previously  made  him 
acquainted  with  the  slang  terms  they  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  using.  The  drummer  delivered  the 
letter,  and  brought  back  the  answer  that  the 
soldiers  would  be  sent  on  Wednesday  at  mid¬ 
night. 

In  order  to  conceal  his  plans  more  fully,  he  as¬ 
sembled  his  captains,  and  informed  them  that  Sir 
Vaudemont,  with  whom  he  was  living  on  un¬ 
friendly  terms,  was  returning  from  court,  and  that 
it  was  his  intention  to  go  to  meet  him,  not  as  a 
courtier,  but  clad  in  the  paraphernalia  of  war. 
He  therefore  requested  the  captains  to  have  every 
thing  ready  for  five  o’clock  in  the  morning,  when 
he  expected  to  march  with  one  thousand  arque- 
busiers  and  his  whole  cavalry ;  he  hoped  that 
these  signs  of  reconciliation  Avould  be  agreeable 
to  the  king.  In  the  mean  while  he  sent  quietly 
for  the  drummer,  and  bade  Comba  write  that 
every  thing  was  going  on  well,  and  that  Mesgue 
might  come  in  perfect  safety,  for  Vieilleville  would 
be  absent  with  his  best  troops. 

Count  Mesgue,  rejoiced  at  this  news,  had  re¬ 
sort  to  a  similar  stratagem,  informing  Vieilleville 
that  Count  Aiguemont  designed  to  go  to  meet 
Sir  Vaudemont,  and  that  he  desired  to  inform 
'him  of  this  movement,  inasmuch  as  they  would 
have  to  traverse  a  portion  of  his  territory,  and  it 
was  their  wish  to  avoid  every  hostile  act,  so  much 
more  since  their  masters  had  concluded  an  armis¬ 
tice.  This  letter  was  sent  off  by  a  courier.  The 
drummer  was  intrusted  with  a  few  lines  to  Com- 
ba,  whom  he  requested  to  postpone  the  execution 
for  another  day,  inasmuch  as  Count  Mansfeld  de¬ 
sired  to  be  present,  and  was  bringing  more  troops. 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


449 


Upon  hearing;  of  this  news,  Yieilleville  informed 
his  captains  that  Vaudemont  would  arrive  one 
day  later,  and  that  they  would  not  march  until 
Thursday,  at  four  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

Yieilleville  hoped  to  catch  the  enemy  in  his 
trap,  but  this  time  he  failed.  Beauchamp,  moved 
by  Comba’s  lamentations,  consented  to  relieve 
him  of  his  irons  on  Wednesday,  for  a  sufficient 
length  of  time  to  enable  him  to  eat  his  dinner. 
He  descended  into  the  cellar  to  draw  some  wine, 
and  Comba  had  to  light  him.  While  he  was 
stooping  to  draw  the  wine,  Comba  knocked  him 
over,  so  that  he  tumbled  on  the  floor,  after  which 
the  prisoner  darted  up  the  steps,  closed  the  door, 
bolted  it,  and  then  beat  the  old  woman  in  whose 
house  Beauchamp  resided,  until  ^he  surrendered 
the  keys  of  the  door,  and  enabled  him  to  effect 
his  escape,  Beauchamp  screamed  like  a  mad¬ 
man,  until  he  was  let  out  of  the  cellar.  When 
finding  that  the  doors  had  been  opened,  he  came 
very  near  killing  himself.  He  determined,  how¬ 
ever,  at  once  to  repair  to  Yieille ville’s  residence, 
who  was  still  sitting  at  the  dinner-table  with  his 
captains,  and  conversed  with  them  about  the  ap¬ 
proaching  march.  Beauchamp  at  once  called  to 
him  that  Comba  had  fled,  and  that  he,  the  cap¬ 
tain,  asked  his  pardon  for  this  mishap.  Yieille¬ 
ville  became  so  enraged,  that  he  threw  his  dagger 
at  the  captain,  and  jumped  up  to  kill  him.  Beau¬ 
champ,  however,  escaped,  and  the  other  captains 
placed  themselves  before  Yieilleville,  interceding 
in  their  unlucky  companion’s  favor.  The  gates 
were  closed.  Baubonnet,  aud  thirty  disguised 
soldiers,  were  to  be  taken  prisoner  ;  but  having 
received  vent  of  the  discovery  of  the  plot,  most 
of  them  succeeded  in  effecting  their  escape. 
They  were,  however,  overtaken  on  their  flight, 
and  cut  down  ;  others  jumped  off  the  wall  into 
the  river.  Yieilleville  caused  search  to  be  made 
after  Comba  and  Beauchamp,  in  every  house,  un¬ 
til  the  former  was  discovered  in  the  house  of  a 
laundress.  Comba  and  Baubonnet  were  at  once 
condemned  to  be  quartered,  and  the  disguised 
soldiers  were  either  broken  on  the  wheel  or  hung. 
Count  Mesgue  was  informed  of  the  failure  of  the 
plot  in  season  to  save  himself;  he  now  believed 
that  Yieilleville  was  in  league  with  the  devil, 
since  he  found  out  the  most  secret  designs. 

Yieilleville  took  his  disappointment  so  much 
to  heart,  that  he  was  attacked  with  a  very  serious 
illness,  and  his  life  was  despaired  of.  The  king 
sent  his  chamberlain  to  Metz  to  inquire  after 
Y ieille ville’s  condition,  wrote  him  an  autograph 
letter,  and  pledged  himself  to  confer  the  governor¬ 
ship  of  Metz  upon  Espinay.  This  kindness  had 
such  an  effect  upon  him  that  he  began  to  improve 
again  ;  he  sent  away  a  number  of  physicians  who 
had  been  recommended  to  him  by  various  princes, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  travel,  he  went 
with  his  family  to  Durestal,  where  he  spent  eight 
months  in  taking  care  of  his  health. 

As  soon  as  Vieilleville’s  health  was  entirely 
restored,  he  repaired  to  Paris  toward  the  end  of 
the  year  1557,  where  he  concerted  with  the  king 
such  measures  as  the  duties  and  necessities  of  the 
governorship  of  Metz  might  suggest.  He  made 
it  an  especial  point  to  quiet  the  soldiers  of  the 
garrison,  who  had  not  received  their  pay  for  four 
Vol.  II.— 29 


months,  and  were,  on  this  account,  disposed  to 
rebel.  This  want  of  funds  embarrassed  the  pro¬ 
visional  governor,  Sennecterre,  very  much ;  fo: 
twelve  companies  of  the  best  troops  had  been 
taken  from  Metz  to  serve  in  the  expedition  to 
Naples,  and  had  been  replaced  by  the  militia  of 
Picardy  and  Champagne,  the  most  undisciplined 
troops  in  Europe.  If  it  had  not  been  for  a  few 
old  officers,  and  for  the  gens  d’armes,  Sennecterre 
would  not  have  been  able  to  control  them. 
Yieilleville  instructed  the  chief-provost  of  Metz 
to  institute  strict  inquiries  into  the  causes  of  this 
tumultuous  conduct,  and  to  treat  the  captains 
who  had  favored  it,  with  equal  severity  ;  that  it 
was  his  intention  to  reverse  the  proverb  :  “  First 
strike  the  dog  and  then  the  lion  that  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  whip  the  lions  to  his  satis¬ 
faction,  so  that  the  dogs  would  tremble,  and  al¬ 
most  die  of  fright. 

One  morning,  Yieilleville  made  his  appearance 
quite  unexpectedly  before  the  gates  of  Metz,  with 
seventy  horsemen.  The  chief-provost  arrived, 
without  loss  of  time,  with  his  evidence.  Shortly 
after,  after  strong  detachments  of  troops  had 
been  stationed  in  various  parts  of  the  city,  three 
captains  were  arrested,  who  were  accused  of  hav¬ 
ing  laid  hands  on  the  person  of  the  governor,  and 
having  fired  at  his  guard.  They  had  to  ask  par¬ 
don  upon  their  knees,  after  which  they  were  taken 
down  into  a  cellar,  and  had  their  heads  cut  off  by 
an  executioner.  To  the  great  terror  of  the  mili¬ 
tia-men,  who  were  designated  by  the  term  legion¬ 
naires,  these  heads  were  stuck  on  pikes,  and  ex¬ 
posed  to  the  public  view.  If  these  men  even  met 
for  the  purpose  of  presenting  a  petition,  they 
were  repelled  by  force,  even  by  bullets.  In  spite 
of  these  measures,  one  hundred  of  these  men  had 
assembled  in  a  public  square,  with  arms  in  their 
hands.  Yieilleville  at  once  dispatched  the  ser¬ 
geant-major,  St.  Chamons,  with  a  strong  guard, 
to  inquire  of  them  what  they  intended  to  do. 
They  committed  the  imprudence  of  stating  that 
they  expected  their  comrades,  and  that  they  in¬ 
tended  to  demand  satisfaction  for  the  death  of 
their  three  captains.  The  three  lieutenants  of 
the  executed  captains,  being  apprehensive  of  a 
similar  fate,  they  sent  in  their  resignation,  for 
they  could  not  pass  through  the  well-guarded 
gates  unless  the  resignation  was  accepted.  St. 
Chamons,  moreover,  fired  at  the  crowd  as  soon  as 
they  had  made  known  to  him  their  seditious 
plans.  Some  fifty  remained  dead  on  the  field, 
and  the  remainder  were  executed.  The  lieu¬ 
tenants,  however,  were  permitted  to  go  whither, 
soever  they  pleased;  for  Yieilleville  told  them 
that  neither  the  king  nor  he  had  any  employment 
for  such  rebels  as  they  were.  They  at  once 
started  for  the  gates,  but  had  persuaded  about  a 
hundred  privates  to  escape  with  them.  Upon 
hearing  of  this,  Yieilleville  sent  a  strong  detach¬ 
ment  after  them,  and  had  every  man  of  them 
cut  down.  If  a  militia-man  comitted  the 
least  disorderly  act,  he  was  sentenced  to  death. 
Their  hosts  were  the  first  who  accused  them,  if 
guilty.  This  severe  treatment  caused  such  a 
fright  among  them  that  they  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  They  were  advised  to  apply  to  Vieillc- 
ville’s  son-in-law,  Espinay,  who  would  intercede 


450 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


for  them.  He  did  so,  and  Yieilleville  called  them 
before  him,  where  they  asked  his  pardon  upon 
their  knees.  He  rebuked  them  for  their  conduct, 
and  then  dismissed  them.  This  reconciliation 
caused  great  joy  :  for  Yieilleville,  upon  hearing 
that  these  legionnaires  had  left  the  city  under 
Sennecterre  for  ten  days,  without  mounting  guard, 
had  resolved  to  assemble  them  outside  the  gates, 
and  to  have  the  whole  of  them  shot  down. 
Nevertheless,  Yieilleville  continued  his  measures 
of  precaution,  and,  for  four  months  in  succession, 
made  the  rounds  of  the  town,  sometimes  four 
times  in  the  course  of  a  week.  One  day,  he  found 
a  legionnaire  asleep  at  his  post.  He  cut  him 
down  at  once,  saying  that  he  intended  to  leave 
him  as  he  found  him,  and  that  he  should  at  least 
serve  as  an  example,  if  he  could  not  be  used  for 
any  thing  else. 

After  having  restored  the  most  perfect  order, 
Yieilleville  resolved  to  retake  Thionville  from 
the  Germans.  To  this  end  he  sent  for  one  Hans 
Klauser  of  Treves,  whose  life  he  had  spared  on  a 
certain  occasion,  and  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  bold 
and  cunning  fellow.  He  loaded  this  man  with 
presents,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  adapt  him  to 
his  purposes.  He  promised  him,  moreover,  a  com¬ 
pany  of  German  horse  in  the  king’s  service,  if  he 
would  go  to  Thionville,  reconnoitre  the  place,  and 
procure  for  him,  within  eight  days,  a  knowledge  of 
the  works,  including  even  the  width  and  depth  of  the 
ditches.  He  was  to  leave  Thionville  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  by  the  opposite  gate,  where  Yieilleville  would 
meet  him  in  order  to  inform  him  of  whatever  other  ) 
points  might  have  occurred  to  him  during  this 
time. 

After  the  lapse  of  eight  days,  Hans  Klauser  re¬ 
turned  with  such  a  complete  report  concerning 
the  works,  that  Vieilleville  was  amazed  at  his 
skill  and  care,  and  at  once  sent  him  back  to 
Treves  with  a  sum  of  money  to  enable  him  to 
equip  a  company  of  German  horse,  every  man  of 
which  was  to  be  a  native  of  the  land.  Yieilleville 
ordered  his  secretary,  Carloix,  to  study  this  report 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  to  commit  it  to  mem¬ 
ory  as  it  were,  after  which  he  dispatched  the  sec¬ 
retary  to  the  king  without  the  document,  so  that, 
in  case  he  should  be  taken  by  the  enemy,  he  would 
have  less  difficulty  to  get  clear  again.  The  king 
was  at  Amiens.  He  at  once  gave  his  consent  to 
Y ieille ville’s  undertaking,  who  sent  word  that  he 
would  pledge  himself  to  take  Thionville  within 
seven  days  provided  the  king  would  allow  him,  in¬ 
asmuch  as  the  best  troops  were  to  be  sent  to 
Italy,  to  enlist  seven  regiments  of  lansquenets  and 
one  thousand  horse  in  Germany,  for  which  pur¬ 
pose  he  had  already  obtained  one  hundred  thou¬ 
sand  crowns  on  his  own  responsibility.  The  king 
at  once  agreed  to  all  these  arrangements,  ex¬ 
pressed  himself  highly  pleased  with  Vieilleville’s 
devotion  and  vigilance  in  his  service,  assigned  to 
him  the  revenues  of  the  province  of  Champagne, 
to  defray  the  expenses  of  this  expedition,  and 
appointed  him  lieutenant-general  of  the  army  of 
Champagne,  Lorraine,  Messin  and  Luxembourg. 
The  enlistments  in  Germany  were  so  successful 
that  the  regiments  were  soon  ready  to  march. 

As  soon  as  Yieilleville  heard  of  this  he  marched 
out  of  Metz  with  the  garrison  of  this  town, 


united  with  himself  the  troops  of  Toul  and  Yer- 
dun,  and  at  once  laid  siege  to  Thionville,  to  the 
great  amazement  of  Count  Carebbe,  who  com¬ 
manded  in  this  place.  He  sent  six  companies  of 
infantry  toward  Luxembourg  in  order  to  cut  off  all 
communication  between  Thionville  and  Count 
Mesgue.  His  artillery  now  arrived  which  he  had 
taken  from  the  arsenal  of  Metz,  and  consisted  of 
twelve  guns  of  heavy  calibre,  ten  couloeuvrines, 
each  eighteen  feet  long,  and  of  other  smaller 
pieces.  Shortly  after,  the  German  troops  arrived 
likewise,  the  whole  forming  quite  an  army,  for 
there  were  no  less  than  six  princes  from  the 
houses  Luneburg,  Simmern,  Wurtemburg,  kt., 
who  were  anxious  to  study  the  art  of  war  under 
such  a  master.  The  whole  army  amounted  to 
about  twelve  thousand  men. 

The  Duke  of  Guise  had  in  the  meanwhile  returned 
to  France,  and,  the  constable  having  been  taken 
prisoner  at  St.  Quentin,  had  been  appointed  lieu¬ 
tenant-general  of  France.  Guise  having  heard 
of  Yieilleville’s  operations,  sent  a  courier  request¬ 
ing  him  to  delay  the  attack  until  he  should  arrive; 
for  it  was  his  wish,  and,  in  his  capacity  oflieuten- 
ant-general  of  France,  his  right,  to  conduct  the 
operations.  The  courier  arrived  at  the  moment 
when  Yieilleville  was  on  the  point  of  opening 
fire. 

Yieilleville  was  much  vexed  at  this  intermed¬ 
dling.  But  he  kept  his  temper,  and  sent  word  to 
the  duke  to  come,  and  that  he  would  be  obeyed  as 
respectfully  as  the  king  himself.  He  added,  how- 
}  ever,  that  nothing  would  prove  more  prejudicial  to 
the  assault  on  Thionville  than  delay,  and  that  the 
procrastination  occasioned  by  the  duke’s  journey 
would  cause  serious  injury  to  the  king’s  service. 
The  courier  assured  him  that  the  duke  would  ar¬ 
rive  in  ten  days.  “What?”  exclaimed  Yieille¬ 
ville,  in  ten  days?  If  he  had  not  fettered  me 
with  the  bugbear  of  his  lieutenant-generalcy  of 
France,  I  should  have  been  in  Thionville  within  two 
hours,  and  perhaps  even  in  Luxembourg.  He  will 
not  be  here  under  three  weeks,  and  Count  Mesgue 
will  have  abundant  time  to  secure  his  position.” 

The  duke  did  not  arrive  under  twenty  days. 
Previous  to  his  arrival,  he  sent  the  chief  of  the 
artillery  to  Metz  to  examine  every  thing.  He 
found  all  things  so  well  arranged,  and  such  ample 
preparations  for  the  success  of  the  expedition, 
that  he  said  publicly  there  had  been  no  necessity 
of  the  duke’s  presence,  and  that  it  must  be  exceed¬ 
ingly  painful  for  an  honorable  commander  to  be 
arrested  in  the  midst  of  a  successful  expedition  by 
princes  who  were  always  ready  to  appropriate  to 
themselves  the  laurels  that  rightfully  belonged  to 
somebody  else.  It  is  easy  for  the  duke  to  swallow 
that  which  he  finds  all  ready  for  deglutition. 
When  the  duke  marched  off  with  the  whole  of  the 
artillery,  the  officers  exclaimed,  laughingly  :  “  Well, 
let  us  hasten  to  Thionville,  where  we  all  expect  to 
meet  our  death  ;  we  have  been  waiting  for  you 
this  long  while.” 

A  council  of  war  now  was  held,  to  decide  where 
the  place  had  better  be  attacked.  Yieilleville 
said  it  had  not  taken  him  long  to  find  this  out, 
and  pointed  out  a  little  tower,  which  he  contended 
wa%  the  feeblest  portion  of  the  works.  Marshal 
Strozzy  replied  that  the  opinion  of  the  other  com- 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


451 


manders  would  first  have  to  be  ascertained.  They 
met  again  in  the  duke’s  house.  On  going  thither, 
Sir  La  Marc  informed  Vieilleville  privately  that  he 
had  better  not  insist  on  his  opinion  in  the  council 
as  the  duke  and  Strozzv  had  determined  to  attack 
the  place  from  another  point,  lest  Vieilleville 
should  reap  the  honor  of  the  victory.  He  told 
him.  moreover,  that  the  duke  was  offended  at  him 
for  having  dared  to  cause  himself  to  be  appointed 
lieutenant-general  of  these  provinces;  that  one 
lieutenant-general  was  sufficient,  and  that  he  was 
this  man. 

In  the  council,  Strozzy  gave  it  as  his  opinion 
that  the  place  should  be  attacked  from  the  river¬ 
side,  not  at  the  little  tower.  The  other  members 
of  the  council,  who  knew  Strozzy  as  an  expe¬ 
rienced  general,  were  of  the  same  opinion.  When 
Vieilleville’s  opinion  was  called  for,  he  replied 
that  he  would  have  to  refute  the  whole  council, 
and  that  he  therefore  preferred  not  to  express  his 
mind,  in  order  to  place  no  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  the  king’s  service. 

The  guns  having  been  mounted,  the  hostile  ar¬ 
tillery  on  the  opposite  side  was  soon  silenced,  and, 
a  considerable  breach  had  been  opened.  The  duke 
and  Strozzy  were  triumphant,  and  Vieilleville’s 
little  tower  was  spoken  of  with  contempt.  A 
general  assault  was  ordered,  the  soldiers  had  to 
wade  through  the  river,  but  were  even  unable  to 
reach  the  works  on  account  of  a  number  of  diffi¬ 
culties  which  had  not  been  thought  of.  The  duke 
and  Strozzy  were  embarrassed  ;  nevertheless,  to 
save  their  plan,  they  caused  the  guns  to  be  carried 
across  the  river,  and  to  be  mounted  at  the  breach. 
Now  they  discovered  a  difficulty  which  the  Marshal 
had  overlooked,  namely  a  wide  ditch,  forty  feet 
deep  ;  it  was  impossible  to  descend  to  the  bottom 
of  the  ditch,  and  then  to  clamber  up  on  the  op¬ 
posite  side.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  French 
guns  wTere  standing  on  the  wralls  without  the 
troops  being  able  to  advance. 

On  the  sixteenth  day  of  the  siege,  Strozzy 
ordered  the  coulceuvrines  to  be  carried  across  the 
river,  and  to  bombard  the  town.  On  this  occa¬ 
sion  he  was  wounded  by  a  musket-ball  in  the 
abdomen.  He  said  to  the  duke  who  was  standing 
by  his  side  :  “  Devil,  the  king  loses  this  day  a 
good  servant,  and  you  too.”  The  duke  urged  him 
to  think  of  his  salvation,  and  mentioned  the  name 
of  Jesus.  “  What  Jesus  do  you  mean?  I  know 
nothing  of  Jesus,  or  of  God  ;  my  fire  is  out.” 
Upon  the  prince  continuing  his  exhortations,  and 
reminding  him  that  he  would  soon  stand  in  God’s 
presence,  “Well,”  he  replied,  “  I  shall  be  where 
all  those  who  have  died  for  the  last  six  thousand 
years,  have  gone  before  me.”  Saying  this,  he  de¬ 
parted.  This  man  did  not  believe  in  religion,  as 
might  already  be  inferred  from  a  conversation 
which  he  had  with  Vieilleville  the  previous  even¬ 
ing  at  supper,  where  he  tauntingly  inquired: 
“  What  was  God  doing,  before  he  created  the 
world  ?”  To  which,  Vieilleville  modestly  replied 
that  no  mention  was  made  of  this  in  the  Scrip¬ 
tures,  and  that,  not  being  spoken  of  in  Holy 
Writ,  it  was  unnecessary  to  trouble  one’s  mind 
about  it.  “  This  Holy  Writ  is  a  very  nice  thing, 
if  it  were  true,”  said  Strozzy.  Hereupon  Vieille¬ 
ville  feigned  indisposition,  and  left  the  room, 


vowing  that  he  would  have  no  further  intercourse 
with  such  an  atheist. 

The  duke  now  applied  to  Vieilleville,  reminding 
him  of  his  promise  to  the  king  that  he  would  take 
the  place  within  seven  days.  He  requested  him 
to  conduct  the  operations,  and  promised  him  not 
to  interfere.  Vieilleville  now  opened  the  trenches 
as  he  had  originally  intended,  sent  for  fresh  artil¬ 
lery  from  Metz,  and  demolished  the  little  tower  in 
less  than  three  days.  A  breach  having  been  made, 
a  general  assault  was  ordered  under  Vieilleville’s 
direction.  The  assault  was  repelled  with  the  loss 
of  a  number  of  soldiers.  Hans  Klauer  perished 
on  this  occasion,  and  Vieilleville  had  the  crest  of 
his  helmet  shot  away.  A  new  assault  was  ordered 
and  carried  out  with  so  much  fury  that  Vieilleville 
penetrated  into  the  town  with  only  thirty  men. 
Oarebbe  became  frightened  on  seeing  this  deter¬ 
mined  bravery,  and  at  once  capitulated.  The 
garrison  and  all  the  inhabitants  had  to  leave  town 
on  the  morning  following,  and  it  was  a  pitiable 
sight  to  behold  old  men,  women,  and  children 
driven  out  of  their  homes.  Even  the  sick  had  to 
leave.  Every  body  had  compassion  on  them,  ex¬ 
cept  Guise,  whose  heart  remained  unmoved.  The 
houses  were  sold  to  French  citizens,  who  now  were 
sent  into  the  place,  and  the  money  wras  remitted 
by  Vieilleville  to  the  king’s  treasurer,  and  some 
of  it  was  distributed  among  his  soldiers.  As /or 
himself,  he  did  not  keep  a  penny,  although  he  wras 
better  entitled  to  it  than  any  body  else. 

He  expected  to  see  the  king  of  Spain  before 
Thionville,  and  would  have  been  rejoiced  to  main¬ 
tain  the  place  against  such  a  powerful  monarch, 
the  son  of  Charles  V.  But  the  King  of  Spain 
marched  with  his  army  upon  Amiens,  where  the 
French  army,  under  command  of  the  king,  and 
increased  by  as  many  troops  as  Vieilleville  could 
spare,  was  opposed  to  him.  Both  armies  were 
sixty-thousand  strong;  both  kings  desired  peace, 
but  neither  was  willing  to  make  the  first  advances. 

Vieilleville,  who  saw  these  perplexities  even  at 
a  distance,  sent  an  eloquent  monk  to  the  king  of 
Spain,  who  had  orders  to  talk  to  this  monarch  of 
peace,  as  if  God  himself  had  inspired  him  with 
these  sentiments.  The  king  of  Spain  listened  to 
him  with  marked  pleasure  and  attention,  request¬ 
ing  him  to  visit  the  king  of  France,  and  to  talk 
to  him  in  a  similar  strain.  The  monk  did  so,  ne¬ 
gotiations  for  peace  were  seriously  entered  upon 
and  concluded,  and  the  king  thanked  Vieilleville 
for  having  again  rendered  him  a  great  service,  by 
preventing  the  effusion  of  blood  with  so  much  hu¬ 
manity  and  patriotic  devotion 

After  the  conclusion  of  the  peace,  Vieilleville, 
whom  the  king  desired  to  see  personally,  was 
ordered  to  Paris,  where  he  was  received  with 
much  kindness  and  respect.  The  queen  was  espe¬ 
cially  pleased  with  the  gold  medals  which  Vieille¬ 
ville  had  caused  to  be  distributed  after  the  con¬ 
quest  of  Thionville,  among  the  German  princes 
and  generals,  on  one  side  of  which  might  be  seen 
the  king’s,  and  on  the  other  the  queen  s  likeness, 
the  latter  so  perfect  that  even  Janet,  who  was  the 
most  skillful  portrait-painter  of  that  period,  had 
to  praise  it.  The  king  conversed  with  Vieilleville 
frequently  and  for  a  long  time,  and  alluded  of  his 
own  accord  to  the  fact  that  the  Duke  of  Guise  had 


452 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


by  his  untimely  measures,  retarded  the  enterprise 
against  Thionville  and  Luxembourg.  He  likewise 
made  inquiries  concerning  the  unhappy  end  of 
Marshal  Strozzy,  but  Yieilleville  replied  with  the 
adroitness  of  a  courtier,  that  it  was  not  well  to 
speak  of  this  event  any  further,  and  that  God’s 
grace  had  ruled  as  it  seemed  to  Him  best.  Strozzy 
was  a  near  relative  of  the  queen.  On  this  occa¬ 
sion.  Yieilleville  was  presented  with  the  brevet  of 
M  arshal  of  France.  The  king  asked  him  re- 
proachingly,  why  he  had  not  applied  for  this  office 
immediately  after  Strozzy’s  death,  when  it  would 
have  been  conferred  upon  him  instead  of  being 
given  to  Sir  Thermes.  To  which  Yieilleville  re¬ 
plied  that,  he  did  not  wish  to  urge  his  Majesty  to 
fill  the  office  while  the  war  lasted  ;  that  all  who 
had  any  claim  to  it,  would  make  every  effort  to 
deserve  it,  but  might  leave  the  army  as  soon  as 
the  office  should  have  been  conferred.  This  was 
indeed  the  case  after  Thermes  had  received  his 
appointment,  in  consequence  of  which,  about  a 
dozen  grandees  left  the  army  with  two  thousand 
horse. 

The  king  desired  Yieilleville  to  be  present  at 
the  peace-negotiations  with  Spain,  in  Chateau- 
Cambresis.  By  his  wise  counsels  he  succeeded  in 
effecting  a  final  arrangement  on  the  seventh  of 
April,  1559,  and  was  himself  the  bearer  of  this 
news  to  the  king.  This  personage  declared  that, 
next  to  God,  France  and  all  Europe  were  indebted 
to  Yieilleville  for  this  peace,  which  had  first  been 
broached  by  the  monk  whom  Yieilleville  had  sent. 
The  treasurer  was  ordered  to  bring  fourteen  bags 
filled  with  crowns,  ten  of  which  were  presented  to 
Yieilleville,  and  the  remaining  four  to  his  son-in- 
law  Espinay,  and  nephew  Thevalle. 

Shortly  after,  the  Spanish  ambassadors  arrived  in 
Paris,  among  whom  were  the  Duke  of  Alva  and 
about  twenty  princes,  who  remained  in  Paris  a 
whole  month,  and  were  feted  in  the  most  brilliant 
manner.  The  Cardinal  Lorraine  sought  to  persuade 
the  king  to  institute  a  mercuriale  during  this 
period.  This  name  is  derived  from  the  Latin 
name  of  Wednesday  (Dies  Mercurii,  the  day  of 
Mercurius),  because  on  this  day  all  the  presidents 
and  councilors,  about  one  hundred  and  twenty, 
were  gathered  in  a  large  hall,  and  an  inquiry  was 
instituted  into  the  private  and  public  morals  of 
the  members  of  parliament.  On  this  occasion, 
the  king  was  to  declare  through  his  attorney- 
general,  that  many  members  of  the  court  were 
suspected  of  heresy,  which  might  be  inferred  from 
the  fact  that  every  heretic  who  was  before  them 
on  his  trial  for  heresy,  was  acquitted,  nor  was  any 
one  of  them  condemned  to  death.  “  Even  if  this 
measure  were  intended  for  nothing  else  than  to 
slow  the  King  of  Spain  that  your  Majesty  adheres 
to  the  faith,  and  is  well  worthy  of  the  title  of 
Most  Christian  Majesty.”  He  added  “  that  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  and  the  princes  and  grandees  of 
Spain,  who  had  come  to  Paris  for  the  purpose  of 
celebrating  the  marriage  of  their  king  with  his 
Majesty’s  daughter,  would  be  highly  gratified  to 
see  half  a  dozen  heretical  members  of  parliament 
burned  at  the  stake.”  The  king  gave  his  consent 
to  such  a  sitting,  which  he  ordered  for  the  very 
next  day. 

Yieilleville,  who,  in  his  capacity  of  first  gentle¬ 


man  of  the  bed-chamber,  slept  in  the  king's 
apartment,  was  informed  by  His  Majesty  of  what 
he  intended  to  do.  Yieilleville  suggested  that 
the  cardinal  and  the  bishops  might  do  such  u 
thing,  but  that  it  would  ill  befit  the  king  to  in¬ 
dulge  in  such  jokes.  The  king  persisting  in  his 
design,  Yieilleville  related  to  him  what  had  hap¬ 
pened  between  Louis  XI.  and  John  Rouault, 
Marshal  of  France.  Louis  XI.,  who  thought  very 
highly  of  the  Bishop  of  Angiers,  commanded  this 
prelate  to  repair  to  Lyons  for  the  purpose  of  re¬ 
ceiving  the  six  thousand  Italian  auxiliaries  who 
had  been  sent  to  him  from  Italy.  The  marshal 
who  was  present  when  the  bishop  received  this 
order,  became  very  much  excited  on  account  of 
having  been  overlooked  by  the  king,  and  soon 
after  appeared  before  his  majesty  in  company  with 
thirty  noblemen,  asking  the  king  in  an  arrogant 
tone  whether  he  had  any  orders  to  transmit  to 
Angiers?  The  king  inquired  after  the  reasons 
which  prompted  his  sudden  departure.  The  mar¬ 
shal  replied  that  he  had  priests  to  consecrate  in 
Angiers,  and  that  he  was  about  as  fit  to  officiate 
as  a  bishop,  as  the  bishop  was  to  officiate  as 
a  general.  The  king  was  ashamed  of  having  re¬ 
versed  the  order  of  things  in  this  manner,  and 
caused  the  bishop,  who  had  already  started  on  his 
journey,  to  return  to  Angiers  :  the  marshal  was  sent 
in  the  bishop’s  place.  “  In  the  same  way,”  con¬ 
tinued  Yieilleville,  “  if  your  Majesty  consents  to 
officiate  as  a  theologian  or  inquisitor,  the  Cardinal 
Lorraine  would  have  to  teach  us  to  hold  the  lance 
at  a  tournament,  to  sit  on  horseback,  to  salute,  to 
turn  to  the  right  or  left.  Moreover,  is  your 
Majesty  disposed  to  ally  joy  and  sadness?  This 
undoubtedly  would  be  the  case,  if  such  bloody 
executions  were  ordered  during  the  nuptials. ” 

The  king  determined  not  to  go.  On  hearing 
this,  the  cardinal  assembled  the  clergy,  waited  on 
the  king  early  in  the  morning,  and  frightened  him 
by  such  awful  thunders  that  he  considered  him¬ 
self  in  the  clutches  of  the  evil-one,  and  at  once 
sallied  forth  on  his  way  to  parliament.  During 
the  sitting,  one  of  the  accused  councilors,  Anne  du 
Bourg,  defended  his  religion  with  so  much  zeal 
that  the  king  became  very  much  incensed  at  the 
accusing  priests.  Moreover  he  heard  a  great  deal 
of  grumbling  on  marching  through  the  streets, 
and  he  afterward  admitted  that  he  regretted  very 
much  not  having  followed  Yieilleville’s  advice. 

On  the  first  of  June,  1559,  the  king  gave  the 
grand  tournament  where  the  nuptials  of  the 
Princess  Elizabeth  and  Philip  II.  of  Spain  were 
celebrated.  On  this  occasion  the  Spaniards 
happened  to  be  very  awkward.  Yieilleville 
performed  a  feat  which  had  never  been  per¬ 
formed  before  ;  he  unhorsed  a  Spaniard  who 
ran  tilt  against  him,  and  threw  him  across  the 
bar  with  extraordinary  skill  and  ease.  In  order 
to  have  some  rest  from  these  severe  bodily  per¬ 
formances,  the  marriage  between  the  Princess 
Elizabeth  and  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who  espoused  her 
in  the  name  of  the  king  of  Spain,  was  concluded. 
The  peaceful  solemnities  lasted  eight  days;  the 
king  put  a  stop  to  them  because  he  was  passion¬ 
ately  fond  of  tournaments  which  he  desired  to  re¬ 
commence. 

Yieilleville  dissuaded  the  king  from  a  further 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


453 


continuance  of  the  tournament,  for  the  French  j 
nobility  had  made  a  sufficient  exhibition  of  their 
skill,  and  it  was  moreover  time  to  think  of  the 
rrtamage  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  the  king’s 
sister  Madame  Margaret.  The  king  replied  that 
the  arrangements  for  this  wedding  could  not  be 
perfected  before  the  end  of  July,  on  which  occa¬ 
sion  he  wished  to  cede  Piedmont,  Savoy,  and 
several  other  districts.  Vieilleville  was  amazed 
at  this  sacrifice,  and  frankly  admitted  to  the  king 
he  could  not  understand  why  provinces  which  had 
cost  France  forty  millions  of  crowns  and  one 
hundred  thousand  men,  should  be  given  away  on 
account  of  a  marriage.  He  suggested  that  a 
royal  princess  received  at  most  a  sum  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  crowns;  and  even  if  Madame 
Margaret  should  end  her  days  in  an  abbey,  no 
great  harm  would  be  done,  for  she  was  already 
forty  years  old.  The  constable  made  all  these  ar¬ 
rangements  as  his  ransom,  and  it  was  evident, 
said  Vieilleville,  that  he  availed  himself  of  his 
right,  for  it  was  a  common  saying,  that  in  a  case 
of  extraordinary  need  a  constable  was  privileged 
to  pawn  the  third  part  of  the  kingdom. 

After  these  and  similar  remonstrances  on  the 
part  of  Vieilleville,  the  king  cursed  the  hour 
when  he  had  made  these  arrangements  at  the 
instigation  of  the  constable,  without  first  consult¬ 
ing  Vieilleville ;  that  it  was  too  late  now,  but  that 
he  would  hold  the  constable  who  had  beguiled 
him  into  these  foolish  transactions,  responsible 
for  them.  Shortly  after,  a  nobleman  entered  the 
king’s  apartment,  with  the  articles  of  agreement 
all  drawn  up,  where  it  was  stated  that  France  was 
to  retain  the  marquis  at  Saluzzo.  On  reading 
this,  the  king  at  once  informed  Vieilleville  of  it, 
with  the  remark  that  his  father  had  been  wrong 
to  rob  a  prince  of  his  territory,  and  that  as  a  good 
Christian,  and  in  order  to  save  his  father’s  soul, 
he  was  very  willing  to  return  the  land  to  the 
Duke  of  Savoy.  When  Vieilleville  saw  that  the 
king  mixed  up  piety  and  Christendom  with  this 
business,  and  accused  his  father  even  of  tyranny, 
he  remained  silent,  and  regretted  having  said  so 
much. 

On  the  last  day  of  June,  1559,  a  great  tourna¬ 
ment  was  ordered  for  the  afternoon.  The  king 
unrobed  himself  after  dinner,  and  requested  Vieille¬ 
ville  to  clothe  him  in  his  armor,  although  this 
was  the  office  of  the  chief-equerry  of  France,  who 
happened  to  be  present.  When  Vieilleville  put 
the  helmet  on  the  king’s  . head,  he  sighed,  saying 
that  he  had  never  done  any  thing  more  reluc¬ 
tantly.  The  king  was  not  allowed  time  to  ask 
him  for  the  reason,  for  the  Duke  of  Savoy  entered 
the  apartment  at  this  moment.  The  tournament 
commenced.  The  king  broke  his  first  lance  with 
the  duke,  the  second  with  Guise,  and  the  third 
with  Count  Montgomery,  a  tall  but  awkward 
young  man,  who  was  lieutenant  of  his  father, 
Count  Sorges,  a  captain  in  the  Royal  Guard.  It 
was  the  last  lance  which  the  king  had  to  break. 
Doth  hit  each  other  with  equal  skill,  and  the 
lances  broke.  Vieilleville  now  was  anxious  to 
take  the  king’s  place;  but  the  monarch  requested 
the  privilege  of  another  tilt  with  Montgomery,  who 
owed  him  satisfaction  for  having  pushed  him  out 


of  his  stirrups.  Vieilleville  endeavored  to  dis¬ 
suade  the  king  from  the  encounter,  but  he  in¬ 
sisted.  “Well,  Sire,”  exclaimed  Vieilleville,  “! 
swear  to  you,  that  for  three  nights  in  succession 
I  have  dreamed  that  this  day  your  Majesty  will 
meet  with  an  accident,  and  that  this  last  day  of 
June  will  prove  fatal  to  you.”  Montgomery  too 
excused  himself,  saying  that  the  king’s  request 
was  against  all  rule;  but  the  king  commanded, 
and  Montgomery  had  to  take  his  lance.  Doth 
tilted  against  each  other,  and  broke  their  lances 
with  great  skill.  Unfortunately  Montgomery  for¬ 
got  to  throw  away  the  splintered  stick,  as  is  the 
custom,  and,  whilst  running  against  the  king,  ran 
the  splinter  into  the  king’s  visor,  where  it  glanced 
upward  and  pierced  the  king’s  eye.  The  king 
dropped  the  reins,  holding  on  to  the  horse’s  neck. 
The  horse  ran  to  the  end  of  the  course,  where  the 
two  first  equerries  awaited  the  king  in  accordance 
with  the  duties  of  their  office,  and  caught  hold  of 
the  horse.  They  took  off  his  helmet,  and  he  whis¬ 
pered  with  a  feeble  voice  that  he  was  a  dying  man. 
All  the  surgeons  were  summoned  in  order  to  de¬ 
termine  the  locality,  where  the  splinter  had  en¬ 
tered  the  brain,  and,  although  experiments  were 
made  upon  four  criminals  in  imitation  of  the  in¬ 
jury  which  the  king  had  received,  no  splinter 
could  be  found. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  king  recovered  his  senses, 
and  sent  for  the  queen,  whom  he  requested  to  have 
the  marriage  ceremony  performed  without  loss  of 
time,  and  to  create  Vieilleville  a  marshal  of  F ranee, 
for  which  high  office  a  brevet  had  already  been  given 
him.  The  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  a  spirit 
of  sadness;  the  king  had  already  lost  his  speech, 
and  died  on  the  following  day,  the  tenth  of  July, 
1559.  In  him  Vieilleville  lost  a  master  who 
esteemed  him  highly,  and  would  have  appointed 
him  Constable  of  France,  for  he  had  expressed 
himself  to  this  effect.  Latterly,  in  order  to  have 
him  always  about  him,  the  king  had  conferred  the 
governorship  of  Metz  upon  Espinay,  and  had  ap¬ 
pointed  Vieilleville  Governor  of  He  de  France. 

The  power  which  the  Guises  arrogated  to  them¬ 
selves  after  the  death  of  Henry  II.,  contrary  to 
all  right,  occasioned  the  well-known  conspiracy 
of  Amboise.  A  certain  La  Renaudie  allied  him¬ 
self  with  thirty  able  captains,  and  surrounded 
the  king’s  castle  with  five  hundred  horse  and 
a  number  of  infantry,  with  a  view  of  capturing 
the  Guises  and  setting  the  king  free.  The  news 
of  this  attempt  disturbed  the  king  and  the  Guises 
very  greatly.  It  was  decided  to  send  Vieilleville 
to  this  corps  for  the  purpose  of  inquiring  of  them 
whether  they  designed  to  deprive  the  French  of 
the  glory  of  being  the  most  devoted  and  faithful 
subjects  of  their  king.  This  commission  embar¬ 
rassed  Vieilleville.  He  was  convinced  that  the 
Guises  had  arrogated  to  themselves  an  undue  de¬ 
gree  of  power,  and  he  was  unwilling  to  be  used  on 
an  errand  where  he  had  to  speak  against  his 
own  conviction.  By  an  ingenious  turn  he  got 
clear  of  this  duty :  “  Inasmuch  as  the  troops  to 
whom  your  Majesty  desires  to  dispatch  me,  have 
been  guilty  of  a  conduct  which  amounts  to  rebel¬ 
lion,  they  would  not  believe  me,  even  if  I  an¬ 
nounced  to  them  the  king’s  pardon.  Such  a 


454 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


message  should  be  delivered  by  a  prince  whose 
pledge  the  king  would  be  sure  to  respect  like  his 
own  word.” 

Vieilleville  had  reasoned  correctly.  The  Duke 
of  Nemours  was  sent  in  his  place  ;  but  he  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  fifteen  noblemen  who  had 
followed  him  confiding  in  his  own  and  the  king’s 
pledge,  arrested  and  thrown  into  irons.  To  the 
duke’s  complaints  on  this  score,  the  chancellor 
contented  himself  with  replying  that  the  king  was 
not  bound  to  keep  his  word  to  rebels.  These 
fifteen  noblemen  were  executed  in  various  ways  ; 
they  complained  less  of  dying  than  of  the  faith¬ 
lessness  of  the  Duke  of  Nemours.  One  of  them, 
Castelnau,  rebuked  him  for  his  perfidy  from  the 
scaffold,  dipped  his  hands  in  the  still  smoking 
blood  of  his  companions,  raised  them  to  heaven, 
and  pronounced  a  speech  which  moved  everybody 
to  tears.  The  chancellor,  who  had  condemned 
them  to  death,  was  so  deeply  struck  by  his  words, 
that  he  was  taken  home  sick,  and  died  a  few  days 
after.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  had  a  visit 
from  the  Cardinal  Lorraine,  to  whom  he  ad¬ 
dressed  this  dying  farewell :  “  Accursed  Cardinal, 
thou  robbest  thyself  and  us  all  of  our  eternal 
salvation  I” 

On  the  other  hand,  Vieilleville  could  not  well 
decline  the  order  to  go  to  Orleans  and  disperse 
the  rest  of  the  conspirators.  He  executed  this 
order  with  so  much  zeal  and  discretion  that  he 
surprised  a  body  of  six  hundred  of  the  enemy, 
cutting  down  a  number  and  making  many  prison¬ 
ers,  all  of  whom  he  released,  for  he  considered  it 
a  great  wrong  that  men  of  honor  who  had  exposed 
their  lives  for  a  principle,  should  be  condemned 
to  an  infamous  death,  which  they  undoubtedly 
would  have  been,  if  he  had  surrendered  them. 

This  success  raised  him  greatly  in  the  favor  of 
the  king,  and  of  the  Guises.  He  was  now  sent 
to  Rouen,  where  the  reformed  party  had  excited 
disturbances.  He  had  full  power  to  destroy  not 
only  those  who  had  been  active  participants  in 
the  disturbances,  but  likewise  those  who  had  con¬ 
nived  at  them  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction. 
Vieilleville,  who  was  accompanied  by  seven  com¬ 
panies  of  gens-d’armes,  let  the  greater  number  of 
his  men  remain  behind,  and  entered  Rouen  with 
only  a  hundred  noblemen.  He  at  once  disarmed 
the  citizens,  caused  thirty  of  the  rebels  to  be  ar¬ 
rested  and  tried,  without  regard  to  religion,  and 
desired  emphatically  that  no  allusion  should  be 
made  in  the  sentence  to  religion,  but  that  they 
should  be  judged  as  rebels  against  the  king.  By 
such  means,  Vieilleville  restored  the  public  tran¬ 
quillity,  and  disarmed  party  spirit,  which  would 
ha?e  broken  out  with  greater  fierceness  than  be¬ 
fore,  if  he  had  only  punished  the  reformed. 

The  court  was  sojourning  at  Orleans  when  he 
returned  from  his  expedition.  During  his  ab¬ 
sence,  Prince  Conde  had  been  arrested.  In  or¬ 
der  to  find  out  Vieilleville’s  opinion  concerning 
this  event,  the  king  ordered  him  to  visit  the 
prince.  Vieilleville,  who  perceived  the  king’s  de¬ 
sign,  begged  the  monarch  not  to  send  him,  be¬ 
cause  he  had  a  natural  aversion  to  all  disturbers 
of  the  peace.  At  the  same  time,  he  advised  the 
king  to  content  himself  with  sending  the  prince 
to  the  Bastile,  asserting  that  it  would  be  an  ever¬ 


lasting  stain  on  the  king’s  character,  if  he  exe¬ 
cuted  a  royal  prince  who  had  not  attempted  the 
king’s  life.  The  king  was  well  pleased  with  his 
advice,  and  admitted  that  he  had  simply  desired 
to  find  out  Vieilleville’s  opinion. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  disputes  between  the 
King  of  Navarre  on  one,  and  the  King  of  France 
and  the  Guises  on  the  other  side,  became  fiercer 
than  ever;  at  court,  the  King  of  Navarre  was 
treated  with  a  carelessness  which  struck  every 
body  with  surprise,  the  Guises  alone  excepted. 
Vieilleville  asked  leave  to  return  to  his  province, 
but  the  queen  opposed  it  very  urgently.  In  these 
critical  times,  his  presence  at  court  was  desired, 
where  his  advice,  which  was  always  the  result  of 
practical  wisdom,  was  very  much  needed.  At 
the  same  time,  it  was  intended  to  send  him  to 
Germany,  where  he  was  to  explain  to  the  elector 
and  to  other  princes  of  the  empire,  who  were  the 
king’s  allies,  what  was  the  true  position  of  affairs 
between  the  King  of  Navarre  and  the  court  of 
Paris,  lest  the  king  should  appear  in  a  false  light. 

These  disputes  were  put  a  stop  to  by  the  sud¬ 
den  death  of  Francis  II.,  which  took  place  on 
the  5th  of  December,  1560.  Every  body  now  ran 
to  the  King  of  Navarre,  and  even  the  queen-re¬ 
gent.  who  governed  in  the  name  of  Charles  IX., 
appointed  him  lieutenant-general  of  the  kingdom. 
This  wise  measure  was  intended  to  pacify  the  va¬ 
rious  religious  parties,  which  commenced  to  be¬ 
come  very  turbulent.  Vieilleville  had  advised 
the  queen  to  take  this  step.  This  unfavorable 
turn  of  affairs  induced  the  Guises  to  retire,  the 
Cardinal  Lorraine  going  to  an  abbey,  and  the 
duke  to  Paris,  where  he  had  many  friends.  Here, 
in  conjunction  with  the  Constable  Montmorency, 
and  the  Marshal  St.  Andre,  he  concocted  his 
plans  for  the  complete  extermination  of  the  Lu¬ 
therans,  and  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  horrid 
massacres  which  afterward  devastated  France. 
Vieilleville,  seeing  that  the  queen-regent  and  the 
King  of  Navarre  were  reconciled,  insisted  upon 
returning  to  his  governorship,  which  was  finally 
granted.  Hardly  had  he  arrived  in  Metz,  when 
he  was  appointed  extraordinary  ambassador,  to 
convey  to  the  emperor  and  to  the  princes  of  Ger¬ 
many,  the  news  of  the  young  king’s  ascension  to 
the  throne. 

Vieilleville  started  on  his  journey  without  loss 
of  time,  with  a  cortege  of  sixty  horses.  First  he 
visited  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  in  Heidelberg  ; 
thence  he  repaired  to  Stuttgard,  to  pay  his  re¬ 
spects  to  the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg  ;  next  he  went 
to  Augsburg,  and  afterward  to  Weimar,  where 
Vieilleville  was  well  received  by  the  Dukes  John 
Frederick  and  John  William.  He  brought  them 
the  pension  which  Henry  II.  had  guaranteed  to 
them  as  the  descendants  of  Charlemagne, — four 
thousand  crowns  a  year  to  each  of  them.  From 
Weimar,  Vieilleville  went  to  Ulm  ;  thence  he  in¬ 
tended  to  go  to  Cassel,  but  he  was  dissuaded  from 
doing  so,  on  account  of  the  bad  roads.  From 
Vienna,  he  went  to  Frankfort;  thence  to  Prague, 
and  from  Prague,  by  a  very  circuitous  route,  to 
Mentz,  whence  he  returned  to  Metz,  via  Coblentz 
aud  Treves. 

Every  where  Vieilleville  was  received  with  de¬ 
monstrations  of  respect,  especially  in  Vienna. 


MARSHAL  V1EILLEVILLE. 


455 


The  emperor,  Ferdinand  I.,  received  him  with 
these  words:  M  Welcome,  Sir  Vieilleville,  al¬ 
though  you  do  not  bring  me  Metz  and  the  other 
imperial  cities  which  France  has  taken  from  Ger¬ 
many  ;  I  have  wished  to  see  you  long  ere  this.” 
The  emperor  took  i.im  into  his  own  room,  where 
they  conversed  together  alone  for  two  hours. 
Vieilleville  expressed  his  amazement  at  their  be¬ 
ing  all  alone  ;  for  it  was  the  fashion  in  France  to 
tread  upon  the  king’s  toes,  so  great  was  the  crowd 
that  followed  him  all  over.  Vieilleville  likewise 
remarked  to  the  emperor  that  it  was  dangerous 
to  let  a  gentleman  enter  the  city  with  fifty  or 
sixty  horses,  without  asking  him  who  he  was  or 
whence., he  came.  He  stated  that  nobody  had 
asked  him  a  single  question,  and  yet  a  pacha  was 
encamped  some  thirty  hours’  marching  from 
Vienna.  The  emperor  at  once  ordered  a  strong- 
guard  to  be  placed  at  every  gate,  but,  by  Vieille- 
ville’s  advice,  he  afterward  modified  this  order  by 
placing  a  watch  at  the  top  of  the  highest  steeple, 
who  had  to  report  every  change  he  noticed  in  the 
direction  where  the  Turks  were  encamped,  for 
which  purpose  he  was  to  strike  the  bell  a  number 
of  times.  This  watch  was  named  by  the  empe¬ 
ror,  Vieilleville's  watch,  because  he  had  suggested 
it.  At  a  grand  dinner  given  by  the  emperor. 
Vieilleville  saw  for  the  first  time  the  princess 
Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  Roman  King,  Maxi¬ 
milian,  and  the  emperor’s  niece.  He  at  once  con¬ 
ceived  the  idea  that  this  beautiful  princess  would 
be  a  suitable  consort  for  his  king,  aud  he  took  it 
upon  himself  after  dinner  to  broach  the  subject  to 
the  emperor  who  was  very  much  pleased  with  the 
idea.  The  King  of  France  to  whom  the  subject 
was  communicated  after  Vieilleville’s  return  to 
France,  was  likewise  favorably  disposed  toward 
such  an  arrangement. 

Vieilleville  had  scarcely  arrived  in  Metz,  where 
he  expected  to  remain  a  few  days,  when  a  courier 
arrived  from  court  with  orders  to  Vieilleville  to 
make  arrangements  at  once  for  a  journey  to  Eng¬ 
land  in  the  capacity  of  ambassador.  He  directly 
repaired  to  Paris,  where  arrangements  were  at 
once  perfected  to  send  him  across  the  sea.  The 
object  of  the  journey  was  to  defeat  the  Cardinal 
Chatillon  who  sought  to  interest  Queen  Elizabeth  in 
favor  of  the  Huguenots.  Vieilleville  acted  so 
cunningly  toward  the  queen  that  she  was  unwill¬ 
ing  to  receive  the  cardinal  after  his  arrival  in 
London.  In  the  mean  while  the  disturbances  in 
France  became  more  and  more  threatening;  the 
Prince  Conde  laid  siege  to  Paris,  but  had  to  raise 
it  again,  and  was  totally  defeated  by  Guise  at 
Dreux,  at  the  very  moment  when  victory  seemed  to 
incline  to  the  side  of  Protestants.  The  Marshal  St. 
Andr6  had  commanded  the  vanguard  of  the  king’s 
army,  and  now  pursued  the  fugitives  with  only 
sixty  horsemen.  St.  Andre  came  across  a  cap¬ 
tain  of  light  cavalry,  Bobigny,  who  made  his 
escape  with  a  troop  of  horsemen.  The  two  corps 
hailed  each  other,  the  marshal  giving  his  name 
first.  Thereupon  Bobigny  fell  upon  his  troops, 
cut  them  down,  and  took  the  marshal  prisoner. 
This  captain  had  formerly  been  in  the  marshal’s 
service,  but  had  stabbed  an  equerry.  St.  Andre 
had  him  hung  in  effigy,  for  the  captain  had  fled  to 
Germany.  The  marshal  begged  to  be  treated  ac¬ 


cording  to  the  usages  of  w-ar,  and  that  the  past 
might  be  forgotten.  In  the  mean  while  Bobigny 
disarmed  the  marshal,  and  took  his  word  of  honor 
that  he  would  remain  as  a  prisoner.  They  rode 
on  until  the  Prince  Porcian,  who  belonged  to 
Conde’s  party,  saw  the  prisoner  and  at  once  shook 
hands  with  him.  The  marshal  at  once  offered 
himself  as  Porcian’s  prisoner,  who  attempted  to 
take  him  out  of  Bobigny’s  hands.  But  every  body 
crying  out  against  the  injustice,  and  complaining 
bitterly  of  the  prince’s  meanness,  who  tried  to  de¬ 
prive  an  inferior  of  his  advantage,  this  personage 
desisted  from  all  interference.  As  soon  as  Bob¬ 
igny  had  left  the  prince  some  thousand  paces  be¬ 
hind,  he  addressed  the  marshal  with  these  words  : 
“You  have  satisfied  me  that  I  cannot  trust  you  ; 
you  have  broken  your  word  ;  you  will  ruin  me  if 
you  recover  your  freedom  ;  you  have  caused  me  to 
be  hung  in  effigy,  have  confiscated  my  property, 
which  you  have  given  to  your  servants  ;  you  have 
ruined  my  whole  house.  The  hour  has  come  when 
the  judgment  of  God  is  upon  you,”  and  saying 
these  words  he  blew  the  marshal’s  brains  out. 
The  news  of  the  marshal’s  death  clouded  the  vic¬ 
tory  of  the  Catholics  in  Paris.  Vieilleville  espe¬ 
cially  was  inconsolable  on  account  of  this  loss. 
He  was  at  once  offered  the  brevet  of  marshal, 
but  he  declined  its  acceptance.  He  was  unwilling 
to  be  the  successor  of  a  person  whom  he  had  loved 
so  much.  The  king,  incensed  at  his  refusal,  re¬ 
paired  to  Vieilleville’s  residence,  whom  he  found 
lying  on  his  bed  in  a  state  of  utter  despondency. 
The  king  commanded  him  to  accept  the  baton  of 
marshal.  Vieilleville,  moved  by  so  much  kindness, 
could  not  refuse  ;  he  threw  himself  at  the  king’s 
feet,  from  whom  he  received  the  patent. 

Some  time  after  Vieilleville  was  sent  to  Rouen, 
whose  commandant,  Villebon,  did  not  enjoy  the 
confidence  of  the  court.  Yet  it  was  probable 
that  Coligny  would  attack  this  place.  Although 
Villebon  was  related  to  Vieilleville,  yet  he  slight¬ 
ed  the  latter  on  every  occasion.  The  following 
occurrence  gave  rise  to  serious  difficulties 

A  magistrate,  belonging  to  the  reformed  party, 
who  managed  to  get  into  the  city  and  leave  it 
again  loaded  with  money  which  he  took  from  the 
palaces  where  it  had  been  hid,  had  been  arrested 
and  was  executed  byorderof  the  governor,  Villebon, 
who  allowed  his  dead  body  to  remain  lying  in  the 
public  square,  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  indignities. 
Nobody  dared  to  touch  it,  he  being  an  heretic. 
Vieilleville  heard  of  this  occurrence  which  excited 
his  anger  ;  he  ordered  the  body  to  be  buried.  The 
money  which  Boisgyrand  carried  about  him,  had 
disappeared  in  the  governor’s  house.  Villebon, 
who  felt  uneasy,  sent  one  of  his  creatures,  a  coun¬ 
cilor  of  parliament,  to  the  marshal,  to  find  out 
what  he  intended  to  do  in  regard  to  the  money. 
Hardly  had  this  man  come  before  the  marshal, 
when  this  one  assailed  him  so  roughly  that  he 
shed  tears  of  rage  ;  and  when  he  undertook  to 
fall  back  upon  his  office  as  a  member  of  the  parlia¬ 
ment,  Vieilleville  felt  tempted  to  pitch  him  out 
of  the  window.  This  person  now  went  before  the 
governor,  accusing  Vieilleville  of  having  said  that 
he  was  not  worthy  of  being  governor  of  th<*  place. 
Villebon,  incensed  at  this  statement,  did  not  visit 
Vieilleville  for  several  days.  At  last  they  met  at 


456 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


church,  saluted,  and  the  marshal  took  the  gover¬ 
nor  home  to  dinner.  After  dinner,  Villebon 
broached  the  subject ;  the  marshal  was  still  sitting 
at  the  table  and  begged  to  let  the  matter  drop. 
Villebon  became  excited,  exclaiming  that  those 
who  had  said  he  was  unworthy  of  his  office  had  told 
a  lie.  At  these  words  the  marshal  jumped  up, 
and  gave  Villebon  a  blow  which,  but  for  the  table 
would  have  sent  him  rolling  on  the  floor.  Ville¬ 
bon  drew  his  sword,  the  marshal  drew  his.  In  a 
moment  one  of  Villebon’s  hands  and  part  of  the 
arm  lay  on  the  floor.  All  were  amazed.  Ville¬ 
bon  was  carried  off.  Vieilleville  would  not  permit 
the  hand  to  be  taken  away.  “Here  it  shall  lie,” 
said  he,  for  it  has  insulted  my  dignity.” 

In  the  mean  while  the  report  was  spread  abroad 
that  the  governor  had  been  so  mutilated  because 
he  was  an  enemy  of  the  Huguenots.  An  armed 
mob  assembled  in  front  of  Vieilleville’s  residence, 
who  had  taken  precautionary  measures.  All  who 
attempted  to  break  in  were  well  received.  Many 
were  killed.  The  soldiers  finally  came  to  the 
marshal’s  aid,  and  the  cavalry  that  had  been 
quartered  in  the  surrounding  villages,  had  likewise 
arrived.  The  mob  now  scattered,  trembling  at 
the  marshal’s  vengeance.  However,  he  forgave 
every  body  and  peace  was  restored. 

The  king  was  informed  that  the  German  princes 
intended  to  attack  Metz,  whereupon  Vieilleville 
was  ordered  to  this  place.  On  his  arrival,  he 
found  the  report  confirmed,  in  so  far  as  this,  that 
the  German  princes,  having  heard  that  Vieille¬ 
ville  had  been  killed  in  the  disturbances  of  Rouen, 
had  resolved  to  march  an  army  of  forty  thousand 
foot  and  twenty  thousand  horse  against  Metz, 
Toul,  and  Verdun,  with  a  view  of  retaking  these 
places  which  had  been  lost  under  Charles  V. 
Upon  hearing  that  Vieilleville  was  still  living  and 
had  resumed  his  command,  the  plan  had  been 
abandoned. 

Some  time  after,  Vieilleville  was  ordered  by  the 
king  to  be  present  at  the  siege  of  Havre  de  Grace, 
where  the  old  Constable,  Montmorency,  directed 
the  operations.  Although  his  family  was  not  well 
disposed  toward  Vieilleville,  yet  he  favored  the 
constable  with  such  excellent  advice  that  the 
place  soon  capitulated.  During  the  troubles 
which  the  constable  had  instigated  against  the 
court,  and  which  required  the  king’s  presence  in 
Paris,  Vieilleville  showed  so  much  discretion, 
firmness  and  moderation,  that  the  king  was  un- 
willing  to  part  with  him  any  more.  He  even  went 
so  far,  after  the  constable  had  been  killed  in  a  battle 
against  the  Prince  Conde,  as  to  offer  Vieilleville 
the  office  of  Constable  of  France.  This  happened 
in  the  great  council.  Vieilleville,  rising  from  his 
seat,  bent  a  knee  before  the  king,  and  declined  his 
offer  in  such  a  dignified  and  disinterested  manner, 
that  he  won  all  hearts.  Vieilleville,  having  taken 
St.  Jean  d’Angely,  which  had  been  bravely  de¬ 
fended  by  a  captain  of  the  Prince  Conde,  and  on 
which  occasion  the  governor  of  Bretagne  had 
been  killed,  was  rewarded  with  the  succession  to 
this  governorship.  Vieilleville  was  rejoiced  at 
this  appointment,  for  the  double  reason  that  he 
was  permitted  to  make  one  of  his  sons-in-law  his 
lieutenant-general  in  Bretagne,  and  to  appoint  the 
other,  Duilly,  governor  of  Metz.  These  arrange¬ 


ments  tad  scarcely  been  completed  wheu  the 
duke  Montpensier,  being  of  royal  blood,  demanded 
the  government  of  Bretagne  for  himself  with 
much  earnestness.  The  king  refused,  whereupon 
the  duke  renewed  his  request,  shedding  tears, 
which  was  not  very  becoming  in  a  man  of  forty. 
The  king,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  sent  a  trusty 
messenger  to  Vieilleville,  to  inform  him  of  the  con¬ 
dition  of  things.  Vieilleville  was  at  once  disposed 
to  resign  his  office  into  the  king’s  hands.  **  I  am 
only  sorry,”  said  he,  “  that  such  a  brave  prince 
has  to  resort  to  a  woman’s  weapon  in  order  to 
obtain  his  end,  and  rob  me  of  my  happiness.”  At 
the  same  time  the  king  sent  him  ten  thousand 
crowns,  which  he,  however,  declined  receiving. 
Being  threatened  with  disgrace,  in  case  he  should 
insist  upon  declining  acceptance  of  this  present, 
he  agreed  to  take  it,  but  divided  the  amount 
between  his  sons-in-law,  who  had  likewise  lost  by 
the  change. 

The  best  service  which  Vieilleville  ever  ren¬ 
dered  to  his  king,  was  to  conclude  an  alliance 
with  the  Swiss  cantons,  which  was  more  advanta¬ 
geous  to  him  than  any  other  alliance  that  Vieille¬ 
ville  ever  concluded.  He  was  frequently  visited 
by  Charles  IX.,  at  his  castle  Durestal,  where 
Vieilleville  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and 
where  the  king  on  one  occasion  spent  a  whole 
month,  amusing  himself  with  the  chase.  His  in¬ 
timate  friendship  with  the  king,  and  the  influence 
he  possessed  over  this  monarch,  excited  the  envy 
and  enmity  of  many  persons. 

At  last  poison  was  administered  to  him,  from 
the  effects  of  which  he  died  in  twelve  hours.  The 
king  and  his  mother  happened  to  be  on  a  visit  to 
Vieilleville  when  this  catastrophe  occurred. 

Thus  died  a  man  on  the  last  day  of  November, 
who  was  a  father  of  the  people,  a  prop  of  justice, 
and  a  master  in  the  art  of  war.  After  his  death 
disturbances  of  every  sort  broke  out.  He  had 
been  a  stumbling-block  to  the  disturbers  of  the 
peace  by  his  courage,  his  discretion,  his  love  of 
justice  ;  for  this  reason  they  removed  him  out  of 
their  way. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  ORDER 

OF  MALTA, 

ARRANGED  ACCORDING  TO  VERTOT  BY  M.  N. 

(Jena,  1792.) 

The  order  of  the  Templars  shone  and  disap¬ 
peared  in  history  like  a  meteor  ;  the  order  of  John 
has  already  reached  the  seventh  century  of  its 
existence,  and,  though  no  longer  claiming  politi¬ 
cal  significance,  is  forever  a  memorable  subje:t 
of  contemplation  to  the  philosophical  student  of 
history.  The  ground  upon  which  it  was  built, 
indeed,  threatens  to  cave  in,  and  it  is  with  a 
smile  of  pity  that  we  look  back  upon  its  origin, 
which  was  such  a  sacred  and  solemn  event  in  the 
age  where  it  occurred.  Like  a  venerable  ruin,  the 
order  itself,  is  still  standing  upon  its  unascended 
rock,  and,  lost  in  admiration  of  a  departed  hero¬ 
ism,  we  contemplate  it  like  an  overthrown  obelisk 
or  like  Trojan’s  triumphal  arch. 

We  may,  indeed,  congratulate  ourselves  with 
living  in  an  age  when  it  is  no  longer  necessary  to 


MARSHAL  VIEILLEVILLE. 


457 


contend  for  a  distinction,  or  for  objects,  such  as 
gave  rise  to  the  creation  of  this  order,  when  an 
expenditure  of  strength  and  a  heroism,  such  as 
were  the  common  attributes  of  this  order,  are  as  su¬ 
perfluous  as  they  are  impossible  ;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  we  do  not  always  act  with  becoming 
modesty  or  appreciation  in  ranking  our  own  age 
above  the  past.  The  contempt  with  which  we  are 
in  the  habit  of  looking  back  upon  yonder  period 
of  superstition,  fanaticism,  and  mental  servitude, 
betrays  less  the  glorious  pride  of  a  self-conscious 
strength  than  the  petty  triumph  of  weakness , 
which  avenges  by  an  impotent  derision  the  blush 
of  shame  with  which  the  aspect  of  superior  merit 
often  tinges  the  countenance.  Be  our  advantages 
over  those  gloomy  centuries  whatever  they  may,  it 
is  at  most  only  a  favorable  exchange  that  we  can 
boast  of.  The  possession  of  clearer  apperceptions, 
the  conquest  of  prejudices,  the  acquisition  of  more 
moderate  passions  and  of  more  liberal  sentiments 
• — taking  it  for  granted  that  all  these  advantages 
are,  indeed,  rightfully  claimed  by  us — have  been  pur¬ 
chased  at  the  sacrifice  of  ‘practical  virtue ,  without 
which  our  most  precious  knowledge  can  hardly  be 
deemed  a  gain.  The  same  civilization  which  has 
extinguished  in  our  brain  the  fire  of  a  fanatical 
zeal,  has  at  the  same  time  stifled  in  our  hearts 
the  glow  of  enthusiasm,  has  paralyzed  the  lofty 
soarings  of  our  genius,  annihilated  the  deed- 
maturing  energy  of  character.  For  a  delusion 
which  they  confounded  with  wisdom,  or  rather, 
which,  to  them,  was  wisdom,  the  heroes  of 
the  Middle  Ages  risked  their  blood,  their  lives, 
and  their  property  ;  though  their  reason  was  en¬ 
lightened  ever  so  imperfectly,  yet  they  sought  to 
obey  its  highest  mandates  with  the  devotion  of 
heroism  ;  can  ive,  the  refined  grand-children  of 
civilization,  boast  of  expending  half  as  much 
energy  on  our  wisdom  as  they  did  on  their  folly  ? 

I  am  prepared  to  accept  what  the  author  of  the 
introduction  to  this  history  regards  as  an  import¬ 
ant  advantage  of  that  period,  I  mean  the  practi¬ 
cal  strength  of  mind  with  which  the  dearest  pos¬ 
sessions  were  abandoned  for  the  noblest  aims,  and 
with  which  all  the  delights  of  the  senses  were 
sacrificed  for  a  purely  ideal  good.  The  same  ec¬ 
centric  flight  of  imagination  which  causes  the 
historian  and  the  coldly  calculating  politician  to 
look  back  upon  that  age  with  the  eye  of  doubt,  is 
judged  much  more  equitably,  even  admiringly  by 
the  moral  philosopher.  In  the  midst  of  the 
abominations  which  are  favored  and  sanctified  by 
a  gloomy  fanaticism  ;  in  the  midst  of  the  absurd 
aberrations  of  superstition,  he  is  enchanted  by  the 
sublime  spectacle  of  a  conviction  that  triumphs 
over  all  sensual  temptations ;  of  an  intensely- 
cherished  idea  of  the  reason  which  maintains  its 
control  over  every  ever  so  powerful  emotion. 
Although  the  epoch  of  the  crusades  constituted 
a  long  and  mournful  arrest  in  the  march  of  civil¬ 
ization i,  or  even  a  relapse  on  the  part  of  the 
European  into  his  former  barbarism,  yet  humanity 
had  never  reached  the  highest  pinnacle  of  its  dig¬ 
nity  as  at  that  period,  provided  the  control  of 
emotions  by  an  idea  may  be  regarded  as  such. 
The  willingness  of  being  guided  by  supra-sensual 
motives,  this  necessary  condition  of  our  moral 
culture ,  bad,  it  appears,  to  be  developed  and  to 


acquire  practical  skill  by  working  on  coarser  ma¬ 
terial,  until  an  enlightened  intelligence  should 
assist  the  good  will.  The  philosophical  critic 
becomes  reconciled  with  the  crude  fancies  of  an 
undeveloped  understanding  and  an  anarchical  sen¬ 
suality  by  the  very  fact,  that  it  is  the  noblest  of 
all  the  powers  of  the  mind  which  is  manifested 
and  exercised  in  those  wild  undertakings  ;  he  ex¬ 
cuses  the  adventurous  means  and  the  chimerical 
object  for  the  sake  of  the  near  relation  existing 
between  man’s  moral  dignity  and  his  simple  reso¬ 
lution  to  serve  under  the  banner  of  the  cross. 

Of  this  kind  are  the  heroes  of  faith,  whom  the 
following  history  introduces  to  our  knowledge ; 
their  weaknesses,  ushered  in  by  brilliant  virtues, 
may  boldly  show  themselves  to  the  critical  eye 
of  a  wiser  posterity.  Under  the  banner  of  the 
cross  we  see  them  practice  the  severest  and  most 
sacred  duties  of  humanity,  and,  whereas  they  fan¬ 
cied  they  were  obeying  ct  law  of  the  church ,  they 
were  unconsciously  executing  the  highest  laws  of 
morality.  Has  not  man  for  thousands  of  years 
been  seeking  above  the  stars  the  legislator  who 
lives  in  his  own  bosom  ?  Why  then  should  we 
find  it  strange,  if  these  heroes  borrowed  the 
sanction  of  a  human  duty  from  an  apostle,  and 
attached  to  the  cloak  of  an  order  the  dignity  of 
virtue,  and  the  general  obligation  of  obeying  her 
behests  ?  May  we  repudiate  ever  so  much  the 
absurdity  of  a  faith  which  commanded  them  to 
bleed  for  the  apparent  riches  of  an  enthusiastic 
imagination,  for  inanimate  relics  ;  who  would  re¬ 
fuse  his  respect  to  the  heroic  fidelity  with  which 
the  spiritual  knights  obeyed  this  delusion  ?  If 
this  heroic  band  returns  home,  after  performing 
miracles  of  bravery,  exhausted  by  the  bloody  labors 
of  the  combat  with  the  infidels,  and.  instead  of 
wreathing  its  victorious  brow  with  the  well-earned 
laurel,  exchanges  its  knightly  functions  without 
grumbling  for  the  humble  offices  of  nurses;  if 
these  lions  in  battle  now  manifest,  at  the  sick  bed, 
a  patience,  a  self-denial,  a  mercy,  which  obscure 
even  the  most  brilliant  heroism  of  the  warrior;  if 
the  very  hand  which,  a  few  hours  previous,  wielded 
the  terrible  sword  for  Christianity,  and  conducted 
the  trembling  pilgrim  through  a  crowd  of  enemies, 
now  ministers  food,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  a  pa¬ 
tient,  afflicted  with  some  loathsome  disease,  and 
performs  the  most  disgusting  offices  from  which 
our  refined  senses  turn  away  in  disgust  ;  who  can 
suppress  an  intense  emotion,  on  beholding  the 
knights  of  the  hospital  of  Jerusalem  engaged  iu 
such  menial  services?  Who  can  witness,  without 
a  sentiment  of  awe,  the  persevering  bravery  with 
which  the  little  band  defended  itself  against  a  su¬ 
perior  enemy  in  Ptolemais,  in  Rhodes,  and  after¬ 
ward  on  the  island  of  Malta?  or  the  unshakable 
firmness  of  the  two  grand-masters,  Isle  Adam 
and  La  Yalette,  or  the  equally  sublime  willingness 
of  the  knights  to  devote  themselves  to  death? 
Who  reads,  without  a  feeling  of  exalted  admira¬ 
tion,  of  the  voluntary  destruction  of  those  forty 
heroes  in  the  citadel  of  St.  Elmo,  an  example  of 
obedience  which  is  surpassed  by  Leonidas  and  his 
band  only  in  so  far  as  their  object  was  of  a  sub-, 
limer  nature?  The  Christian  religion  has  been 
accused  by  celebrated  authors,  of  suppressing  the 
warlike  courage  of  her  worshipers,  of  extinguish- 


458 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


in#  the  fire  of  enthusiasm.  How  brilliantly  is 
this  reproach  refuted  by  the  crusades,  and  by  the 
glorious  deeds  of  the  Templars  and  the  Maltese 
knights !  Greeks  and  Romans  fought  for  their 
lives,  for  temporal  good,  for  the  enchanting  phan¬ 
tom  of  honor  and  universal  dominion,  in  the  pre¬ 
sence  of  a  grateful  country  which  showed  them  at 
a  distance  the  laurel-wreath  for  their  devotion. 
The  courage  of  those  Christian  heroes  was  de¬ 
prived  of  that  aid,  and  had  no  other  support  than 
its  own  unquenchable  fire. 

There  are  other  considerations  which  seemed 
to  me  should  invite  attention  to  the  external  as 
well  as  internal  affairs  of  this  ecclesiastical  order. 
This  order  is  a  political  body,  founded  for  some 
specific  purpose,  supported  by  special  laws,  and 
kept  together  by  peculiar  bonds.  It  originates,  is 
developed,  blooms,  and  fades  away,  in  one  word, 
it  begins  and  closes  its  political  existence  before 
our  eyes.  The  point  of  view  from  which  the  phi¬ 
losophical  critic  looks  at  every  political  society, 
may  likewise  be  applied  to  this  republic  of  ecclesi¬ 
astical  knights.  He  regards  the  various  political 
combinations  as  so  many  experiments  instituted 
by  man,  though  not  intentionally,  to  ascertain  the 
effect  of  certain  conditions,  either  with  reference 
to  some  special  object,  or  else  with  reference  to 
the  common  object  of  all  political  societies.  What 
can  be  more  tvorthy  of  our  attention  than  to  ascer¬ 
tain  the  results  of  these  experiments,  to  see  the 
adequacy  or  inadequacy  of  those  conditions  to  the 
intended  object,  illustrated  by  some  living  ex¬ 
ample  ?  Thus  it  is  that,  in  the  course  of  time, 
the  human  race  has  tried  by  actual  experiment, 
every  imaginable  condition  of  human  bliss,  al¬ 
though  this  may  not  have  been  the  direct  object 
of  the  change ;  every  possible  political  form  has 
been  adopted  with  a  view  of  finally  hitting  upon 
the  most  suitable.  For  all  these  political  organi¬ 
zations,  universal  history  becomes  a  sort  of  natural 
science,  informing  us  with  tolerable  exactness,  how 
much  or  how  little  has  been  gained,  by  these  dif¬ 
ferent  principles  of  combination,  for  the  ultimate 
object  of  our  common  labors.  From  a  similar 
point  of  view  we  may  regard  the  different  ecclesi¬ 
astical  orders  of  knighthood,  to  which  religious 
fanaticism  gave  birth  at  the  time  of  the  crusades. 
Impulses  which  hud  never  been  known  before  to 
result  in  such  combinations,  or  to  be  used  for  the 
attainment  of  such  ends,  are  now  for  the  first 
time  used  as  the  basis  of  a  political  organization, 
the  result  of  which  is  communicated  to  the  reader 
in  the  subsequent  history.  The  fiery  spirit  of 
knighthood  is  allied  to  the  severe  rules  of  an 
order;  military  to  monkish  discipline  ;  Christian 
self-denial  to  the  insolent  daring  of  the  soldier, 
in  order  to  form  an  impenetrable  phalanx  against 
the  external  enemies  of  religion,  and  to  vow  with 
equal  heroism  an  eternal  war  to  her  internal  ene¬ 
mies,  pride  and  licentiousness. 

A  touching  and  sublime  simplicity  characterizes 
the  childhood  of  the  order,  a  brilliant  and  honora¬ 
ble  destination  crowns  its  young  age,  but  soon  it  suc¬ 
cumbs  to  the  common  fate  of  humanity.  Wealth 
and  power,  these  natural  companions  of  bravery 
and  abstinence,  lead  it  with  rapid  strides  to  the 
brink  of  ruin.  Not  without  grief  the  citizen  of 
the  world  sees  the  beautiful  hopes  which  such  a 


fair  beginning  excited  in  his  mind,  ruined ;  but  this 
disappointment  only  shows  that  nothing  which 
was  built  by  delusion  and  passion,  is  durable,  and 
that  reason  alone  builds  for  eternity. 

After  these  remarks  concerning  the  superior 
qualities  of  this  order,  I  believe  I  may  be  spared  a 
statement  of  the  reasons  which  prompted  me  tc 
publish  Vertot’s  work  in  a  new  form.  I  dare  not 
assert  that  it  will  answer  the  object  which  I  had 
in  view  in  publishing  it ;  it  is  however,  the  only 
work  which  can  furnish  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
order,  and  chain  the  attention  of  the  reader.  The 
translator  has  sought  to  replace  the  occasional 
verbosity  of  the  original,  by  a  livelier  and  more 
interesting  narration  of  events ;  even  where  the 
judgment  of  the  author  seems  to  have  been  cloud¬ 
ed  by  his  partiality,  the  German  translator  has 
endeavored  to  correct  the  defects  of  the  original, 
by  a  more  appreciative  study  of  the  facts.  I 
need  hardly  remind  my  readers  that  this  book  is 
neither  written  for  the  savant  nor  for  the  students 
of  history,  but.  for  the  general  reader  who  does 
not  derive  his  information  from  sources.  The 
last-mentioned  class  will  undoubtedly  hail  this 
work  with  feelings  of  sympathetic  acknowledg¬ 
ment.  The  second  volume  will  conclude  the  his¬ 
tory  of  the  order,  for  it  had  reached  the  fullness  of 
glory  toward  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  af¬ 
ter  which  it  sank  with  rapid  strides  into  the  grave 
of  political  oblivion. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  PART  OF  THE 
CELEBRATED  CAUSES  OF  P1TAVAL. 

(Jena  1792.) 

There  is  a  general  complaint  that  among  the 
writings  which  constitute  the  general  staple  of 
circulating  libraries,  there  are  too  few  which  aim 
at  improving  either  the  heart  or  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  The  desire  of  reading  books,  which 
is  spreading  even  among  the  classes  for  whose 
education  so  little  is  done  by  government,  instead 
of  being  gratified  by  good  works  written  by  our  bet¬ 
ter  class  of  authors,  is  on  the  contrary  improved  by 
mediocre  scribes  and  selfish  publishers  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  circulating  their  worthless  trash  even 
at  the  expense  of  morality  and  public  culture. 
Insipid  novels  destructive  of  taste  and  morality, 
dramatized  stories,  so-called  ladies'  books,  and  the 
like,  constitute  to  this  day  the  staple  of  our  circu¬ 
lating  libraries,  and  ruin  the  remnant  of  sound 
principles  which  our  stage-poets  have  not  yet  de¬ 
stroyed.  In  investigating  the  causes  which  keep 
up  the  taste  for  these  productions  of  mediocrity, 
we  find  it  founded  in  the  genera]  inclination  of  man¬ 
kind  to  passionate  and  complicated  situations, 
in  which  the  most  miserable  novels  unfortunately 
so  frequently  abound.  But  why  should  not  the 
same  propensity  which  delights  in  exhibitions  of 
crime,  be  used  for  a  more  glorious  object?  It 
would  not  be  a  small  gain  if  better  authors  would 
condescend  to  win  readers  from  the  common 
scribes,  to  study  the  tricks  by  which  these  mo¬ 
nopolize  the  reading  public,  and  to  make  use  of 
them  for  good  purposes. 

Until  this  suggestion  is  practically  realized,  or 


A1STHETICAL. 


459 


until  the  public  taste  shall  be  sufficiently  cultiva¬ 
ted  to  love  the  true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good, 
without  any  foreign  admixture,  an  entertaining 
book  deserves  our  praise  if  it  accomplishes  its 
purpose  without  causing  the  mischief  with  which 
the  small  share  of  amusements  commonly  afforded 
by  such  works  has  to  be  purchased.  Whilst  it  is 
read,  it  takes,  at  any  rate,  the  place  of  a  worse 
book ;  and,  if  it  furnishes  food  to  the  mind,  scat¬ 
ters  the  seed  of  useful  knowledge  ;  directs  the  rea¬ 
der's  attention  to  worthy  objects  ;  its  worth,  among 
the  class  of  books  to  which  it  belongs,  cannot  be 
denied. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  present  work,  the  usefulness 
of  which  I  have  been  induced  to  warrant  by  my 
public  testimony.  It  contains  a  number  of  judi¬ 
cial  cases  which,  in  point  of  interest,  complication, 
and  variety  of  objects,  almost  rival  a  romance,  and 
have  moreover  the  advantage  of  being  historically 
true.  Man  is  here  seen  in  the  most  complicated 
situations  exciting  our  expectation  to  the  utmost, 
and  keeping  the  reader  agreeably  employed  in  ex¬ 
ercising  his  powers  of  divination  in  the  unraveling 
of  the -plot.  The  secret  play  of  the  passions  is 
here  unfolded  to  our  sight,  and  many  rays  of  truth 
are  shed  over  the  secret  machinations  of  intrigue, 
and  of  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  frauds.  Mo¬ 
tives  which  in  common  life,  are  hidden  from  the 
eye  of  the  observer,  become  more  manifest,  where 
life,  liberty,  and  property  are  at  stake,  and  in  this 
way  the  criminal  judge  is  able  to  cast  a  deeper 
look  into  the  human  heart.  To  this  we  may  add, 
that  the  searching  details  of  the  course  of  justice 
expose  the  secret  motives  of  human  actions  to  the 
light  of  day  much  more  clearly  than  is  the  case 
under  ordinary  circumstances  ;  whereas  the  most 
circumstantial  narration  of  facts  frequently  leaves 
us  in  the  dark  concerning  the  first  causes  of  an 
event,  concerning  the  true  motives  of  the  active 
agents,  a  criminal  trial  reveals  to  us  the  innermost 
thoughts,  and  exposes  the  most  cunningly-con¬ 
cealed  web  of  malice  to  the  light.  This  important 
gain  which  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  jusify  the 
Commendations  bestowed  upon  this  work,  is  still 
greatly  enhanced  by  the  legal  knowledge  with 
which  the  relation  of  these  cases  is  interspersed, 
and  which  is  rendered  lucid  and  intelligible  by  the 
individuality  of  the  case  to  which  the  legal  tech¬ 
nicalities  apply. 

The  entertainment  which  these  cases  afford  by 
their  contents,  is  still  considerably  augmented  by 
the  manner  in  which  they  have  been  treated.  By 
managing  the  interests  of  both  parties  with  equal 
care  and  skill,  by  concealing  the  final  development 
and  exciting  the  expectation  of  the  reader  to  the 
highest  pitch,  the  authors  have  endeavored,  when¬ 
ever  such  a  thing  was  feasible,  to  convey  to  him 
an  impression  of  the  equivocal  character  of  the 
situation,  which  frequently  rendered  a  decision 
doubtful  and  embarrassing  to  the  judge. 

A  faithful  translation  of  PitavaPs  cases  has 
already  been  published  by  the  same  firm,  and  has 
been  continued  to  the  fourth  volume.  But  the 
enlarged  aim  of  the  work  has  rendered  a  change 
in  the  treatment  of  the  subject  necessary.  Inas¬ 
much  as  the  work  was  designed  for  the  public 
generally,  it  would  have  been  improper  to  furnish 
the  same  mass  of  legal  details  with  which  the  ori¬ 


ginal  work,  that  was  more  particularly  intended 
for  lawyers,  abounds.  By  means  of  the  abbrevia¬ 
tions  which  the  new  editor  has  introduced,  the 
work  has  gained  in  interest,  without  its  complete¬ 
ness  being  impaired. 

A  selection  of  PitavaPs  cases  may  require  three 
or  four  volumes  ;  if  this  should  be  the  case,  cases 
will  be  extracted  from  other  authors,  and  more 
particularly,  if  possible,  from  the  criminal  records 
of  our  German  courts  ;  by  this  means  the  present 
selection  will  form  a  complete  magazine  of  this 
species  of  literature.  The  degree  of  perfection 
which  the  selection  is  intended  to  attain,  will  de¬ 
pend  upon  the  support  of  the  public,  and  upon  the 
reception  which  this  first  attempt  will  meet  with. 


ON  LOVELINESS  AND  DIGNITY  * 

The  Grecian  fable  attributes  to  the  goddess 
of  beauty  a  belt  possessed  of  a  power  to  impart 
loveliness  to  its  possessor,  and  to  win  love  for 
him.  This  goddess  is  attended  by  the  Graces. 

The  Greeks  therefore  distinguished  loveliness 
and  graces  from  beauty,  inasmuch  as  they  were 
designated  by  attributes  distinct  from  the  god¬ 
dess  of  beauty.  All  loveliness  is  beautiful ;  for 
the  belt  which  gave  it,  belonged  to  the  goddess  of 
Gnidus. ;  but  all  beauty  is  not  lovely,  for  without 
this  belt  Venus  would  remain  what  she  is. 

According  to  this  allegory,  the  goddess  of 
beauty  alone  wears  and  bestows  the  belt  of  love’s 
power  or  charm.  Whenever  Juno  desires  to  en¬ 
chant  Jupiter  on  Mount  Ida,  she  has  first  to  bor¬ 
row  this  belt  of  Venus.  High  position,  even 
when  adorned  with  a  certain  degree  of  beauty, 
which  Jupiter’s  spouse  is  not  denied,  is  not  sure 
to  please  without  loveliness  ;  for  it  is  not  by  her 
own  charms,  but  by  means  of  Venus’  belt,  that 
the  queen  of  the  gods  expects  to  conquer  Jupi¬ 
ter’s  heart. 

The  goddess  of  beauty  may  separate  herself 
from  her  belt,  and  may  transfer  its  power  to  infe¬ 
rior  degrees  of  beauty.  Hence  loveliness  is  not 
the  exclusive  prerogative  of  beauty,  but  may  be 
transmitted  to  that  which  is  less  beautiful,  or  not 
beautiful,  although  the  transmission  must  proceed 
from  the  hand  of  beauty. 

The  Greeks  advised  him  who,  among  other 
qualities  of  the  mind,  was  not  endowed  with  love¬ 
liness,  to  offer  a  sacrifice  to  the  Graces.  This 
shows  that  the  Graces,  although  represented  as 
the  companions  of  the  fair  sex,  might  likewise  be 
favorable  to  man,  to  whom  they  were  considered 
indispensable,  if  he  meant  to  please. 

What  is  loveliness,  since  it  allies  itself  with 
beauty  most  readily,  though  not  exclusively? 
since  it  emanates  from  beauty,  but  may  be  trans¬ 
mitted  to  that  which  is  not  beautiful?  since 
beauty  may  exist  without  it,  but  by  it  alone  is 
capable  of  exciting  an  inclination  for  itself? 

The  delicate  sentiment  of  the  Greeks  distin¬ 
guished,  at  an  early  period  of  their  history,  that 
which  the  reason  was  as  yet  unable  to  express  in 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  new  Thalia,  in 
the  second  number  of  the  year  1793. 


460 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


lucid  and  definite  language.  The  desire  of  mani¬ 
festing  their  sentiments,  led  them  to  borrow  images 
of  the  imagination,  since  the  understanding  was  as 
yet  deficient  in  adequate  conceptions.  Yonder 
myth  is  therefore  deserving  of  the  respectful  regard 
of  the  philosopher,  who  has  to  content  himself  any 
way  with  investigating  the  ideas  embodied  in  the 
perceptions  which  the  unsophisticated  son  of  Na¬ 
ture  uses  as  vehicles  of  manifestation  ;  in  other 
words,  the  philosopher  has  to  explain  the  hiero¬ 
glyphics  of  the  sensations. 

The  conception  of  the  Greeks,  divested  of  its 
allegorical  envelope,  seems  to  embody  the  follow¬ 
ing  series  of  ideas  : 

Loveliness  is  a  movable  form  of  beauty,  which 
may  become  manifest  and  then  disappear  again, 
not  being  inherent  in  the  subject;  this  distin¬ 
guishes  it  from  the  fixed  beauty,  which  is  a  neces¬ 
sary,  inherent  element  of  the  subject.  Yenus 
may  detach  her  belt,  and  lend  it  to  Juno;  her 
beauty  is  an  inseparable  attribute  of  her  person. 
Without  her  belt  she  is  no  longer  the  charming 
Yenus  ;  without  beauty  she  ceases  to  be  Yenus. 

This  belt,  the  symbol  of  movable  beauty,  has 
the  peculiarity  of  lending  to  the  person  who  is 
adorned  with  it  the  objective  quality  of  love¬ 
liness  ;  this  property  distinguishes  it  from  every 
other  ornament  which  does  not  alter  the  per¬ 
sonality  itself,  but  only  modifies  its  impression, 
subjectively,  in  the  mind  of  some  other  person. 
The  Greek  myth  means  emphatically  that  loveli¬ 
ness  is  converted  into  an  attribute  of  the  subject, 
and  that  the  wearer  of  the  belt  not  simply  seems, 
but  really  is,  lovely. 

A  belt,  which  is  nothing  else  than  a  mere  acci¬ 
dental,  external  ornament,  does  not  seem  a  suita¬ 
ble  symbol  to  designate  the  'personal  attribute  of 
loveliness  ;  but  a  personal  attribute  which  is  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  separable  from  the  subject,  could  not 
well  be  symbolized  by  any  thing  else  than  some 
accidental  ornament,  which  may  be  detached  from 
the  subject  without  injuring  its  personality. 

The  belt  of  love’s  power,  or  the  belt  of  loveli¬ 
ness,  does  not  act  according  to  natural  laws,  for 
in  such  a  case  it  would  not  alter  the  personality, 
but  magically,  that  is  to  say,  its  power  is  ex¬ 
panded  beyond  all  natural  limitations.  By  this 
expedient  the  contradiction  was  to  be  removed  in 
which  the  imagination  becomes  inevitably  entan¬ 
gled,  whenever  it  seeks,  within  the  boundaries  of 
nature,  an  expression  for  that  which  exists  be¬ 
yond  these  boundaries  in  the  empire  of  freedom. 

If  the  belt  of  charm  expresses  an  objective  at¬ 
tribute,  which  may  be  separated  from  the  subject 
without  altering  its  nature,  it  must  necessarily 
refer  to  beauty  of  motion  ;  for  motion  is  the  only 
change  which  an  object  may  undergo  without  pre¬ 
judice  to  its  identity. 

Beauty  of  motion  is  a  conception  which  satis¬ 
fies  the  two  postulates  contained  in  the  Greek 
myth.  It  is  first  objective,  belonging  to  the  ob¬ 
ject  itself,  and  not  to  the  manner  in  which  it  is 
perceived  by  us,  and,  secondly,  it  is  accidentally 
connected  with  the  object  which  still  continues, 
even  if  the  object  and  the  attribute  should  be  se¬ 
parated. 

The  belt  of  charm  preserves  its  magic  power 
even  in  that  which  is  less  or  not  beautiful ;  in 


other  words,  even  that  which  is  less  or  not  beauti¬ 
ful  may  move  beautifully . 

The  myth  informs  us  that  loveliness  is  an  acci¬ 
dental  attribute  of  the  subject  ;  hence  only  acci¬ 
dental  motions  can  be  possessed  of  this  attribute. 
All  the  necessary  motions  of  ideal  beauty  must 
be  beautiful,  because  they  belong  to  its  nature  as 
necessary  elements  ;  the  beauty  of  these  motions 
is  implied  in  the  idea  of  Yenus;  the  beauty  of 
the  accidental  motions  is  an  enlargement  of  this 
idea.  There  is  loveliness  of  voice  but  not  loveli¬ 
ness  of  respiration. 

Is  the  beauty  of  the  accidental  motions  to  be 
regarded  as  loveliness  in  every  case  ? 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remark  that  the  Greek 
myth  has  limited  loveliness  and  the  graces  to  man  ; 
it  goes  further,  including  even  the  beauty  of  form 
within  the  limits  of  the  human  race  among  which 
the  Greeks,  as  is  well  known,  located  even  their 
gods.  If  loveliness  is  the  prerogative  of  human  cul¬ 
ture,  none  of  the  motions  which  man  has  in  common 
with  the  objects  of  brute  nature,  can  lay  claim  to 
it.  If  the  locks  of  a  beautiful  head  could  be  said 
to  move  with  loveliness,  there  is  no  reason  why 
the  same  expression  should  not  be  used  of  the 
branches  of  a  tree,  the  waves  of  a  river,  the  corn 
on  the  field,  the  limbs  of  an  animal.  But  the 
goddess  of  Gnidus  only  represents  the  human  race, 
and  ceases  to  have  any  meaning  in  localities  where 
man  is  nothing  but  a  thing  of  nature  and  a  being 
of  matter. 

Loveliness  can  only  be  predicated  of  voluntary 
motions,  and  among  these  only  of  such  as  consti¬ 
tute  an  expression  of  moral  sentiments.  Motions 
which  emanate  from  no  other  source  than  sensu¬ 
ality,  were  they  ever  so  much  the  result  of  voli¬ 
tion,  belong  to  the  province  of  nature,  which  of 
herself  never  rises  to  the  sphere  of  loveliness.  If 
sensual  desire  or  the  instinct  could  be  manifested 
with  loveliness,  it  would  no  longer  be  either  capa¬ 
ble  or  worthy  of  characterizing  the  expression  of 
human  sentiments. 

Yet  it  is  by  the  idea  of  man  that  all  beautj 
and  perfection  are  bounded  in  the  Greek  mind. 
The  Greek  philosopher  separates  sensuality  and 
soul  ;  his  sense  of  humanity  finds  it  difficult  to  in¬ 
dividualize  as  distinct  and  separate  entities,  human 
intelligence  and  the  rude  nature  of  the  animal. 
As  he  incorporates  every  idea,  even  the  most  spi¬ 
ritual  state,  in  some  bodily  form,  so  he  requires 
that  every  act  of  the  human  instinct  ought  to 
convey  an  expression  of  man’s  moral  destiny. 
To  the  Greek,  nature  is  never  simply  nature  ; 
hence  he  need  not  blush  to  honor  her  ;  reason  to 
him  in  never  simply  reason  ;  hence  he  need  not 
hesitate  to  accept  her  as  his  standard  measure. 
Nature  and  morality,  matter  and  spirit,  earth  and 
heaven,  are  united  in  his  poesy  with  a  wonderful 
beauty.  The  freedom  which  dwells  in  Olympus, 
was  introduced  by  him  into  the  domain  of  the 
senses,  and  in  return  we  feel  disposed  to  pardon 
him  for  having  made  the  senses  an  attribute  of 
the  Olympic  gods. 

This  delicate  perception  of  the  Greeks  which 
never  separated  the  material  from  the  spiritual, 
ignores  the  possibility  of  voluntary  motions  on  the. 
part  of  man,  which  appertain  exclusively  to  the 
senses,  without  at  the  same  time  expressing  some 


uESTHETICAL. 


461 


moral  sentiment.  For  this  reason,  loveliness,  to 
them,  is  nothing  else  than  a  beautiful  expression  of 
the  soul  in  the  voluntary  motions.  Wherever 
loveliness  exists,  the  soul  constitutes  the  motor 
principle  ;  the  soul  contains  the  source  of  the 
beauty  of  motion.  Thus  the  above-mentioned 
myth  resolves  itself  into  the  following  thoughts  : 

“  Loveliness  is  a  form  of  beauty  that  is  not  given 
bv  nature,  but  is  produced  by  the  human  sub¬ 
ject,” 

So  far  I  have  confined  myself  to  developing 
the  idea  of  loveliness  from  the  Greek  fable,  and  I 
trust  I  have  done  so  without  doing  violence  to  the 
myth,  I  now  beg  leave  to  examine  what  results 
may  be  obtained  in  this  respect  by  following  the 
road  of  philosophizing  reason,  and  whether  it  has 
made  more  discoveries  here  than  it  can  boast  of 
in  other  departments  of  human  thought,  of  which 
man  did  not  already  possess  a  dim  intuition , 
or  which  the  spirit  of  poesy  had  not  already  re¬ 
vealed  to  him. 

Venus,  without  her  belt  and  without  the  graces, 
represents  to  us  the  ideal  of  beauty  as  the  simple 
offspring  of  nature,  and  as  the  product  of  plastic 
forces  independent  of  tl\e  action  of  a  sentient 
spirit.  Very  justly  the  fable  adopts  a  special 
divinity  as  the  representative  of  this  beauty,  for 
even  the  natural  instinct  draws  a  rigid  line  be¬ 
tween  this  form  of  beauty  and  that  which  owes 
its  origin  to  the  action  of  a  sentient  spirit. 

This  simply  natural  beauty,  fashioned  according 
to  a  law  of  necessity,  maybe  termed  constructive 
or  architectonic  beauty,  in  contradistinction  to 
that  which  is  determined  by  voluntary  motions. 
I  apply  this  name  to  that  portion  of  human 
beauty,  which  has  not  only  been  executed ,  (for  this 
may  be  said  of  every  natural  phenomenon,)  but 
which  is  exclusively  determined  by  the  forces  of 
nature. 

A  happy  proportion  of  the  limbs,  rounded  and 
easy  forms,  a  clear  complexion,  a  delicate  skin, 
an  elegant  and  gracefnl  shape  of  the  body,  a  eu¬ 
phonious  voice,  &c.,  are  advantages  which  we 
owe  to  nature  and  to  our  good  fortune  ;  to  nature, 
because  she  furnished  and  developed  the  capacity 
for  them  ;  to  our  good  fortune,  because  it  pro¬ 
tected  the  work  of  nature  from  the  action  of  hos¬ 
tile  forces. 

This  Venus  rises  from  the  foam  of  the  ocean  as 
a  perfect  form  :  perfect,  for  she  is  a  complete, 
rigidly-determined  work  of  necessity,  incapable,  as 
such,  of  variety  or  expansion.  Being  nothing  else 
than  a  beautiful  exhibition  of  the  end  which  nature 
intended  to  realize  in  regard  to  man,  and  each  of 
her  attributes  being  fully  determined  by  the  fun¬ 
damental  idea  of  her  being,  she  may  be  regarded 
as  a  perfect  whole  so  far  as  her  constituent  prin¬ 
ciples  are  concerned,  although  these  can  only  be 
developed  in  the  course  of  time. 

The  architectonic  beauty  of  the  human  form 
should  be  carefully  distinguished  from  the  techni¬ 
cal  perfection  of  this  form.  By  the  latter  we  un¬ 
derstand  the  system  of  ends  such  as  they  exist 
combinedly  for  some  highest  end  ;  by  the  former, 
on  the  contrary,  we  understand  the  qualitative 
manifestation  of  these  ends  to  the  contemplating 
understanding.  When  speaking  of  beauty,  we 
neither  consider  the  material  value  of  these  ends, 


nor  the  artistic  form  of  their  combination.  The 
percipient  faculty  dwells  exclusively  upon  the 
manner  in  which  an  object  is  seen,  without  con¬ 
sidering  at  all  its  logical  quality.  Although  the 
architectonic  beauty  of  the  human  form  is  deter¬ 
mined  by  the  fundamental  idea  of  this  form,  and 
by  the  end  which  nature  has  sought  to  realize  by 
means  of  it,  yet  the  aesthetic  judgment  isolates 
the  idea  of  such  beauty  from  this  end,  and  nothing 
enters  into  the  idea  of  beauty  except  that 
which  constitutes  an  immediate  and  specific  pro¬ 
perty  of  the  phenomenal  manifestation. 

It  cannot,  therefore,  be  said  that  the  dignity  of 
humanity  enhances  the  beauty  of  the  human  form. 
Our  judgment  concerning  the  latter  maybe  influ¬ 
enced  by  our  conception  of  the  former,  but  it 
ceases,  in  such  a  case,  to  be  of  a  purely  aesthetic 
character.  The  technical  construction  of  the 
human  form,  constituting  an  expression  of  man’s 
destiny,  should,  indeed,  fill  us  with  respect.  But 
this  technical  construction  is  not  exhibited  to  the 
senses,  but  to  the  understanding  ;  it  may  be  ima¬ 
gined,  but  cannot  appear  sensually.  The  archi¬ 
tectonic  beauty,  on  the  contrary,  caa  never  be  an 
expression  of  his  destiny,  inasmuch  as  it  appeals 
to  an  entirely  different  faculty  from  that  which 
has  to  decide  concerning  the  nature  of  that  des¬ 
tiny. 

if  we  apply  beauty  to  man  in  preference  to  all 
other  technical  formations  of  nature,  this  is  only 
true  of  his  purely  phenomenal  beauty,  unconnected 
with  the  idea  of  human  dignity.  If  this  were  not 
so,  beauty  would  no  longer  be  a  fact  of  the  senses, 
but  would  become  a  fact  of  the  understanding,  which 
implies  a  contradiction.  In  claiming  the  prize  of 
beauty,  man  cannot  fall  back  upon  the  dignity  of 
his  moral  destiny,  upon  his  prerogative  as  an  in¬ 
telligent  being  ;  here  he  is  simply  a  thing  in  space, 
a  phenomenon  among  other  phenomena.  His  po¬ 
sition  in  the  ideal  world  is  not  considered  in  the 
world  of  sense ;  if  he  holds  the  highest  rank  in 
the  latter,  he  OAves  it  exclusively  to  that  which 
constitutes  his  sensual  nature. 

But  we  know  that  this  very  nature  has  been  de¬ 
termined  by  the  idea  of  his  humanity  ;  hence  his 
architectonic  beauty  must  be  indirectly  determined 
by  a  similar  principle.  Hence,  if  among  the 
sensual  beings  around  him,  he  distinguishes  him¬ 
self  by  a  higher  beauty,  he  is  undoubtedly  indebt¬ 
ed  for  this  prerogative  to  his  human  destiny,  which 
contains  the  source  of  distinction  between  him 
and  the  other  beings  of  sense.  But  it  is  not  be¬ 
cause  the  human  form  is  an  expression  of  this 
higher  destiny,  that  it  is  beautiful  ;  for,  if  this 
were  the  case,  the  same  form  would  cease  to  be 
beautiful  the  moment  it  expresses  a  destiny  of  an 
inferior  order,  or  the  contrary  of  the  human  form 
would  be  beautiful,  if  we  could  accept  it  as  the 
expression  of  that  higher  destiny.  But  suppose, 
in  beholding  a  beautiful  human  form.  Ave  could 
forget  what  it  expresses  ;  suppose  the  human 
form,  without  being  phenomenally  altered,  could 
be  made  to  express  the  brutal  instinct  of  the 
tiger,  the  judgment  of  the  eyes  Avould  remain  un¬ 
altered,  and  would  regard  the  tiger  as  the  most 
beautiful  w7ork  of  the  Creator. 

Man’s  destiny,  as  an  intelligent  being,  is,  there¬ 
fore,  involved  in  the  beauty  of  his  form,  only  jn 


462 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


so  far  as  its  phenomenal  exhibition  coincides  with 
the  conditions  upon  which  sensual  beauty  depends 
as  its  determining  principles.  Beauty  must  at  all 
times  be  the  spontaneous  effect  of  natural  motions, 
the  rational  idea,  which  determined  the  technical 
construction  of  the  human  organism,  can  never 
impart  beauty  to  the  latter,  but  may  accept  it  as 
an  attribute  of  the  human  form. 

It  might  be  objected  that  every  thing  pheno¬ 
menal  is  the  result  of  natural  forces,  and  that 
this  cannot  be  regarded  as  the  exclusive  charac¬ 
teristic  of  the  beautiful.  It  is  true,  all  technical 
formations  are  the  products  of  nature,  but  it  is 
not  nature  that  renders  them  technical  ;  at  any 
rate  they  do  not  convey  this  impression  to  the 
mind.  Their  technical  meaning  is  a  fact  of  the 
understanding;  the  perfection  of  their  technical 
construction  is  perceived  by  the  understanding 
prior  to  the  phenomenal  manifestation  of  this  fact 
in  the  world  of  sense.  Beauty  has  this  peculiarity, 
that  it  is  not  only  a  phenomenon  in,  but  an  off¬ 
spring  of,  the  world  of  sense  ;  that  nature  not 
only  expresses,  but  creates  it.  Beauty  is  an  at¬ 
tribute  of  se’nsual  things,  and  the  artist  who 
attempts  to  realize  it,  can  attain  this  end  only 
in  so  far  as  he  preserves  the  appearance  that  nature 
has  done  the  work. 

In  order  to  judge  critically  the  technical  con¬ 
struction  of  the  human  organism,  we  have  to  con¬ 
sider  the  design  to  which  this  construction  has 
been  adapted  ;  this  is  not  necessary,  if  we  simply 
desire  to  estimate  the  beauty  of  the  work.  Sense 
alone  is  a  competent  judge  in  this  respect,  which 
it  could  not  be,  if  the  world  of  sense,  which  con¬ 
stitutes  the  only  sphere  and  object  of  its  opera¬ 
tions,  did  not  contain  all  the  conditions  of  beauty, 
and  were  not  perfectly  sufficient  to  realize  them. 
Indirectly ,  human  beauty  is  undoubtedly  founded 
upon  the  idea  of  humanity,  because  man’s  whole 
sensual  nature  is  founded  upon  it;  but  we  know 
that  the  senses  only  deal  with  immediate  effects, 
and  that,  so  far  as  the  senses  are  concerned,  beauty 
may  be  regarded  as  an  independent  effect  of.  na¬ 
tural  motions. 

According  to  these  statements,  it  would  seem 
as  though  beauty,  being  a  product  of  the  world 
of  sense,  and  pertaining  exclusively  to  the  domain 
of  sensual  contemplation,  could  not  interest  the 
human  reason.  For  after  separating  from  the 
idea  of  beauty  the  impressions  which  the  contem¬ 
plation  of  the  technical  perfection  of  the  organism 
must  necessarily  excite,  and  by  which  our  judgment 
must  necessarily  be  influenced,  beauty  seems  to  be 
deprived  of  every  quality  that  might  make  it  the 
object  of  rational  delight.  Nevertheless  it  is  just 
as  certain  that  beauty  is  pleasing  to  reason ,  as  it 
is  certain  that  beauty  does  not  depend  upon  such 
attributes  of  the  beautiful  object  as  can  only  be 
discovered  by  reason. 

In  order  to  solve  this  apparent  contradiction, 
we  should  remember  that  there  are  two  ways  in 
which  phenomena  may  become  objects  of  the  reason 
and  may  express  ideas.  It  is  not  always  necessary 
that  reason  should  abstract  these  ideas  from  phe¬ 
nomena  ;  it  may  interpret  phenomena  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  its  own  pre-existing  ideas.  In  either 
case  the  phenomena  will  be  found  adequate  to  a 
rational  conception,  with  this  difference,  that,  in 


the  former,  this  conception  exists  as  it  were,  ob¬ 
jectively,  and  is  transmitted  to  the  reason,. which 
has  to  form  its  conception  in  order  to  explain  the 
quality,  and  frequently  even  the  possibility  of  the 
object ;  whereas,  in  the  second  case,  the  pheno¬ 
menon,  existing  as  something  independent  of  the 
conception  of  the  reason,  is  converted  by  the  free 
action  of  the  latter  into  an  expression  of  the 
rational  conception,  and  a  mere  thing  of  sense  is 
subjected  to  supra-sensual  treatment.  In  the 
former  case,  there  exists  a  necessary  objective 
connection  between  the  idea  and  its  object,  in  the 
latter  case  this  connection  is  necessarily  subjec¬ 
tive.  I  need  not  say  that  the  former  applies  to 
the  technical  perfection,  the  latter  to  the  beauty 
of  the  object. 

Inasmuch  as  in  the  latter  case  the  connection 
between  the  conception  of  the  reason  and  the  idea 
of  the  sensual  object  is  altogether  accidental,  and 
inasmuch  as  the  objective  quality  of  the  thing  has 
to  be  considered  as  entirely  independent  of  the 
rational  conception,  it  is  perfectly  correct  to  con¬ 
sider  beauty,  objectively ,  as  the  attribute  of  natural 
conditions,  and  to  explain  it  as  an  effect  of  the 
world  of  sense.  On  the  other  hand,  inasmuch  as 
reason  makes  a  super-sensual  use  of  this  effect  of 
the  world  of  sense,  and,  by  imparting  to  it  a 
higher  significance,  impresses  upon  it  the  stamp 
of  rationality,  it  is  likewise  perfectly  correct,  from 
a  subjective  point  of  view,  to  assign  to  beauty  a 
place  among  the  things  of  intelligence.  Beauty 
should  therefore  be  considered  as  the  citizen  of 
two  worlds,  to  one  of  which  she  belongs  by  birth, 
to  the  other  by  adoption  ;  she  receives  her  exist¬ 
ence  in  the  world  of  sense,  and  in  the  world  of 
reason  she  obtains  the  right  of  citizenship.  This 
accounts  for  the  fact  why  taste,  this  faculty  of 
criticising  the  beautiful,  steps  between  mind  and 
sense,  and  unites  these  two  repelling  natures  in 
the  bonds  of  a  happy  union  ;  why  it  wins  the  re¬ 
spect  of  reason  for  the  material,  and  the  affection 
of  the  senses  for  the  rational ;  why  it  elevates 
sensual  perceptions  to  the  rank  of  ideas,  and 
transforms  even  the  world  of  sense  into  a  kingdom 
of  freedom. 

Although,  as  far  as  the  object  itself  is  con¬ 
cerned,  the  connection  between  a  rational  idea 
and  the  mental  image  of  the  object  is  accidental, 
yet  the  conceiving  subject  or  agent  must  neces¬ 
sarily  connect  such  an  idea  with  this  mental  image. 
This  idea,  and  the  corresponding  sensual  attribute 
of  the  object,  have  to  be  related  in  such  a  way 
that  reason  is  compelled  by  its  own  unalterable 
laws,  to  perform  such  an  act.  It  is  inherent  in  the 
nature  of  reason  to  connect  a  definite  idea  exclu¬ 
sively  with  a  certain  mode  in  which  objects  mani¬ 
fest  themselves  ;  and  it  is  inherent  in  the  object 
why  it  calls  up  exclusively  this  idea  and  no  other. 
The  question,  what  idea  reason  infuses  into  the 
beautiful,  and  by  means  of  what  objective  quality 
the  beautiful  object  is  enabled  to  serve  as  the 
symbol  of  this  idea,  is  too  important  to  be  an¬ 
swered  in  a  superficial  manner  ;  I  shall  therefore 
enter  upon  a  more  complete  elucidation  of  this 
subject  in  my  analysis  of  the  beautiful. 

According  to  the  manner  in  which  the  subject  . 
has  been  presented,  the  architectonic  beauty  of 
man  is  the  sensual  expression  of  a  rational  con - 


iESTHETICAL.  4($$ 


ception  ;  but  it  is  this  in  no  other  sense,  and  with 
no  better  right,  than  any  other  beautiful  formation 
of  nature.  In  degree  it  surpasses,  but  in  kind  it 
is  on  a  level  with,  every  other  form  of  beauty, 
since  it  only  manifests  sensual  qualities  of  the 
subject,  and  only  acquires  a  supra-sensual  meaning 
by  a  conception  of  the  reason.*  If  the  end  of 
Creation  has  been  more  beautifully  exhibited  in 
man  than  in  other  organic  forms,  we  should  regard 
this  as  a  favor  which  reason,  that  makes  laws  for 
the  human  organism,  has  conferred  upon  nature 
that  executes  them.  It  is  true  that,  in  forming 
man’s  technical  organism,  reason  pursues  her  ends 
according  to  the  demands  of  ail  unyielding  ne¬ 
cessity,  but  happily  her  own  demands  coincide 
with  those  of  nature,  so  that  the  latter  acts  in 
accordance  with  her  own  inclinations  while  exe¬ 
cuting  at  the  same  time  the  mandates  of  reason. 

These  remarks  only  apply  to  the  architectonic 
beauty  of  man  where  the  necessity  of  nature  is 
supported  by  the  necessity  of  the  teleological  rea¬ 
son  involved  in  the  work.  Here  alone  it  was  pos¬ 
sible  to  calculate  the  relation  of  beauty  to  the 
technical  structure,  which  is  no  longer  possible  as 
sobn  as  the  necessity  is  all  on  one  side,  and  the 
supra-sensual  cause  that  determines  the  phenome¬ 
non,  is  liable  to  accidental  changes.  Hence  na¬ 
ture  alone  provides  for  man’s  architectonic  beauty, 
for  here  she  w’as  intrusted ,  by  the  creating  Intelli¬ 
gence,  at  the  very  outset,  with  the  creation  of 
every  thing  that  man  is  in  need  of,  for  the  accom¬ 
plishment  of  his  ends,  and  she  need  not  apprehend 
any  innovations  in  her  organizing  functions. 

Man  is  at  the  same  time  a  personality,  a  being 
which,  itself,  is  cause,  the  absolutely  first  cause  of 
its  own  states  ;  a  being  that  may  alter  its  condi¬ 
tions  in  accordance  with  reasons  drawn  from  its 
own  self.  This  mode  of  manifestation  depends 
upon  his  mode  of  feeling  and  willing,  hence  upon 
the  conditions  which  he  determines  as  a  free  agent, 
not  upon  conditions  which  are  determined  by  na¬ 
ture  according  to  her  necessities. 

If  man  wrere  only  a  being  of  sense,  nature 
would  dictate  the  laws,  and  at  the  same  time  de¬ 
termine  the  cases  where  they  should  be  applied  ; 
but  now  she  shares  her  rule  with  man’s  freedom, 
and,  although  her  laws  are  maintained,  yet  it  is  mind 
that  decides  upon  the  cases. 

The  domain  of  mind  extends  as  far  as  nature  is 
living,  nor  does  it  cease  until  organic  life  termi¬ 
nates  in  shapeless  matter  and  the  animal  energies 
become  extinct.  We  know  that  all  the  motor  powers 

-  For  we  repeat,  that  the  mere  perception  takes  in  every 
thing  that  is  objective  in  beauty.  Inasmuch  as  that  which 
places  man  above  all  the  other  beings  of  sense,  does  not 
occur  in  the  domain  of  sensual  perception  :  an  attribute 
which  comes  within  the  range  of  sensual  perception, 
cannot  evidence  man’s  superiority.  His  high  destiny, 
which  alone  establishes  this  superiority,  is  not  expressed 
by  bis  beauty;  the  conception  of  his  destiny  can  never 
become  an  element  in  the  idea  of  his  beauty,  can  never 
become  the  determining  principle  of  the  aesthetic  judg¬ 
ment.  Not  the  thought  which  is  embodied  in  the  human 
form,  but  the  effects  of  this  thought,  are  revealed  to  the 
senses.  The  mere  senses  are  no  more  elevated  to  the 
supra-sensual  cause  of  these  effects  than  the  sensual  man, 
(if  the  illustration  is  not  out  of  place,)  at  the  moment 
when  he  gratifies  his  desires,  is  elevated  to  the  idea  of 
the  Supreme  Cause  of  the  universe. 


in  man  cohere,  and  this  explains  why  the  mind, 
considered  simply  as  the  principle  of  voluntary 
motion,  may  perpetuate  its  action  through  the 
whole  frame.  Not  only  the  instruments  of  the 
will,  but  also  those  over  which  the  will  does  not 
exercise  any  immediate  control,  experience,  at 
least  indirectly,  the  influence  of  the  mind.  The 
mind  exercises  this  influence  over  them  not  only 
intentionally,  when  it  acts,  but  also  unintentionally 
when  it  experiences  an  emotion. y, 

It  follows  from  what  we  have  stated,  that  nature 
can  only  provide  for  the  beauty  of  such  phe¬ 
nomena  as  result  from  her  unlimited  action  in 
accordance  with  the  law  of  necessity.  But  the 
vnll-power  is  allied  to  accidental  use ;  although 
the  changes  which  nature  undergoes  under  the 
rule  of  freedom,  take  place  in  accordance  with 
her  own,  and  no  other  laws,  yet  they  no  longer 
result  from  such  laws.  Inasmuch  as  the  mir.d 
has  to  determine  what  use  it  intends  to  make  of 
its  instruments,  nature  has  no  further  control  ove  * 
that  portion  of  beauty  which  is  depending  upoi. 
this  use,  nor  does  her  responsibility  extend  over  it, 

Accordingly  man  would  run  the  risk  of  descend¬ 
ing  in  the  scale  as  a  phenomenal  being  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  elevates  himself,  by  the  use  of 
his  freedom,  to  the  rank  of  a  pure  intelligence,  and 
of  losing  before  the  tribunal  of  taste  what  he 
gains  before  that  of  reason.  The  destiny  which 
he  realizes  by  his  action,  would  cost  him  a  preroga¬ 
tive  which  the  destiny,  as  simply  announced  ir. 
his  technical  structure,  seemed  to  favor  ;  although 
this  prerogative  is  purely  sensual,  yet  we  have  seen 
that  reason  imparts  to  it  a  higher  significance. 
Nature,  which  is  fond  of  accord,  is  not  guilty  of 
such  a  gross  contradiction,  and  that  which  exists 
harmoniously  in  the  empire  of  reason,  does  not 
manifest  itself  discordantly  in  the  world  of  sense 

If  the  personal  or  free  principle  in  man  takes  it 
upon  itself  to  determine  the  play  of  the  phe¬ 
nomena,  and,  by  its  interference,  deprives  nature 
of  the  power  to  protect  the  beauty  of  her  work,  it 
takes  the  place  of  nature,  and,  if  I  may  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  use  this  expression,  assumes  with  her 
rights  a  portion  of  her  obligations.  By  in¬ 
volving  the  subordinate  senses  in  its  destiny, 
and  by  causing  them  to  depend  upon  its  own  con¬ 
ditions,  itself  becomes  as  it  were  a  phenomenon, 
and  acknowledges  its  subjection  to  the  law  which 
presides  over  all  phenomena.  For  its  own  sake,  it 
obliges  itself  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  nature, 
whilst  she  is  bound  to  it  as  a  ministering  agent, 
and  never  to  treat  her  contrary  to  her  former 
duty.  I  call  beauty  a  duty  of  the  phenomena, 
inasmuch  as  the  corresponding  need  of,  or  desire 
for  beauty  in  the  subject,  is  founded  in  reason, 
and  is  therefore  universal  and  necessary.  I  call  it 
a  prior  duty,  inasmuch  as  the  senses  have  already 
judged  before  the  understanding  enters  upon  its 
business. 

Freedom  now  governs  beauty,  nature  furnished 
the  beauty  of  the. structure,  the  soul  furnishes  the 
beauty  of  the  mechanism.  Now  we  know  what 
we  have  to  understand  by  loveliness  and  the 
graces.  Loveliness  is  the  beauty  of  the  form 
under  the  influence  of  freedom,  the  beauty  of  the 
phenomena  determined  by,  or  resulting  from  the 
will  of  the  person.  The  architectonic  beauty 


464 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


does  honor  to  the  Author  of  nature,  loveliness  and 
the  graces  do  honor  to  the  one  who  possesses  them. 
The  former  is  a  talent ,  the  latter  a  personal  merit. 

Loveliness  is  only  attributable  to  motion,  for  a 
change  of  feeling  can  only  be  manifested  by  a  cor¬ 
responding  motion  in  the  world  of  sense.  On  this 
account,  however,  unchanging  and  quiescent  fea¬ 
tures  are  not  incapacitated  from  expressing  love¬ 
liness.  These  unchanging  features  originally  were 
nothing  but  motions  which  finally  became  habitual 
in  consequence  of  frequent  repetition,  and  left 
permanent  impressions.* 

But  all  the  motions  of  man  are  not  capable  of 
gracefulness.  Gracefulness  is  the  beauty  of  form 
in  a  state  of  free  motion ;  motions  which  apper¬ 
tain  to  nature  alone,  can  never  lay  claim  to  such 
an  attribute.  It  is  true,  an  animated  spirit  finally 
controls  all  the  motions  of  the  body,  but  if 
the  chain  by  which  a  beautiful  trait  is  attached 
to  moral  sentiments,  is  very  long,  this  trait 
becomes  a  property  of  the  organic  structure, 
and  can  hardly  be  ranged  in  the  category  of  the 
graces.  Finally  the  mind  fashions  to  itself  a 
body,  and  the  structure  itself  is  made  subordinate 
to  the  evolutions  required  of  it  by  the  mind  ;  thus 
it  is  that  loveliness  of  form  may  finally  become 
converted  into  architectonic  beauty. 

In  the  same  way,  as  a  hostile,  discordant  spirit 
ruins  even  the  sublimest  beauty  of  organic  struc¬ 
ture,  so  that  the  magnificent  masterpiece  of 
nature  is  no  longer  recognized  in  the  unworthy 
hands  of  a  free  will-power  :  so  we  sometimes  see  the 
serene  and  harmonious  mind  hasten  to  the  assis¬ 
tance  of  an  organism  whose  play  is  embarrassed 
by  obstacles  ;  nature  is  set  free,  and  the  oppressed 
form,  still  bound  by  the  fetters  of  infancy,  expands 
with  a  glorious  effulgence.  Man’s  plastic  nature 
is  endowed  with  many  resources  within  its  own 
organization,  to  make  up  for  neglected  development 
and  to  correct  its  defects,  provided  the  moral 
sense  supports  it  in,  or  at  least,  does  not  interfere 
with,  its  work  of  development  or  restoration. 

Since  the  consolidated  motions  (or  evanescent 
impressions  converted  into  fixed  features)  are  not 

*  Hence  Hume’s  definition  of  loveliness  (in  his  Princi¬ 
ples  of  Criticism.  Vol.  ii.  p.  39,  recent  edition)  is  not  suf¬ 
ficiently  comprehensive.  He  says,  “that,  if  the  most 
lovely  person  is  in  a  state  of  rest,  and  neither  moves  nor 
speaks,  we  lose  sight  of  the  quality  of  loveliness,  as  we 
do  of  colors  in  the  dark.”  AVe  do  not  lose  sight  of  this 
quality,  as  long  as  we  perceive  in  the  countenance  of  the 
sleeping  person  the  features  which  a  gentle  and  benevo¬ 
lent  spirit  has  formed  ;  the  most  valuable  portion  of  the 
graces  remains,  I  mean  the  portion  which  from  evanescent, 
expressions  of  the  countenance  gradually  had  become 
converted  into  fixed  features,  and  affords  a  permanent 
manifestation  of  the  habitual  disposition  of  the  mind  to 
conceive  beautiful  sentiments.  But  if  the  reviewer  of 
Hume’s  work  undertakes  to  correct  his  author  by  the 
remark  ;  “that  loveliness  is  not  limited  to  voluntary  mo¬ 
tions  and  that  a  sleeping  person  does  not  cease  to  appear 
charming,”  and  why?  “  because  the  involuntary,  gentle, 
and,  for  this  reason,  lovelier  motions  become  more  strik¬ 
ingly  manifest  during  sleep,  *’  he  neutralizes  the  concep¬ 
tion  of  gracefulness,  which  Hume  only  restricted  within 
too  narrow  limits.  Involuntary  motions  during  sleep, 
unless  they  are  mechanical  repetitions  of  voluntary  mo¬ 
tions,  can  never  appear  lovely,  much  less  can  they  appear 
particularly  lovely  at  such  a  time  ;  if  a  sleeping  person 
is  charming,  this  is  not  attributable  to  her  present  motions, 
but  to  the  features  resulting  from  previous  ones. 


excluded  from  the  attribute  of  loveliness,  it  may 
seem  as  if  the  beauty  of  seeming  or  imitated  mo¬ 
tions  (serpentine  lines)  should  be  ranged  within 
the  definition  of  loveliness,  as  Mendelsohn  indeed 
asserts.*  But  this  would  enlarge  the  conception 
of  loveliness  to  that  of  beauty  ;  for  all  beauty  is, 
after  all,  an  attribute  of  true  or  seeming  (objective 
or  subjective)  motion,  as  I  shall  endeavor  to  show 
in  my  analysis  of  the  beautiful.  Loveliness  can 
only  be  attributed  to  motions  which  correspond  to 
a  sentiment. 

The  personality  of  man  either  dictates  motions 
to  the  body  by  the  will-power,  if  a  preconceived 
effect  is  to  be  realized  in  the  world  of  sense,  in 
which  case  the  motions  are  voluntary  or  designed  ; 
or  else  the  motions  take  place  without  the  person’s 
will,  in  accordance  with  a  law  of  necessity,  but  in 
obedience  to  some  impelling  emotion  ;  these  may 
be  termed  sympathetic.  Although  the  latter  are 
involuntary  and  resulting  from  some  emotion,  yet 
they  should  not  be  confounded  with  motions  ex¬ 
cited  by  the  senses  or  by  the  instinct,  for  the 
instinct  is  no  free  principle  ;  what  it  does,  is  not 
the  act  of  the  personality.  By  sympathetic  mo¬ 
tions  I  understand  such  as  accompany  a  moral 
sentiment  or  emotion. 

The  question  now  occurs,  which  of  the  two 
orders  of  motions  depending  upon  the  personality, 
is  capable  of  loveliness. 

That  which  it  is  necessary  to  separate  in  a  phi¬ 
losophical  inquiry,  is  not,  on  this  account,  always 
separated  in  reality.  Thus  we  seldom  meet  with 
designed  motions  which  are  not  attended  with 
motions  of  the  sympathetic  order,  because  the 
will,  which  gives  rise  to  the  former,  is  determined 
by  moral  sentiments  from  which  the  latter  emanate. 
Whilst  a  person  is  talking,  we  see  the  looks,  fea¬ 
tures,  hands,  an d  sometimes  even  the  whole  body 
of  the  person  talk  at  the  same  time,  and  the  mimi¬ 
cal  part  of  the  conversation  is  very  frequently 
considered*  as  the  most  eloquent.  But  even  a 
designed  motion  may  sometimes  be  regarded  as  a 
sympathetic  one  ;  this  is  the  case  whenever  the 
voluntary  character  of  the  motion  is  mixed  up 
with  something  involuntary. 

The  manner  in  which  a  voluntary  motion  is  per¬ 
formed,  is  not  so  accurately  determined  by  its 
own  end,  but  that  it  might  be  performed  in  more 
ways  than  one.  That  which  is  left  undetermined 
by  the  will  or  by  the  end  in  view,  may  be  deter¬ 
mined  sympathetically  by  the  emotional  state  of 
the  person,  of  which  it  may  become  an  expressive 
manifestation.  By  extending  my  arm  for  the 
purpose  of  receiving  an  object,  I  execute  an  end, 
and  the  motion  which  I  perform,  is  prescribed  by 
the  intention  I  desire  to  realize.  But  what  shall 
be  the  direction  of  my  arm  toward  the  object,  or 
how  far  the  rest  of  my  body  shall  follow  the  di¬ 
rection  of  the  arm  ;  how  quickly  or  slowly,  and 
with  what  an  expenditure  of  strength  I  intend  to 
execute  the  motion  :  these  are  calculations  in 
which  I  do  not  engage  at  that  moment,  and  some¬ 
thing  is  left  to  the  promptings  of  the  nature  within 
me.  Nevertheless,  in  some  way  or  other,  that 
which  is  not  determined  by  the  object  of  my  mo¬ 
tion,  has  to  be  decided  in  some  way  ;  here  it  is. 

*  Philosoph.  Writings,  Yol.  i.  p.  90. 


iESTHETICAL. 


465 


where  my  emotional  state  may  decide  the  question, 
and,  by  its  own  tone  or  vibrations,  may  determine 
the  precise  character  of  the  motion.  The  part 
which  the  emotional  state  of  a  person  takes  in  a 
voluntary  motion,  constitutes  its  involuntary  char¬ 
acter,  and  determines  its  claims  to,  and  its  degree 
of  gracefulness. 

A  voluntary ,  unless  united  to  a  sympathetic 
motion,  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same,  unless 
mingled  with  something  involuntary  emanating 
from  the  emotional  state  of  the  person,  can  never 
be  said  to  be  graceful;  this  attribute  is  always 
founded  in  some  emotional  state.  The  voluntary 
motion  follows  after  an  act  of  the  emotional  prin¬ 
ciple  ;  this  act  is  past  when  the  motion  takes  place. 

A  sympathetic  motion,  on  the  contrary,  accom¬ 
panies  the  emotional  act  and  the  state  which 
prompted  it,  with  both  of  which  the  motion  has 
to  be  regarded  as  running  in  parallel  lines. 

This  is  sufficient  to  show  that  the  voluntary 
motion,  which  does  not  immediately  emanate  from 
the  person’s  sentiment,  does  not  represent  it.  For 
between  the  sentiment  and  the  motion,  resolution 
steps  in,  which,  of  itself  considered,  is  a  neutral 
principle  ;  the  motion  is  the  effect  of  the  resolution 
and  end,  not  of  the  person  and  the  sentiment. 

The  connection  between  the  voluntary  motion 
and  of  the  sentiment  which  precedes  it,  is  acci¬ 
dental;  the  connection  between  the  sympathetic 
motion  and  this  sentiment  is,  on  the  contrary, 
necessary.  The  former  motion  is  related  to  the 
emotional  principle  in  man  as  the  conventional 
sign  of  speech  to  the  thought  which  it  is  made  to 
express;  the  sympathetic  motion,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  as  the  passionate  sound  to  the  passion.  It 
is  not  therefore  by  the  character  of  the  motion 
that  the  former  expresses  the  mind,  but  by  its 
conventional  use.  Hence  we  cannot,  properly 
speaking,  say  that  the  mind  manifests  itself  in  a 
voluntary  motion,  since  it  only  expresses  the  ma¬ 
terial  character  of  the  will  (its  conventional  ob¬ 
ject),  but  not  its  form  (the  internal  sentiment). 
This  latter  can  only  be  manifested  by  the  sympa¬ 
thetic  motion.* 

For  this  reason  we  may  be  able  to  infer  from  a 
man’s  speeches  ivliat  he  would  like  to  seem  ;  but 
that  which  he  really  is,  has  to  be  divined  from  the 
mimical  utterance  of  his  words,  from  his  gestures, 
in  other  words,  from  motions  which  are  not  de¬ 
signed  by  him.  If  we  should  be  told  that  a  man 
may  even  will  his  features,  we  cease  to  trust  his 
face  from  the  moment  that  this  discovery  is  made, 
and  we  no  longer  regard  these  motions  as  the  ex¬ 
pression  of  his  sentiments. 

A  man  may  indeed  succeed  by  art  and  study, 
in  subjecting  the  sympathetic  motions  to  his  will, 

*  If  an  event  occurs  in  presence  of  a  numerous  com- 
rany,  it  may  happen  that  every  person  present  entertains 
a  si  l  ran  ct  opinion  of  the  action  of  the  author  of  this  event; 
so  accidental  is  the  connection  between  voluntary  motions 
and  their  moral  cause.  If,  on  the  contrary,  a  member  of 
the  group  should  suddenly  cast  his  eye  upon  a  cherished 
friend  or  upon  a  hated  enemy,  the  unequivocal  expression 
of  the  countenance  would  manifest  the  emotion  of  his 
heart  quickly  and  in  a  determinate  manner,  and  the 
judgment  of  the  whole  company  concerning  the  emo¬ 
tional  state  of  this  person  would  most  probably  be 
uniform  ;  for  in  this  instance  the  expression  is  united  to 
its  emotional  cause  by  a  natural  law  of  necessity. 

Vol.  II. — 33 


and,  like  a  skillful  magician,  in  projecting  any 
form  he  pleases  upon  the  mimical  mirror  of  his 
soul.  But  in  such  a  man,  every  motion  lies,  and 
nature  is  entirely  absorbed  by  art.  Gracefulness, 
on  the  contrary,  must  always  be  natural,  that  is 
to  say,  it  must  be  involuntary,  or  at  least  seem  so, 
nor  must  it  ever  appear  as  though  the  subject 
were  conscious  of  its  loveliness. 

Incidentally,  I  may  observe  on  this  occasion, 
what  the  imitated  or  studied  loveliness,  which  1 
would  designate  as  the  gracefulness  of  the  stage 
or  the  dancing-school,  amounts  to.  It  is  a  worthy 
pendant  to  the  kind  of  beauty  which  is  produced 
at  the  toilet-table  by  carmine  and  the  acetate  of 
lead,  by  false  curls,  fausses gorges,  and  whalebone, 
and  holds  about  the  same  relation  to  ti  ne  loveli¬ 
ness  as  the  beauty  of  the  toilet-table  is  related  to 
architectonic  beauty .*  The  unpracticed  beholder 
may  be  affected  alike  by  either,  as  by  the  original 
which  they  imitate  ;  even  the  connoisseur  may  be 
deceived  by  an  accomplished  artist.  But  some 
trait  will  sooner  or  later  reveal  the  purpose  or  the 
constraint,  and  such  a  revelation  is  inevitably 
followed  by  indifference,  if  not  by  contempt  and 
disgust.  As  soon  as  we  perceive  that  the  archi¬ 
tectonic  beauty  is  the  work  of  Art,  so  much  of  the 
phenomenal  humanity  seems  lost  to  us,  as  has 
been  added  to  it  from  a  strange  domain  ;  and  how 
could  we,  who  do  not  even  excuse  the  abandon¬ 
ment  of  an  accidental  advantage,  regard  with 
pleasure  or  even  with  indifference,  an  exchange 

*'  In  presenting  this  contrast,  I  am  as  far  from  dis¬ 
puting  the  dancing-master’s  merit  regarding  true  grace¬ 
fulness,  as  the  actor’s  claim  to  it.  The  dancing-master 
undoubtedly  assists  true  loveliness  by  enabling  the  will 
to  control  its  instruments,  and  by  removing  the  obstacles 
which  matter  and  gravitation  oppose  to  the  play  of  the 
living  forces.  He  has  to  do  this  by  means  of  rules  which 
maintain  the  body  under  a  salutary  discipline,  and  which 
may  be,  and  even  seem  rigid,  or  rather  compulsory,  as 
long  as  the  natural  gravitation  resists  the  exigencies  of 
art.  If  he  dismisses  his  pupil,  the  latter  should  have 
become  so  habituated  to  the  rule,  that  he  need  no  longer 
be  reminded  of  it  in  society;  the  work  of  the  rule  should 
have  become  a  natural  state. 

The  disrespect  with  which  I  allude  to  the  theatrical 
gracefulness,  only  applies  to  the  imitated  article,  which  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  repudiate  both  upon  the  stage  and  in 
society.  I  confess  to  my  dislike  of  the  actor  who  studies 
his  gracefulness  at  the  toilet-table,  even  if  he  should  do 
so  ever  so  successfully.  What  wo  claim  of  the  actor  is, 

1,  <r«tAand  2,  beauty  of  representation.  As  far  as  truth 
of  representation  is  concerned,  I  maintain  that  the  actor 
should  realize  his  object  through  art,  not  any  thing 
through  nature,  otherwise  he  would  not  be  an  artist  ;  I 
admire  him,  if  I  should  be  told  that  he,  who  acts  a  furi- 
bund  Guelfo  in  the  style  of  a  master,  is  a  man  of  gentle 
character;  on  the  other  hand  I  maintain  that,  so  far  as 
the  loveliness  of  representation  is  concerned,  art  should 
have  no  part  in  it,  and  his  actions  should  be  exclusively 
the  work  of  nature.  If  I  am  reminded  that  the  truth  of 
his  play  is  not  natural  to  his  character,  I  shall  esteem 
him  the  more  highly;  if  I  am  reminded  that  the  beauty 
and  loveliness  of  his  play  are  not  natural  to  him,  I  shall 
be  angry  at  the  man  who  had  to  be  assisted  by  the  artist. 
This  is  because  the  essence  of  gracefulness  disappears, 
if  this  is  not  natural,  and  because  we  feel  authorized  to 
expect  gracefulness  of  the  artist  as  a  man.  What  shall 
I  say  to  the  tragic  artist  who  would  like  to  know  how  be 
i  is  to  acquire  gracefulness,  if  he  is  not  permitted  to  study  . 
it?  I  opine  that  he  ought  first  to  mature  his  humanity, 
and  then,  if  he  is  otherwise  called,  he  may  go  and  repre¬ 
sent  it  upon  the  stage. 


*66 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


which  gives  up  a  portion  of  humanity  in  the  place 
of  common  nature?  How  could  we  not  despise 
the  deception,  even  if  we  should  forgive  the  effect  ? 
As  soon  as  we  see  that  loveliness  is  artificial,  our 
heart  is  at  once  closed  up,  and  the  soul  which 
hastened  to  meet  it,  starts  back.  Spirit  seems 
suddenly  transformed  into  matter,  and  a  heavenly 
Juno  into  a  mere  phantom. 

Although  loveliness  ought  to  be  or  to  seem  in¬ 
voluntary,  yet  we  only  attribute  it  to  motions 
which  are  more  or  less  dependent  upon  the 
will.  There  is  a  certain  language  of  gestures 
which  is  said  to  be  graceful,  we  talk  of  a  lovely 
smile  and  a  charming  blush  ;  both  of  which  are 
sympathetic  motions  that  are  not  determined  by 
the  will,  but  by  the  sentiment.  But  even  if  we  do 
not  object  that  the  smile  maybe  controlled  by  the 
will,  or  without  expressing  a  doubt  as  to  the  blush 
being  entitled  to  the  attribute  of  loveliness,  it  is 
nevertheless  true  that  the  causes  to  which  loveli¬ 
ness  applies,  belong  most  generally  to  the  domain 
of  the  voluntary  motions.  Loveliness  is  expected  of 
speech  and  of  song,  of  the  voluntary  play  of  the 
eves  and  of  the  mouth,  of  the  free  motions  of  the 
hands  and  arms,  of  the  gait,  of  the  attitude 
and  posit  on  of  the  body,  of  man’s  whole  bearing 
as  far  as  he  has  any  control  over  it.  Of  such  mo¬ 
tions  on  the  part  of  man,  as  are  executed  with 
perfect  independence  by  the  natural  instinct  or  by 
a  ruling  affection,  and  which  may  be  traced  to  a 
sensual  origin,  we  expect  something  different  from 
loveliness  as  we  shall  see  in  subsequent  para¬ 
graphs.  Such  motions  appertain  to  nature,. not 
to  the.  human  personality  from  which  all  graceful¬ 
ness  must  emanate. 

If  loveliness  is  an  attribute  which  we  demand  of 
voluntary  motions,  and  if,  nevertheless,  every  thing 
voluntary  ought  to  be  banished  from  the  domain 
of  loveliness,  we  shall  have  to  look  for  it  in  that 
which  occurs  unintentionally  in  intentional  mo¬ 
tions,  and  which  at  the  same  time  corresponds 
with  a  moral  cause  in  the  sphere  of  the  emotions. 

By  this  general  inference  we  only  designate  the 
species  of  motions  among  which  gracefulness 
should  be  looked  for  ;  but  a  motion  may  have  all 
these  qualities  without  being  lovely  ;  it  then  be¬ 
comes  simply  telling  or  expressive. 

In  the  largest  acceptation  of  the  term,  I  call 
.telling  every  bodily  phenomenon  which  accompanies 
or  expresses  an  emotional  state.  In  this  respect 
all  the  sympathetic  motions  are  telling,  even 
those  which  accompany  purely  sensual  affections. 

Even  animal  forms  tell,  inasmuch  as  their  ex¬ 
terior  manifests  their  interior.  But  here,  it  is  only 
nature  that  tells,  not  the  free  personal  principle. 
In  the  permanent  shape,  and  in  the  fixed  archi¬ 
tectonic  features  of  the  animal,  nature  manifests 
her  <end  ;  the  awakened  or  excited  desire  stamps  the 
features  of  the  countenance  with  a  correspond¬ 
ing  expression.  The  ring  of  necessity  traverses 
the  animal  as  it  does  the  plant,  without  being 
interrupted  by  a  personal  will-power.  The  indi¬ 
viduality  of  the  animal  or  plant  constitutes  some 
special  form  of  a  general  conception  of  nature  ; 
the-speciality  of  its  present  state  simply  illustrates 
the;realization  of  a  natural  end  under  determinate 
natural  conditions. 

Telling,  in  a  more  restricted  sense,  applies  only 


to  the  human  form,  or  rather  to  such  phenomena 
of  the  human  form  as  accompany  and  correspond 
ingly  manifest  man’s  moral  or  emotional  state. 

I  repeat,  only  to  such  phenomena  ;  for  in  all 
other  respects  man  occupies  the  same  level  as 
any  other  being  of  sense.  In  bis  permanent  form 
and  in  his  architectonic  features,  nature  alone 
expresses  her  design,  as  she  does  in  the  animal 
and  in  all  organic  beings.  Nature’s  design  in 
his  case  may,  indeed,  go  a  great  deal  further  than 
in  the  case  of  the  other  beings  of  sense,  and,  to 
accomplish  such  a  design  she  may  employ  a  much 
more  complicated  and  artistic  series  of  means  ; 
but  all  this  remains  within  the  pale  of  nature,  nor 
does  it  constitute  any  claim  to  moral  excellence. 

In  the  case  of  the  animal  and  the  plant,  na¬ 
ture  not  only  designs,  but  likewise  carries  out,  the 
destiny  of  the  being.  In  the  case  of  man  she 
simply  determines  the  destiny,  but  leaves  its  reali¬ 
zation  to  himself.  This  it  is  that  makes  him  a  man.,*, 

As  a  personality,  man  alone,  of  all  known 
beings,  possesses  the  prerogative  to  interfere  by 
his  will  in  the  chain  of  necessity  which  binds  the 
brute  creation,  and  to  initiate  within  himself  a 
new  series  of  phenomena.  This  change  is  realized 
by  means  of  actions  resulting  in  performances 
which  are  more  especially  designated  as  acts.  It 
is  only  by  acts  that  he  can  prove  his  personality. 

The  formation  of  the  animal  not  only  expresses 
the  idea  of  its  destiny,  but  likewise  the  relation 
of  its  present  condition  to  its  destiny.  Inasmuch 
as,  in  the  case  of  the  animal,  nature  at  the  same 
time  designs  and  realizes  the  destiny,  the  forma¬ 
tion  of  the  animal  can  never  express  any  thing 
else  than  the  work  of  nature. 

Inasmuch  as  nature  only  designs  the  destiny  of 
man,  but  leaves  its  realization  to  his  own  will,  it 
follows  that  the  actual  relation  of  his  state  to  his 
destiny  must  be  his  own  work,  and  cannot  be  the 
work  of  nature.  The  expression  of  this  relation 
in  his  formation  does  not  appertain  to  nature, 
but  to  himself,  it  is  a  personal  expression.  If  the 
architectonic  portion  of  his  form  reveals  to  us 
nature’s  designs  toward  him,  his  own  motions  in¬ 
form  us  of  what  he  himself  has  done  toward  reali¬ 
zing  this  design.' 

In  observing  the  human  form,  we  do  not  con¬ 
tent  ourselves  with  the  fact  that  nature  exhi¬ 
bits  to  our  view  the  general  conception  of  human¬ 
ity,  or  the  degree  to  which  she  has  realized  this 
conception  in  a  particular  individual  ;  for  in  this 
respect  man  is  on  a  level  with  every  other  tech¬ 
nical  formation.  We  expect  his  form  to  say  to 
us,  how  far  in  his  capacity  of  free  agent,  he 
has  endeavored  to  meet  nature’s  design  ;  in  other 
words,  we  expect  it  to  bear  the  impress  of  charac¬ 
ter.  In  the  former  case  we  perceive  clearly 
enough  that  nature  designed  to  form  a  man  ;  but 
we  can  only  infer  from  the  latter  circumstance 
whether  he  has  really  become  a  man. 

The  formation  of  a  man  is  attributable  to  him¬ 
self  only  in  so  far  as  it  is  expressed  by  acts  ;  so 
far  it  is  his  own.  For,  though  the  greater  por¬ 
tion  or  even  all  of  these  expressive  features  should 
constitute  simple  manifestations  of  the  senses, 
and  belong  to  him  even  in  his  capacity  of  an 
animal,  yet  it  was  his  destiny,  and  he  was  endowed 
with  the  power,  to  limit  the  sphere  of  his  senses 


iESTHETICAL. 


467 


by  his  personal  freedom.  The  presence  of  such 
features  proves  therefore  the  non-use  of  that 
power,  and  the  non-fulfillment  of  that  destiny,  and 
tells  in  regard  to  his  morality  as  surely  as  the 
non-performance  of  an  act  commanded  by  duty, 
constitutes  an  act. 

From  the  expressive  or  telling  features,  which 
always  reveal  the  soul,  v:e  have  to  distinguish  the 
nmte  features,  which  plastic  nature,  as  independent 
of  every  influence  of  the  soul,  stamps  upon  the 
human  form.  I  call  these  features  mute,  because 
being  unintelligible  ciphers  of  nature,  they  do  not 
reveal  character.  They  only  show  the  peculiarity 
of  nature  in  the  constitution  of  the  species,  and 
are  frequently  sufficient  of  themselves  to  distin¬ 
guish  the  individual ,  but  are  unable  to  manifest 
any  thing  of  its  personality.  For  the  physiogno¬ 
mist,  these  mute  features  are  not  without  signifi¬ 
cance,  because  the  physiognomist  not  only  desires 
to  know  that  which  man  has  made  himself,  but 
what  nature  has  done  for  or  against  him. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  indicate  the  boundary, 
where  the.  mute  features  cease  and  the  telling 
features  commence.  The  uniformly-acting  form¬ 
ative  power,  and  the  lawless  affection  are  con¬ 
tinually  fighting  for  their  respective  supremacy ; 
what  nature  has  built  up  with  a  quiet  but  indefati¬ 
gable  activity,  is  frequently  demolished  again  by 
the  freedom  of  the  will,  which  overflows  the  banks 
like  a  swelling  river.  An  active  mind  gains  a 
control  over  all  bodily  motions,  and  finally  man¬ 
ages  to  alter  by  the  power  of  sympathetic  mo¬ 
tions  the  fixed  forms  of  nature,  which  are  inac¬ 
cessible  to  the  will.  Every  thing  in  such  a  man 
becomes  characteristic,  as  is  evidenced  by  many 
minds  that  have  been  thoroughly  moulded  by  a 
long  life,  by  extraordinary  adventures  and  an 
active  spirit.  The  only  part  which  plastic  nature 
can  claim  in  such  forms,  is  the  generic  character , 
the  whole  individuality  of  the  execution  apper¬ 
tains  to  the  personality  ;  hence  we  say  with  a 
good  deal  of  correctness  that  such  a  form  is  all  soul. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  trained  pupils  of  rules, 
(which  hush  up  the  senses,  but  do  not  awaken  hu¬ 
manity),  nowhere  show  us  any  thing  in  their  flat 
and  inexpressive  forms  except  the  finger  of  na¬ 
ture.  The  inactive  soul  is  a  modest  guest  in  its 
body,  and  a  peaceable  and  quiet  neighbor  of  the 
architectonic  power  left  to  its  own  energy.  No 
fatiguing  thought,  no  passion  disturbs  the  placid 
rhythm  of  the  physical  life,  the  structure  of  the 
machine  is  never  endangered  by  its  play,  the  vege¬ 
tative  life  is  never  interfered  with  by  the  free 
agency  of  the  will-power.  Inasmuch  as  the  deep 
repose  of  the  mind  does  not  occasion  any  con¬ 
siderable  consumption  of  strength,  the  waste  will 
never  exceed  the  supply;  on  the  contrary,  the 
animal  economy  will  always  have  a  surplus.  In 
exchange  for  the  small  amount  of  bliss,  which  na¬ 
ture  allows  the  mind,  the  latter  consents  to  act  as 
the  punctual  agent  of  her  household,  and  his  glory 
consists  in  keeping  her  accounts  with  strict  correct¬ 
ness.  Whatever  the  organization  can  achieve, 
will  be  done,  and  the  business  of  nutrition  and 
generation  will  flourish.  Such  a  happy  relation 
between  the  necessity  of  nature  and  the  free  will 
must  necessarily  be  favorable  to  the  architectonic 
beauty !  which,  in  such  a  case,  is  seen  in  all  its 


purity.  But  it  is  well  known  that  the  general 
forces  of  nature  perpetually  war  against  the  spe¬ 
cial  or  organic  forces,  and  the  most  artistic  tech¬ 
nical  composition  is  finally  conquered  by  cohesion 
and  gravitation.  For  this  reason  the  beauty  of 
the  structure,  considered  as  a  simple  product  of 
nature,  has  its  definite  period  of  bloom,  maturity, 
and  decay,  which  may  be  accelerated,  but  can 
never  be  retarded  by  the  play  of  the  machine,  and 
the  usual  end  of  which  is  the  subjection  of  the 
form  by  the  mass,  and  the  extinction  of  the  or¬ 
ganic  life-power  by  the  gradual  decay  of  the 
material  tissues.* 

*  Hence  we  shall  find  that,  for  the  most  part,  such 
beauties  of  structure  lose  their  refinement  even  at  the 
age  of  thirty-five  or  forty,  in  a,  marked  degree,  by 
obesity;  that  in  the  place  of  those  scarcely  perceptible, 
delicate  lineaments  of  the  skin,  furrows  and  wrinkles 
make  their  appearance:  that,  imperceptibly,  weight  ob¬ 
tains  an  influence  over  the  form,  and  that  the  charming 
and  varied  play  of  beautiful  lines  on  the  surface  is  lost 
in  an  uniformly-swelling  cushion  of  fat.  Nature  takes 
back  what  she  had  given. 

I  may  remark  that  a  similar  change  sometimes  takes 
place  with  genius,  which,  in  its  origin  as  well  as  in  its 
effects,  has  a  good  deal  in  common  with  architectonic 
beauty.  Like  this,  so  the  former  is  a  simple  production 
of  nature)  and,  according  to  the  perverse  reasoning  of 
mankind  who  esteem  highest  that  which  cannot  be  imi¬ 
tated  by  any  rule,  or  obtained  by  any  merit,  beauty  is 
admired  more  than  loveliness,  genius  inoro  than  the  ac¬ 
quired  power  of  mind.  In  spite  of  their  perverse  mani¬ 
festations,  which  very  frequently  make  them  an  object 
of  merited  contempt,  both  these  favorites  of  nature  are 
very  frequently  regarded  as  a  certain  native  nobility,  as 
a  higher  caste,  because  their  advantages  are  dependent 
upon  natural  conditions,  and  therefore  beyond  the  boun¬ 
daries  of  choice. 

What  happens  to  the  architectonic  beauty,  unless  it 
seeks  in  due  season  to  educate  for  itself  a  support  and  a 
substitute  by  the  acquisition  of  lovely  gracefulness,  that 
likewise  happens  to  genius,  if  it  neglects  to  gather 
strength  by  the  cultivation  of  principles,  taste,  and 
science.  If  it  had  no  other  endowment  to  boast  of  than 
a  lively  and  flowery  imagination  (and  nature  cannot  well 
impart  other  than  sensual  advantages),  let  it  in  due  season 
take  care  to  secure  the  possession  of  this  equivocal  gift  by 
the  only  use  that  is  capable  of  converting  natural  gifts 
into  possessions  of  the  mind  :  I  mean,  by  imparting  a  form 
to  matter;  for  the  mind  cannot  call  any  thing  its  own 
which  has  not  previously  been  fashioned  into  form.  Un¬ 
less. controlled  by  an  adequate  power  of  reason,  the  wildly 
sprouting,  exuberant  power  of  nature  will  outgrow  the 
freedom  of  the  mind,  and  will  stifle  the  latter  in  the  same 
manner,  as,  in  the  case  of  architectonic  beauty,  the  form 
is  finally  overpowed  by  the  mass. 

It  seems  to  me  that  experience  furnishes  abundant 
evidence  of  this  fact  in  the  case  of  poetic  geniuses  who 
acquire  celebrity  before  they  are  of  age,  and  whose 
whole  talent,  in  spite  of  numerous  beauties,  frequently 
consists  in  their  youth.  But  if  the  short  spring  is  past, 
and  if  the  fruits  are  inquired  into  which  wore  expected 
of  it,  we  find  them  to  be  spongy  and  frequently  stunted 
growths  engendered  by  a  misdirected  and  blind  creative 
instinct.  At  the  very  period  when  weexpect  to  see  mutter 
moulded  into  form,  and  to  see  perceptions  elevated  by 
the  rational  mind  to  the  sphere  of  ideas,  these  precocious 
geniuses  are  overwhelmed  by  the  power  of  matter,  and 
the  much-promising  meteorSs  appear  ordinary  lights,  or 
even  less.  For  the  poetical  imagination  sometimes  re¬ 
lapses  under  the  rule  of  matter,  from  which  it  had  dis¬ 
embarrassed  itself:  but,  under  these  circumstances,  it 
does  not  scorn  to  subserve  nature  in  some  other  and 
more  solid  work  of  her  creative  powers,  provided  the 
labor  of  poesy  does  not  seem  to  produce  adequate  re¬ 
sults. 


463 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Although  no  single  mute  feature  constitutes  an 
expression  of  the  mind,  yet  it  characterizes  the 
quality  of  the  mind,  from  the  same  reason  that  a 
sensually-telling  feature  constitutes  such  a  charac¬ 
teristic.  The  mind  should  be  active,  and  should 
experience  moral  emotions  ;  the  absence  of  such 
states  in  the  growing  mind  betrays  a  guilty  neg¬ 
lect.  Although  the  pure  and  beautiful  expression 
of  its  destiny  in  the  architecture  of  its  form  fills 
us  with  delight  and  respect  toward  the  highest 
reason  as  its  cause,  both  these  sentiments  will 
only  remain  unalloyed  as  long  as  the  mind  is 
viewed  as  a  simple  product  of  nature.  If  we 
think  of  the  mind  as  a  moral  personality,  we  are 
authorized  to  look  for  an  expression  of  the  same 
in  its  form  ;  if  this  expression  is  not  found,  con¬ 
tempt  is  the  unavoidable  consequence.  It  is  only 
organic  beings  that  are  venerable  to  us  as  crea¬ 
tures  ;  man  can  only  be  revered  in  his  capacity 
of  creator ,  or  rather  as  the  author  of  his  con¬ 
dition.  He  is  not,  like  other  beings  of  sense, 
simply  to  reflect  the  rays  of  another  person’s  rea¬ 
son,  were  it  even  the  reason  of  God,  but,  like  a 
sun,  he  is  to  shine  by  his  own  light. 

An  expressive  or  telling  growth  is  demanded 
of  man,  as  soon  as  he  becomes  conscious  of  his 
moral  destiny  ;  but  it  must  be  a  growth  that  tells 
in  his  favor,  that  is  to  say,  one  which  expresses  an 
habitual  morality,  a  mode  of  experiencing  emotions 
conformable  to  his  destiny.  Beason  makes  this 
demand  of  human  culture. 

As  a  phenomenon,  man  is  at  the  same  time  an 
object  of  the  senses.  Where  the  moral  sense  is 
satisfied,  there  the  aesthetic  sense  likewise  claims 
satisfaction,  and  the  accord  with  an  idea  should 
nut  be  disturbed  by  the  phenomenal  manifesta¬ 
tion.  Howsoever  rigidly  the  reason  calls  for  an 
expression  of  morality,  as  unremittingly  the  eye 
calls  for  beauty.  Inasmuch  as  both  these  de¬ 
mands  are  addressed  to  the  same  object,  although 
from  different  ranges  of  the  judgment,  one  and 
the  same  cause  must  have  provided  for  the  grati¬ 
fication  of  both.  The  moral  constitution  which 
most  fully  capacitates  man  to  fulfill  his  destiny 
as  a  moral  personality,  must  admit  of  a  manifesta¬ 
tion  that  shall  be  most  advantageous  to  him  in 
his  capacity  of  simple  phenomenon.  In  other 
words:  his  moral  talent  should  manifest  itself  by 
loveliness. 

Here  it  is  where  we  meet  a  great  difficulty. 
The  idea  of  morally-expressive  emotions  shows 
that  they  must  have  a  moral  cause  beyond  the 
world  of  sense  ;  in  the  same  way  we  know  from 
the  conception  of  beauty,  that  it  must  have  a 
sensual  cause,  and  should  be  a  perfectly  free  effect 
of  nature,  or  at  least  appear  so.  But  if  the  first 
cause  of  morally-expressive  motions  is  located 
beyond ,  and  the  last  cause  of  beauty  within, 
the  world  of  sense,  graceful  loveliness ,  which  is 
intended  to  ally  both,  seems  to  contain  a  contra¬ 
diction. 

In  order  to  remove  it,  we  have  to  suppose, 
“  that  the  moral  cause  in  the  emotional  sphere, 
which  serves  as  a  basis  to  gracefulness,  necessarily 
produces  in  the  corresponding  sensual  principle 
a  form  containing  the  natural  conditions  of  the 
beautiful.” 

The  beautiful  presupposes,  as  may  indeed  be 


said  of  every  thing  sensual,  /ertain  conditions, 
and,  so  far  as  it  is  the  beautiful,  purely  sensual 
conditions.  If  the  mind,  in  obedience  to  a  law 
!  which  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  fathom,  is  enabled, 
!  by  the  condition  in  which  it  happens  to  be,  to  dictate 
the  manner  in  which  the  natural  motions  that  ac- 
j  company  it  shall  take  place  :  and  if  the  condition  of 
|  habitual  moral  excellence  which  man  has  realized 
in  himself,  happens  to  be  the  same  by  which  the 
sensual  conditions  of  the  beautiful  are  realized  : 
it  is  by  these  coincidences  that  he  renders  the 
beautiful  possible,  and  this  alone  is  his  act.  If 
beauty  results  from  it,  we  must  regard  this  as  the 
consequence  of  those  sensual  conditions,  o,s  a  free 
effect  of  nature.  But  inasmuch  as  in  voluntary 
motions,  where  nature  is  treated  as  a  means  to 
an  end,  she  cannot  be  considered  actually  free ; 
and,  inasmuch  as  in  the  involuntary  motions  which 
express  the  moral  element,  she  cannot  be  called 
free  any  more,  the  freedom  with  which  she  mani¬ 
fests  herself  in  spite  of  her  dependence  upon  the 
will,  may  be  regarded  as  an  act  of  leave  on  the 
part  of  the  mind.  It  may  therefore  be  said  that 
gracefulness  is  a  favor  which  the  moral  element 
bestows  upon  the  sensual,  in  the  same  sense  as  we 
may  regard  architectonic  beauty  as  nature’s  con¬ 
sent  to  her  technical  form. 

I  beg  leave  to  illustrate  this  by  a  figurative 
image.  If  a  monarchical  state  is  governed  in 
such  a  way  that,  although  the  will  of  one  man 
controls  every  thing,  yet  the  individual  citizen 
persuades  himself  that  he  is  living  according  to 
his  own  desires  and  in  obedience  to  his  own  incli¬ 
nation,  we  call  this  a  liberal  government.  We 
should  hesitate  to  apply  this  term  to  a  govern¬ 
ment  where  either  the  ruler  maintains  his  will 
contrary  to  the  inclination  of  the  citizen,  or  else 
the  citizen  maintains  his  inclination  contrary  to 
to  the  will  of  the  ruler;  for  in  the  former  case  the 
government  would  not  be  liberal ,  and  in  the  latter 
case  it  would  not  be  a  government. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  apply  this  proposition  to 
human  development  under  the  government  of  the 
mind.  If  the  mind,  in  the  world  of  sense,  which 
is  dependent  upon  it,  manifests  itself  in  such  a 
manner  that  nature  executes  the  mandates  of  the 
mind  with  strict  correctness,  and  expresses  its 
emotions  in  the  most  telling  manner,  without  vio¬ 
lating  the  demands  which  the  senses  make  of 
them,  we  shall  have  produced  that  which  we 
term  loveliness.  We  should  be  equally  far,  how¬ 
ever,  from  terming  this  result  loveliness,  if  the 
mind  either  manifested  itself  in  the  world  of 
sense  in  a  forced  manner,  or  if  the  mental  expres¬ 
sion  were  wanting  in  the  free  manifestation  of  the 
senses.  For,  in  the  former  case,  there  would  not 
exist  any  beauty :  in  the  latter  case  there  would 
be  no  beauty  of  functional  play. 

It  is  the  super-sensual  emotional  cause  which 
renders  gracefulness  expressively  telling,  and  it  is 
a  purely  sensual  cause  in  nature  which  imparts 
beauty  to  it.  It  can  be  said  as  little  that  the 
mind  generates  beauty,  as  it  can  be  said  of  the 
ruler,  in  the  case  we  have  related  as  an  illus¬ 
tration,  that  he  produces  liberty ;  liberty  may  be 
left,  but  cannot  be  given  to  a  person. 

But  as  the  cause  why  a  people  governed  by  a 
I  ruler,  feels  free,  is  mainly  founded  in  the  ruler’s 


J3STHETICAL. 


469 


mind,  and  opposite  sentiments  on  the  part  of 
the  latter  would  not  be  very  favorable  to  liberty, 
so  we  have  to  look  for  the  beauty  of  free  motions 
in  the  moral  condition  of  the  mind  upon  which 
they  depend.  The  question  now  arises  what  kind 
of  personal  quality  will  allow  the  largest  share 
of  liberty  to  the  instruments  of  the  will,  and  what 
moral  emotions  in  their  manifestations  harmonize 
most  readily  with  beauty? 

It  is  evident  that  dependent  nature,  if  she  is  to 
realize  forms  of  beauty,  must  not  be  forcibly  con¬ 
trolled,  either  by  the  will  in  intended,  or  by  the 
emotions  in  sympathetic  motions.  Even  the  com¬ 
mon  sentiment  of  mankind  makes  ease  a  chief 
characteristic  of  gracefulness  ;  ease  can  never  be 
exhibited  by  a  strained  effort.  It  is  likewise  evident 
that  nature’s  relation  to  the  mind  must  not  be  one 
of  force,  if  a  beautiful  moral  expression  is  to  be 
secured ;  for  where  simple  nature  rules ,  the  dignity 
of  the  human  personality  is  effaced. 

Three  relations  maybe  imagined  between  man 
and  himself,  or  rather  between  his  senses  and 
reason.  Among  these  relations  we  have  to  look 
for  that  which  is  most  adapted  to  him  as  a  phe¬ 
nomenal  being,  and  invests  him  with  the  robe  of 
beauty. 

Either  man  suppresses  the  demands  of  his  sen¬ 
sual  nature  in  order  to  abide  by  the  requirements 
of  his  rational  principle  ;  or  e'se  reversing  this 
order,  he  makes  the  rational  portion  of  his  being 
subordinate  to  the  sensual,  and  simply  follows  the 
impulses  -vith  vvhioh  the  forces  of  nature  move 
him  onward  in  the  world  of  phenomenal  mani¬ 
festations  like  any  other  natural  beings  ;  or, 
finally,  the  senses  and  reason  exist  in  harmo- 
nious  union,  and  man  lives  in  accord  with  him- 
sel  f.  J 

If  man  becomes  conscious  of  his  pure  ration¬ 
ality,  he  repels  every  thing  merely  sensual  ;  it  is 
this  separation  from  matter  that  enables  him  to 
acquire  the  consciousness  of  his  rational  liberty. 
Inasmuch  as  the  senses  offer  an  obstinate  and 
energetic  resistance,  that  separation  is  not  effected 
without  an  effort  without  which  he  would  find  it 
impossible  to  restrain  the  desire,  and  to  silence 
the  exigencies  of  the  instinct.  A  mind  thus 
trained  gives  nature  to  understand  that  it  is  her 
master,  whether  she  acts  as  the  agent  of  its  will, 
or  attempts  to  act  independently  of  its  mandates. 
Under  its  severe  discipline  the  senses  will  be 
controlled,  and  the  internal  resistance  will  appear 
in  the  outer  world  as  a  condition  of  constraint. 
Such  a  condition  of  the  moral  life  cannot  be 
favorable  to  beauty  which  is  the  product  of  the 
free  action  of  nature  ;  it  is  not  with  forms  of 
gracefulness  that  the  struggle  of  the  moral  free¬ 
dom  against  matter  will  appear  invested. 

On  the  contrary,  if  man,  subjugated  by  the 
demands  of  the  senses,  allows  the  natural  in¬ 
stinct  to  rule  with  undisputed  sway,  every  trace 
cf  moral  independence,  as  it  disappears  in  his  inner 
nature,  will  likewise  disappear  in  his  external  form. 
It  is  only  the  animal  nature  that  speaks  through 
the  dim,  languishing  eye,  through  the  half-open  and 
greedily-expecting  mouth,  through  the  stifled  and 
tremulous  voice,  through  the  hurried  respiration, 
through  the  shaking  limbs,  through  the  sink- 


i  ing  condition  of  the  whole  organism.  All  resist¬ 
ance  on  the  part  of  the  moral  energy  is  at  an 
end,  and  nature  exercises  an  undisputed  control 
over  his  motions.  But  this  complete  cessation  of 
the  moral  power,  which  takes  place  at  the  mo¬ 
ment  of,  and  still  more  during  the  gratification 
of  the  sensual  desire,  liberates  for  the  time  being 
the  brute  matter  which  had  been  kept  in  check 
hitherto  by  the  equilibrium  of  the  passive  and  the 
active  forces.  The  brute  powers  of  nature  com¬ 
mence  to  lord  it  over  the  living  forces  of  the  or¬ 
ganism,  the  form  is  overpowered  by  the  mass,  the 
human  ideal  by  brute  nature.  The  soul-radiating 
eye  grows  dim  or  projects  glazed  and  staring  from 
its  orbit ;  the  delicate  blush  of  the  cheeks  changes 
to  a  coarse  and  uniform  stain  of  redness  ;  the  mouth 
looks  like  a  mere  orifice,  for  its  shape  is  no  longer 
determined  by  the  active,  but  by  the  passive  forces 
of  nature;  the  voice  and  the  sighing  respiration  are 
nothing  but  mechanical  ekpiraiions  by  means  of 
which  the  oppressed  chest  seeks  relief,  and  which 
no  longer  betray  the  influence  of  the  soul.  In 
one  word,  no  beauty  must  be  thought  of  in  the 
liberty  which  the  senses  arrogate  to  themselves. 
The  freedom  of  the  forms  which  had  been  sub¬ 
jected  to  proper  restraints  by  the  moral  will,  is 
overpowered  by  the  crude  matter  which  extends 
its  dominion  in  proportion  as  the  power  of  the 
moral  will  becomes  less. 

A  man  in  this  condition  not  onlv  revolts  the 
moral  sense  which  unremittingly  exacts  the  ex¬ 
pression  of  a  pure  humanity;  the  (Esthetic  sense 
which  is  not  content  with  brute  matter,  but  seeks 
its  gratifications  in  the  development  of  beauti¬ 
ful  forms,  likewise  turns  away  with  disgust  from 
a  sight  which  can  only  charm  the  animal  desire. 

The  first  of  these  three  relations  between  man’s 
sensual  and  moral  natures  reminds  one  of  a  mon¬ 
archy ,  where  the  severe  supervision  of  the  ruler 
♦restrains  every  free  movement  of  the  people  ;  the 
second  reminds  one  of  a  wild  ochlocracy ,  where 
the  citizen  who  refuses  obedience  to  his  legiti¬ 
mate  ruler,  is  no  more  free  than  human  culture 
becomes  beautiful  by  the  suppression  of  the  moral 
government,  which  is  sacrificed  to  the  brutal  des¬ 
potism  of  the  lowest  classes,  even  as  in  the  ease  of 
the  coarse  sensualist  the  form  is  overpowered  by 
the  mass.  In  the  same  way  as  liberty  occupies  the 
mean  between  political  oppression  and  anarchy, 
we  shall  find  beauty  occupy  a  mean  position  be¬ 
tween  dignity  constituting  the  expression  of  the 
ruling  mind,  and  lust  constituting  the  expression 
of  the  ruling  desire. 

If  both  reason  controlling  the  senses,  or  the 
senses  controlling  reason,  are  incompatible  with 
beauty:  beauty  must  depend  upon  a  condition 
of  the  moral  nature — for  there  is  no  fourth  rela¬ 
tion — where  reason ,  and  the  senses,  duty  and  de¬ 
sire  agree. 

In  order  to  become  an  object  of  desire,  the 
obedience  to  reason  must  constitute  one  source  of 
pleasure  for  it  is  only  by  pleasure  or  pain  that  the 
desire  is  set  in  motion.  In  common  life  the  reverse 
is  the  case,  for  pleasure  is  the  reason  which  impels 
men  to  act  rationally.  If  this  ordinary  conduct 
in  life  is  no  longer  taught  or  sanctioned  in  the 
treatises  on  Ethics,  it  is  because  the  immortal 


470 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


author  of  Critique  has  led  us  back  to  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  pure  reason  by  disembarrassing  it  from 
the  fetters  of  a  delusive  philosophy. 

But  by  the  manner  in  which  the  principles  of  this 
philosopher  are  developed  by  himself  and  others, 
inclination  becomes  an  exceedingly  equivocal 
companion  of  the  moral  sense,  and  pleasure  a 
doubtful  addition  to  the  determinations  of  the 
moral  will.  Even  though  the  desire  of  happiness 
should  not  exercise  a  blind  rule  over  man,  yet 
it  will  want  to  have  a  voice  in  those  determina¬ 
tions,  and  will  in  this  way  adulterate  the  purity  of 
the  will  which  should  always  obey  the  mandates 
of  law ,  without  ever  yielding  to  the  exigencies  of 
desire.  In  order  to  be  perfectly  certain  that 
inclination  did  not  co-operate  in  effecting  the  de¬ 
termination,  we  had  rather  see  it  at  war  than  in 
agreement  with  the  rational  principle,  because 
there  is  great  danger  lest  the  influence  of  inclina¬ 
tion  should  lead  to  the  preponderance  of  reason 
over  the  will.  For  in  us  much  as  morality  does  not 
depend  upon  the  legality  of  the  act,  but  upon  the 
moral  sense  of  duty  which  determines  its  perform¬ 
ance,  it  is  of  very  little  consequence  whether  the 
legality  would  obtain  additional  support  from  the 
agreement  between  inclination  and-  duty.  It  seems 
certain  that  the  approbation  of  the  senses,  even 
if  it  does  not  weaken  the  moral  character  of  the 
will,  is  at  any  rate  incapable  of  guaranteeing  it. 
The  manifestation  of  this  approbation  in  the  forms 
of  loveliness  can  never  be  a  sufficient  and  valid 
testimony  in  favor  of  the  morality  of  an  act,  the 
moral  character  of  which  cannot,  therefore,  ever 
be  inferred  from  the  beautiful  manner  in  which  a 
sentiment  is  expressed,  or  an  act  is  performed. 

So  far  I  believe .  I  have  reasoned  in  the  same 
direction  as  the  strictest  moralist ;  but  I  do  not 
apprehend  to  be  accused  of  latitudinarianism,  if, 
in  the  world  of  sense  and  in  the  performance  of 
moral  acts,  I  defend  the  claims  of  the  senses 
which  I  repudiate  entirely  in  the  domain  of  pure 
reason  and  in  the  enactment  of  moral  laws. 

As  much  as  I  am  convinced — or  rather,  because 
I  am  convinced — that  the  part  which  inclination 
has  in  the  performance  of  a  free  act,  proves  no¬ 
thing  in  favor  of  its  moral  character,  as  much  I  feel 
authorized  to  infer  from  this  very  fact ,  that  man’s 
moral  perfection  is  to  be  measured  by  the  part 
which  inclination  has  in  the  performance  of  his 
moral  acts.  Man  is  not  destined  to  perform  iso¬ 
lated  moral  acts  but  to  be  a  moral  being.  His 
precept  is  not  merely  to  practice  single  virtues, 
but  virtue ,  and  virtue  is  nothing  else  than  an  “  in¬ 
clination  to  do  one’s  duty.”  However  much  acts 
from  inclination,  and  acts  from  a  sense  of  duty  are 
opposed  to  each  other  in  an  objective  sense,  yet 
this  opposition  does  not  exist  in  a  subjective  sense, 
and  man  is  not  only  permitted  but  ought  to  estab¬ 
lish  an  agreement  between  pleasure  and  duty  ;  he 
ought  to  obey  his  reason  with  pleasure.  With  his 
pure  spirit  a  sensual  nature  has  been  associated 
not  to  be  cast  off  again  as  a  burden,  or  to  be  put 
off  as  a  coarse  envelope,  but  to  be  most  intimately 
united  with  his  higher  nature.  By  endowing 
man  with  both  reason  and  the  senses,  nature  has 
announced  to  him  the  obligation  not  to  separate 
what  she  had  united,  not  to  neglect  his  sensual 
nature,  even  in  the  purest  manifestation  of  his 


diviner  selfhood,  and  not  to  base  the  triumph  of' 
one  upon  the  suppression  of  the  other.  It  is  only 
when  resulting  from  his  integral  humanity  as  the 
combined  effect  of  his  united  moral  and  sensual  na¬ 
tures,  as  an  habitual  state  of  his  being ,  that  his 
moral  character  is  perfectly  safe  ;  for  as  long  as  the 
moral  sense  has  to  use  force,  the  natural  instinct 
must  necessarily  have  some  power  of  resistance 
left.  If  the  enemy  is  simply  prostrated,  he  may 
rise  again ;  but  if  he  is  reconciled,  he  is  really 
conquered. 

In  Kant’s  moral  philosopy,  the  idea  of  duty  is 
defined  with  a  rigidity  which  repels  all  loveliness, 
and  might  very  readily  tempt  a  feeble  mind  to 
seek  moral  perfection  in  the  path  of  a  gloomy  and 
monkish  asceticism.  However  much  the  great 
philosopher  has  sought  to  guard  against  this  mis¬ 
interpretation,  wrhich  must  be  most  revolting  to 
his  serene  and  liberal  spirit,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  he  has  given  rise  to  such  a  misinterpretation 
by  the  rigid  antagonism  which  he  has  established 
between  reason  and  the  senses,  though  this  may 
have  been  unavoidable  in  view  of  the  plan  he  had 
laid  out  for  himself.  As  regards  the  matter  itself, 
there  can  no  longer  be  any  dispute  among  thinking 
minds,  after  the  arguments  which  he  has  offered, 
and  I  should  think  that  it  would  be  better  for  us  to 
divest  ourselves  of  the  human  ideal  than  to  expect 
to  arrive  at  different  results  in  this  matter  by  a 
process  of  rational  argumentation.  But  with  what¬ 
ever  absolute  independence  he  has  conducted  the 
investigation  of  truth,  and  however  much  all  ex¬ 
planations  in  this  matter  are  derived  from  objec¬ 
tive  appearances,  yet  in  his  exposition  of  the  dis¬ 
covered  truth  he  seems  to  have  been  guided  by  a 
rather  subjective  maxim  which  it  is  not  difficult 
to  account  for  by  the  circumstances  of  his  epoch. 

The  morality  of  his  age,  both  in  theory  and  prac¬ 
tice,  was  such,  that  on  one  side  he  must  have  been 
shocked  by  a  coarse  materialism  in  moral  princi¬ 
ples,  which  the  unworthy  complaisance  of  philoso¬ 
phers  had  fashioned  as  a  pillow  for  the  lax  morals 
of  the  age.  On  the  other  hand,  his  attention 
must  have  been  excited  by  a  no  less  dubious  doc - 
trine  of  perfection  which  in  its  attempt  to  realize 
an  abstract  idea  of  perfection  of  the  world,  did 
not  hesitate  in  its  choice  of  means.  For  this 
reason  he  directed  the  main  force  of  his  argument 
against  the  point  where  the  danger  was  most  evi¬ 
dent  and  the  reform  most  urgent ;  and  he  made  it 
his  rule  to  attack  sensuality  not  only  where  it  bids 
defiance  to  the  moral  sense  with  an  impudent 
brow,  but  likewise  where  it  appears  invested  with 
the  imposing  garb  of  morally-praiseworlhy  ends, 
in  which  a  certain  enthusiastic  spirit  of  caste 
knows  how  to  hide  itself.  He  was  not  called  upon 
to  instruct  ignorance,  but  to  reform  perversity. 
A  cure  had  to  be  effected  by  a  violent  shock,  not 
by  insinuating  persuasion  ;  and  the  more  severely 
he  contrasted  the  principle  of  truth  with  the  ruling 
maxims,  the  more  he  might  hope  to  excite  the 
attention  of  the  public  to  such  a  contrast.  He  be¬ 
came  the  Draco  of  his  age  which  did  not  seem  as 
yet  worthy  or  susceptible  of  a  Solon.  From  the 
sanctuary  of  pure  reason  he  produced  the  moral 
law  which  had  been  lost  sight  of  and  yet  was  so 
well  known,  and  exhibited  in  all  its  sacredness 
before  the  degraded  century,  without  inquiring 


jESTHETICAL. 


471 


whether  there  were  eyes  that  might  be  dazzled 
by  its  lustre. 

But  what  had  the  children  of  the  house  done, 
to  induce  him  to  care  only  for  the  servants  ?  Be¬ 
cause  impure  inclinations  very  frequently  usurp 
the  name  of  virtue,  was  this  a  reason  why  the 
most  disinterested  affection  in  the  noblest  breast 
should  be  exposed  to  suspicion  ?  Because  the 
moral  sensualist  would  fain  relax  the  law  of  reason, 
and  degrade  it  to  a  mere  principle  of  expediency, 
ought  this  law  to  have  been  rendered  so  rigid  as  to 
convert  the  most  vigorous  manifestation  of  moral 
freedom  into  a  more  glorious  form  of  bondage? 
For  has  the  truly  moral  man  a  freer  choice  be¬ 
tween  self-respect,  and  self-condemnation  than  the 
man  who  is  enslaved  by  his  senses  has  between 
pleasure  and  pain  ?  Is  there  less  constraint  for 
the  pure  will  in  the  case  of  the  former  than  there 
is  for  the  depraved  will  in  the  case  of  the  latter? 
W  as  it  necessary  that  humanity  should  be  ac¬ 
cused  and  debased  by  the  imperative  form  of 
the  moral  law,  and  that  the  sublimest  document 
of  human  greatness  should  at  the  same  time  con¬ 
stitute  the  evidence  of  human  frailty  ?  Was  it 
not  unavoidably  necessary,  in  presence  of  this 
imperative  form  of  the  moral  law,  that  a  precept 
which  man  imposes  upon  himself  in  his  capacity 
of  rational  being,  and  which,  on  this  account,  is 
binding  upon  him  alone,  and  alone  compatible 
with  his  sense  of  freedom,  should  assume  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  a  foreign  and  positive  law,  which  could 
not  well  be  expected  to  be  diminished  by  his 
radical  disposition  to  act  contrary  to  the  law  (a 
disposition  that  he  is,  at  any  rate,  accused  of)?* 

It  is  not  profitable  for  moral  truths  to  be  op¬ 
posed  by  emotions  which  man  may  own  to  him¬ 
self  without  blushing,  How  are  sentiments  of 
beauty  and  liberty  to  be  made  to  agree  with  the 
austere  spirit  of  a  law  which  guides  him  by  fear 
rather  than  by  confidence ;  which  is  ever  en¬ 
deavoring  to  disintegrate  his  being  which  nature 
has  made  a  unit ,  and  which  secures  the  control 
of  one  part  of  his  being  by  exciting  his  distrust 
in  the  other  part?  In  reality,  human  nature  is  a 
much  more  compact  whole  than  the  philosopher 
whose  tendency  is  to  disintegrate,  is  permitted  to 
admit.  Reason  can  never  repudiate  emotions 
which  the  heart  accepts  with  joy,  as  unworthy  of 
itself;  man  could  not  raise  himself  in  his  own 
estimation  whenever  he  has  become  morally  de¬ 
based.  If  man’s  sensual  nature  always  acted,  in 
moral  things,  the  part  of  an  oppressed,  not  of  a 
co-operating  element,  how  could  that  nature  par¬ 
ticipate  with  all  the  fire  of  its  sensations,  in  a 
triumph  of  which  itself  is  the  victim  ?  How  could 
it  become  so  intensely  interested  in  the  self-con¬ 
sciousness  of  the  pure  spirit,  if  it  were  incapable 
oi  finally  becoming  so  intimately  united  to  the 
latter,  that  even  the  analytical  understanding 
could  no  longer  separate  these  two  natures  with¬ 
out  resorting  to  arbitrary  definitions  ? 

Moreover  the  will  has  a  more  immediate  relation 
to  the  emotive  than  to  the  perceptive  faculty,  and, 
in  many  cases,  it  would  be  a  sad  thing,  if  it  had 

*  See  the  confession  of  faith  of  the  author  of  “Criticism 
of  Human  Nature,”  iu  his  latest  publication:  “Revela¬ 
tions  within  the  boundaries  of  Reason,”  first  section. 


|  first  to  be  enlightened  by  the  pure  reason.  I  do 
i  not  expect  much  of  a  man  who  has  so  little  con¬ 
fidence  in  his  own  instincts  that  he  has  first  to 
examine  their  claims  before  the  tribunal  of  mo¬ 
rality;  on  the  other  hand,  we  respect  a  man  who 
feels  able  to  trust  to  the  impulse  of  desire  without 
running  the  risk  of  offending  morality.  For  this 
state  of  mind  shows  that  the  senses  and  reason 
exist  in  that  perfect  harmony  which  constitutes 
the  imprint  of  a  fully-matured  humanity,  and  re¬ 
flects  the  image  of  a  beautif  ul  soul. 

We  call  a  soul  beautiful,  where  the  moral  sense 
has  so  far  subdued  all  the  sensations  of  man  that 
the  direction  of  the  will  may  be  safely  left  to  the* 
emotional  principle  without  exposing  it  to  the 
danger  of  deciding  antagonistically  to  the  man¬ 
dates  of  reason.  Hence,  in  a  beautiful  soul,  it  is 
not  the  isolated  acts  that  should  be  called  moral, 
for  the  whole  character  is  so.  Nor  can  any  act 
be  considered  meritorious,  for  the  reason  that  the 
gratification  of  an  instinct  is  not  a  meritorious 
act.  The  merit  of  a  beautiful  soul  consists  in 
being  beautiful.  It  practices  the  most  painful 
duties  that  are  incumbent  upon  man,  with  an  ease 
as  though  these  duties  were  simple  gratifications 
of  the  instinct;  the  most  heroic  sacrifice  which 
such  a  soul  imposes  upon  the  natural  instinct,  has 
all  the  appearance  of  a  voluntary  act  on  the  part 
of  this  instinct.  For  this  reason  it  is  never  con¬ 
scious  of  the  beauty  of  its  acts  ;  nor  can  it  imagine 
the  possibility  of  acts  being  performed,  or  sensa¬ 
tions  experienced  in  a  different  manner ;  whereas 
a  dogmatic  pupil  of  moralism,  following  the  words 
of  the  master,  will  ever  be  found  ready  to  render 
a  strict  account  of  the  relation  of  his  acts  to  the 
law.  The  life  of  the  latter  will  be  like  a  drawing 
where  the  rules  of  art  are  indicated  by  hard  lines, 
and  which  serve  the  tyro  as  a  model  for  the  study 
of  elementary  principles.  In  a  beautiful  life,  as 
well  as  in  a  painting  by  Titian,  all  those  hard  and 
trenchant  lines  have  disappeared,  in  spite  of 
which  the  whole  figure  has  a  truer,  more  living, 
and  more  harmonious  expression. 

In  a  beautiful  soul,  sensuality  and  reason,  duty 
and  inclination  exist  in  harmony,  which  is  made 
manifest  to  the  eye  by  lovely  forms.  It  is  only 
when  subserving  the  behests  of  a  beautiful  soul 
that  nature  can  be  free  and  preserve  her  forms  ; 
for  the  former  is  lost  under  the  tyranny  of  a  rigid 
mind,  aud  the  latter  under  the  anarchy  of  sensual 
excesses.  A  beautiful  soul  spreads  an  irresistible 
loveliness  even  over  a  person  without  natural 
beauty  ;  it  may  even  triumph  over  natural  de¬ 
fects.  Every  motion  emanating  from  such  a  soul, 
will  seem  easy,  gentle,  and  yet  animated.  The 
eye  will  beam  with  brightness  and  a  perfect  ab¬ 
sence  of  constraint;  the  light  of  emotion  will 
radiate  from  its  centre.  The  gentleness  of  the 
heart  will  impart  a  loveliness  to  the  mouth  which 
no  dissimulation  could  feign.  There  will  be  no 
rigidity  in  the  features,  no  constraint  in  the  volun¬ 
tary  motions,  for  the  soul  is  unconscious  of  either. 
The  musical  voice  will  move  the  heart  with  the 
pure  stream  of  its  modulations.  Natural  beauty 
may  excite  pleasure,  admiration,  amazement  ;  but 
loveliness  alone  can  charm.  Beauty  is  worshiped  ; 
loveliness  alone  is  loved  ;  we  do  homage  to  the 
Creator,  but  we  love  his  creature  man. 


472 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Upon  the  whole,  loveliness  will  be  found  among 
the  female,  beauty  rather  among  the  male  sex. 
The  cause  of  this  is  near  at  hand.  To  constitute 
loveliness,  both  the  physical  frame  and  the  char¬ 
acter  have  to  co-operate ;  the  former  by  its  willing¬ 
ness  to  receive  impressions  and  to  be  set  in  motion, 
the  latter  by  the  moral  harmony  of  emotions.  In 
both  respects  1  ature  has  favored  woman  more  than 
man. 

The  more  delicate  female  frame  receives,  and 
again  parts  with  every  impression  more  speedily. 
Solid  constitutions  are  moved  only  by  a  violent 
impulse, and  if  powerful  muscles  are  put  upon  the 
stretch,,  they  cannot  show  the  same  ease  which 
is  required  to  produce  a  lovely  appearance.  What 
is  still  regarded  as  beautiful  sensitiveness  in  a 
female  face,  might  express  suffering  in  the  male. 
The  delicate  fibre  of  a  woman  inclines  like  a 
feeble  reed  under  the  gentlest  breath  of  emotion. 
With  easy  and  lovely  undulation  the  soul  glides 
over  the  expressive  countenance  which  soon  again 
calms  down  to  a  placid  mirror. 

The  soul’s  co-operation  in  the  production  of 
loveliness  is  more  easily  effected  by  woman  than 
by  man.  The  female  character  seldom  elevates 
itself  to  the  highest  idea  of  moral  purity,  and 
seldom  realizes  more  than  emotional  acts.  This 
character  may  resist  sensuality  with  heroic  en¬ 
ergy,  but  such  a  resistance  is  only  effected  through 
the  senses.  Since  a  woman’s  morality  is  based 
upon  her  inclination,  it  will  appear  in  her  con¬ 
duct  as  though  her  inclination  were  based  upon 
morality.  Loveliness  will  therefore  be  the  vest¬ 
ment  of  female  virtue,  in  which  male  virtue  may 
frequently  be  deficient. 

DIGNITY, 

As  a  beautiful  soul  expresses  itself  in  lovely 
forms,  so  an  elevated  mind  expresses  itself  with 
dignity. 

It  is,  indeed,  incumbent  upon  man  to  bring 
about  an  intimate  union  between  his  two  natures, 
to  constitute  an  harmonious  whole,  and  to  act 
out  his  integral  humanity.  But  this  beauty  of 
character,  the  most  mature  fruit  of  his  humanity, 
is  simply  an  idea  to  which  he  may  endeavor  with 
all  his  vigilance  to  conform  his  conduct,  but 
which  he  will  never  be  able  fully  to  realize. 

This  inability  is  founded  in  the  immutable  or¬ 
ganization  of  his  nature,  in  the  physical  conditions 
of  his  existence. 

In  order  to  secure  his  sensual  existence,  which  is 
dependent  upon  natural  conditions,  man,  who  had 
to  provide  for  his  own  preservation  by  means 
which  he  is  endowed  with  the  power  of  modifying 
at  his  discretion,  had  to  be  impelled  to  perform 
acts  by  means  of  which  the  physical  conditions  of 
his  existence  are  accomplished,  and  restored  again, 
if  they  should  cease  to  be  effective.  However, 
although  nature  had  to  depend  upon  man  for  the 
care  of  his  own  preservation,  which  she  alone 
provides  for  in  the  world  of  plants,  yet  the  import¬ 
ant  business  upon  which  the  perpetuity  of  his 
species  and  the  continuance  of  his  own  individual 
existence  depend,  could  not  well  be  left  to  his  un¬ 
certain  intelligence.  For  this  reason  nature  sub¬ 
jected  this  business  which  is  essentially  hers,  to 


necessary  forms,  thus  binding  man’s  arbitrary  at. 
rangements  by  a  law  of  necessity.  In  this  way 
she  created  instincts  which  are  nothing  else  than 
a  natural  necessity  determined  by  the  medium  of 
sensations. 

The  natural  instinct  assails  the  sentient  faculty 
by  the  double  power  of  pain  and  pleasure  :  of 
pain,  where  it  demands  gratification  ;  of  pleasure, 
where  this  is  obtained. 

A  natural  necessity  being  beyond  conditions, 
man,  in  spite  of  his  liberty,  has  to  experience  the 
sensations  which  nature  chooses  to  determine  for 
him  ;  according  as  they  happen  to  be  painful  or 
pleasurable,  they  will  enkindle  feelings  of  resist¬ 
ance  or  desire.  In  this  respect  man  is  on  a 
level  with  the  animal  ;  the  most  self-dei  ying 
Stoic  feels  hunger  as  intensely  and  desires  it  as 
little  as  the  worm  writhing  at  his  feet. 

But  now  a  great  difference  becomes  manifest. 
In  the  case  of  the  animal,  desire  or  resistance  is 
followed  by  action  as  necessarily  as  sensation  is 
followed  by  desire,  and  the  external  impression  by 
sensation.  The  existence  of  the  animal  consti¬ 
tutes  a  continuous  chain  where  one  ring  is  neces¬ 
sarily  join  to  its  fellows.  In  the  case  of  man 
we  have  another  power,  will,  which,  in  its  capa¬ 
city  of  a  super-sensual  faculty,  is 'so  little  subject 
to  the  law  of  nature  or  to  that  of  reason,  that  it  is 
left,  free  to  determine  which  of>  these  two  laws  it 

r. 

intends  to  obey.  The  animal  is  obliged  to  get  rid 
of  its  pain  ;  man  may  resolve  to  keep  it. 

The  human  will  is  a  sublime  conception,  inde¬ 
pendently  of  its  moral  use.  The  mere  will  raises 
man  above  the  animal,  the  moral  will  elevates  him 
to  the  rank  of  a  god.  But  before  he  can  approx¬ 
imate  the  divine  character,  he  has  to  forsake  his 
animal  nature  ;  hence  it  is  no  small  step  toward 
moral  freedom,  if  man  exercises  the  simple  will¬ 
power,  even  in  indifferent  things,  by  subduing 
the  natural  necessities  of  his  organization. 

Nature  operates  until  the  will-sphere  is  reached  ; 
here  the  law  of  reason  begins.  The  will  is  placed 
between  these  two  tribunals,  to  either  of  which  it 
may  vow  allegiance,  although  its  relation  to  the 
one  or  the  other  differs.  As  a  natural  power 
the  will  is  free,  not  being  obliged  to  obey  either 
the  law  of  nature  or  that  of  reason  ;  but  it  is  not 
free  as  a  moral  power,  for  as  such  it  is  bound  to 
obey  the  law  of  reason.  Without  being  in  bond¬ 
age,  yet  it  is  held  by  the  moral  obligations  of 
reason.  Hence  it  uses  its  freedom  in  reality, 
though  it  should  act  contrary  to  the  mandates  of 
reason  ;  but  it  uses  this  freedom  unworthily ,  in 
spite  of  which  it  remains  within  the  operations  of 
the  natural  instinct  to  which  it  adds  nothing 
higher  ;  for  to  will  in  consequence  of  desire,  is 
simply  to  desire  in  a  circuitous  manner.* 

The  natural  law  as  resulting  from  instinct,  may 
be  at  war  with  the  law  of  reason,  whenever  the 
gratification  of  the  instinct  demands  the  perform¬ 
ance  of  an  act  which  is  contrary  to  moral  prin¬ 
ciples.  In  such  a  case  the  will  is  at  all  times 
bound  to  place  the  natural  gratification  after  the 
mandate  of  reason  ;  for  the  obligations  imposed 

*  On  this  subject  the  reader  may  be  referred  to  the  . 
theory  of  the  will  in  the  second  part  of  Iteinhold's 
Letters,  a  theory  deserving  of  the  closest  atteniiun. 


-ESTHETIC  AL. 


473 


by  the  natural  law  are  conditional ;  whereas  the 
obligations  imposed  by  the  law  of  reason  are  ab¬ 
solute  and  unconditional. 

But  nature  maintains  her  rights  with  much  en¬ 
ergy  ;  since  she  never  craves  a  thing  from  arbitrary 
motives,  she  never  relinquishes  her  claims  unless 
they  are  gratified.  Inasmuch  as  the  evolution 
of  her  facts  is  one  of  rigid  necessity  from  the 
lirst  stimulus  which  excites  her  activity,  to  the 
will  by  which  her  legislation  is  bounded,  she 
cannot  yield  her  previous  demands,  but  has  to 
urge  the  will  forward  to  the  gratification  of  her 
wants.  At  times  it  appears  indeed  as  though 
she  shortened  her  path,  and,  without  first  appeal¬ 
ing  to  the  will,  as  though  she  acted  as  the  imme¬ 
diate  and  first  cause  in  the  gratification  of  her 
desires.  In  such  a  case,  where  man  not  only 
allows  the  instinct  free  sway,  but  where  the  in¬ 
stinct  arrogates  this  freedom  to  itself,  man  would 
simply  be  an  animal  ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether 
this  can  ever  take  place,  or,  if  it  should  take 
place,  whether  this  blind  power  of  his  instinct 
should  not  be  regarded  as  a  crime  perpetrated  by 
the  will. 

Desire  demands  gratification,  which  the  will  is 
called  upon  to  procure.  But  the  will  is  to  be  di¬ 
rected  by  reason,  and  is  to  execute  that  which  the 
latter  allows  or  prescribes.  If  the  will  appeals  to 
reason  previous  to  gratifying  the  desires  of  the 
senses,  it  acts  morally:  but  if  its  decisions  are 
prompted  by  the  immediate  impulse  of  the  senses, 
it  acts  sensually.* 

As  often  as  nature  makes  a  demand,  and  seeks 
to  surprise  the  will  by  the  blind  violence  of  pas¬ 
sion,  the  will  should  order  her  to  wait  until  reason 
has  spoken.  Whether  reason  will  decide  for  or 
against  the  interest  of  sensuality,  the  will  cannot 
know  ;  on  this  very  account  it  should  first  consult 
reason  whenever  passion  seeks  to  initiate  an  act. 
By  subduing  the  violence  of  his  desires,  which 
urge  a  premature  and  hasty  gratification,  and 
would  rather  leap  over  the  barriers  imposed  by 
the  will,  man  gives  evidence  of  his  moral  inde¬ 
pendence,  in  consequence  of  which  he  not  merely 
desires  or  detests,  but  wills  either  his  desire  or  his 
detestation. 

But  the  simple  appeal  to  reason  is  a  limitation 
of  nature,  which  is  a  competent  judge  in  her  own 
affairs,  and  does  not  wish  to  see  her  decrees  sub¬ 
jected  to  a  new  and  foreign  tribunal.  The  voli¬ 
tion  which  summons  the  business  of  the  desiring 
faculty  before  the  tribunal  of  the  moral  reason,  is, 
properly  speaking,  contrary  to  nature ,  since  it 
converts  the  necessary  into  something  accidental, 
and  depends  upon  the  laws  of  reason  for  a  deci¬ 
sion  in  a  matter  where  the  laws  of  nature  alone 
can  speak,  and,  indeed,  have  spoken.  The  pure 
reason  cares  as  little  how  the  senses  may  re¬ 
ceive  i\ts  enactments,  as  the  senses  care  whether 
pure  reagon  approves  of  their  demands.  Each 
of  these  two  tribunals  obeys  its  own  law  of  ne- 

*  Th  s  appeal  of  the  will  to  reason  must  not  be  con- 
foundeo  with  the  inquiry  instituted  by  this  faculty  con¬ 
cerning  the  means  of  gratifying  a  desire.  In  the  present 
case  th')  question  is  not  how,  but  whether  the  desire  is  to 
be  grat  tied.  The  latter  point  appertains  to  the  domain 
of  mon.lity,  the  former  to  that  of  discretion. 


cessity,  which  would  not  exist  if  either  were  per¬ 
mitted  to  effect  arbitrary  changes  in  the  other’s 
domain.  Hence  it  is  that  not  even  the  bravest 
spirit,  in  spite  of  all  resistance  against  the  senses, 
can  suppress  the  sensation  or  the  desire  itself,  but 
can  only  prevent  it  from  influencing  the  will  or 
its  determinations  ;  he  may  disarm  the  desire  by 
moral  means,  but  can  appease  it ‘only  by  natural 
ones.  By  his  independent  power  he  may  prevent 
natural  laws  from  operating  in  a  compulsory 
manner  against  his  will,  but  lie  cannot  change  an 
iota  in  the  laws  themselves. 

In  passional  states,  “  where  the  sensual  desire 
acts  first,  and  either  seeks  to  evade  or  to  force  the 
will,  the  moral  nature  of  the  human  character  must 
necessarily  manifest  itself  by  resistance ,  and  the 
desire  can  only  be  prevented  from  limiting  the 
freedom  of  the  will  by  being  itself  kept  within 
bounds.”  The  accord  with  the  law  of  reason  in 
the  movements  of  passion  can  only  be  realized  by 
opposition  to  the  natural  desire.  Inasmuch  as 
nature  never  retracts  her  demands  from  moral 
reasons,  and  she  remains  unchanged,  no  matter 
what  the  will  may  resolve  upon  with  regard  to  her 
claims,  an  agreement  between  inclination  and  duty, 
between  reason  and  sensuality  becomes  impossible, 
and  man  cannot  possibly  act  harmoniously  with 
his  whole  nature,  but  has  to  act  exclusively  with 
his  reason.  In  such  cases  his  actions  are  not  mor¬ 
ally  beautiful,  for  in  order  to  realize  moral  beauty, 
inclination  has  to  participate  in  the  performance 
of  the  act,  whereas  in  the  present  case,  the  incli¬ 
nation  is  contrary  to  the  act.  But  his  actions  are 
morally  great,  for  only  that  is  great  which  evi¬ 
dences  a  superiority  of  the  higher  faculties  over  the 
sensual  desire. 

In  passional  states,  a  beautiful  has  to  become 
changed  to  an  elevated  soul ;  this  is  the  infallible 
touch-stone  by  means  of  which  we  distinguish  it  from 
the  good  heart  or  the  virtue  of  temperament.  If  in¬ 
clination  happens  to  be  on  the  side  of  justice  for  no 
better  reason  than  because  justice  happens  to  be 
on  the  side  of  inclination,  the  natural  desire  will 
exercise  a  despotic  power  over  the  will,  and  if  a 
sacrifice  should  be  necessary,  it  will  be  offered  by 
man’s  moral,  not  by  his  sensual  nature.  But  if, 
as  is  the  case  with  beautiful  characters,  reason 
itself  controlled  the  inclination,  and  simply  con¬ 
fided  the  helm  to  the  sensual  desire,  the  helm  will 
be  seized  back  again  by  reason  whenever  the 
senses  attempt  to  transgress  the  bounds  of  their 
power.  In  passional  states,  the  virtue  of  tempera¬ 
ment  descends  to  the  level  of  a  natural  product; 
the  beautiful  soul  becomes  invested  with  heroism 
and  is  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  pure  intelligence. 

Controlling  the  sensual  desires  by  moral  power 
is  freedom  of  mind;  dignity  constitutes  the 
phenomenal  expression  of  such  freedom. 

Rigorously  speaking,  man’s  moral  power  is  inca¬ 
pable  of  being  made  manifest,  for  the  reason  that 
the  super-sensual  cannot  be  expressed  to  the  senses. 
But  indirectly  this  power  can  be  represented  to 
the  understanding  by  sensual  signs,  and  is  so  re¬ 
presented  by  the  dignity  of  human  culture. 

The  excited  instinct,  like  the  heart  impelled 
by  emotions,  is  accompanied  by  bodily  motions 
which  either  anticipate  the  will,  or  as  sympa¬ 
thetic  motions  are  not  subject  to  its  sway.  For 


474 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


•  inasmuch  as  neither  emotion,  nor  desire,  nor  detes¬ 
tation  is  dependent  upon  man’s  arbitrary  deter¬ 
mination,  he  cannot  exercise  any  control  over  the 
motions  immediately  connected  with  those  states. 
The  instinct  is  not  limited  by  the  mere  desire ; 
hurriedly  and  urgently  it  attempts  to  realize  its 
purpose,  and  unless  energetically  resisted  by  the 
independent  spirit,  it  performs  by  anticipation 
acts  over  which  the  will  alone  should  exercise  ab¬ 
solute  control.  The  instinct  of  preservation  is 
incessantly  struggling  for  supremacy  in  the  sphere 
of  the  will-power,  and  seeks  to  exercise  the  same 
power  over  man  that  it  exercises  over  the  animal. 

Hence  in  every  passional  state  which  the  in¬ 
stinct  of  preservation  kindles  in  man,  we  discover 
motions  of  two  kinds,  each  arising  from  a  dif¬ 
ferent  origin ;  first,  such  as  arise  immediately 
from  the  sensation  and  are  involuntarv ;  and  sec- 
ondlv,  such  as  should  and  might  be  voluntary,  but 
which  the  blind  instinct  appropriates  to  itself  over 
the  moral  freedom.  The  former  have  reference 
to  the  passional  state  itself,  writh  which  they  are 
necessarily  united  ;  the  latter  correspond  rather 
with  the  cause  and  object  of  the  passional  state, 
on  which  account  they  are  accidental  and  change¬ 
able,  and  cannot  be  regarded  as  genuine  signs  of 
that  state.  But,  inasmuch  as  both  are  equally 
necessary  to  the  natural  instinct,  as  soon  as  the 
object  of  its  desires  is  known,  it  follows  that  both 
are  necessary  in  order  to  secure  an  harmonious 
and  integral  manifestation  of  thq  passional  state.  * 

If  the  will  is  sufficiently  independent  to  restrain 
the  eagerness  of  the  instinct,  and  to  maintain  its 
own  rights  against  the  impetuous  demands  of  the 
latter,  all  the  phenomena  to  which  the  excited 
instinct  had  given  rise  in  its  domain,  remain  mani¬ 
fest,  but  all  those  which  it  sought  to  monopolize  in 
a  sphere  not  its  own,  will  he  found  wanting.  The 
phenomena  cease  to  agree,  but  it  is  in  this  want 
of  agreement  that  the  expression  of  moral  force 
resides. 

Suppose  we  perceive  in  a  man  signs  of  the 
most  tumultuous  passional  state  belonging  to  the 
first  class  of  the  involuntary  motions.  Whilst 
his  veins  are  swelling,  his  muscles  are  spasmo¬ 
dically  stretched,  his  voice  is  choked,  his  chest 
heaves,  his  abdomen  is  drawn  in  :  his  voluntary 
motions  are  gentle,  his  features  are  relaxed,  his 
eye  and  brow  are  unclouded.  If  man  were  nothing 
but  a  being  of  sense,  all  his  features,  having  the 
same  origin,  would  agree,  and,  in  the  present  case, 
wrould  express  nothing  but  suffering.  But  inas¬ 
much  as  an  expression  of  repose  is  mingled  with 
that  of  suffering,  and  the  same  cause  cannot  have 
opposite  effects,  this  antagonism  of  features  shows 
the  existence  and  the  influence  of  a  force  which 
is  independent  of  the  suffering,  and  is  superior  to 
the  impressions  beneath  which  the  senses  are  suc- 

*  If  only  the  notions  of  tho  second  kind  are  met  with, 
Without  those  of  the  first,  we  infer  from  this  that  the 
person  wills  the  passional  state,  but  that  the  natural  de¬ 
sire  refuses  it.  If  the  motions  of  the  first  kind  are  met 
with,  without  those  of  the  second,  we  infer  that  the 
natural  instinct  desires  the  passional  state,  but  that  it  is 
opposed  by  the  will.  The  former  ease  is  met  with  every 
day  in  affected  persons  and  bad  comedians;  the  second 
case  occurs  less  frequently,  and  only  in  the  case  of  strong 
characters. 


cumbing.  In  this  way  the  repose  in  suffering, 
which  is  the  proper  characteristic  of  dignity,  be¬ 
comes,  although  only  indirectly  by  an  inference 
of  the  reason,  an  expression  of  man’s  intelligence 
and  moral  freedom.  * 

But  it  is  not  only  in  states  of  suffering  in  a 
more  particular  sense,  where  this  term  implies 
painful  sensations,  but  in  every  powerful  desire 
tiiat  the  spirit  should  manifest  its  freedom,  and 
that  this  manifestation  should  take  place  in  a  dig¬ 
nified  manner.  This  rule  not  only  applies  to 
painful,  but  likewise  to  agreeable  sensations,  but 
in  either  case  the  natural  desire  aims  at  con¬ 
trol,  and  has  to  be  restrained  by  the  will.  Dignity 
refers  to  the  form,  not  to  the  essence  of  the  pas¬ 
sional  state ;  hence  it  may  happen  that  passional 
states  which  are  essentially  praiseworthy,  but  to 
which  man  abandons  himself  without  restraint, 
become  common  and  low  for  want  of  dignity; 
and  that  on  the  other  hand,  passional  states  which 
in  themselves  are  condemnable,  approach  the  sub¬ 
lime,  because  the  manner  in  which  they  are  mani¬ 
fested,  expresses  the  control  of  the  spirit  over 
mere  sensations. 

Dignity  implies  the  rule  of  the' mind  over  the 
body  ;  it  implies  the  authority  of  the  former  over 
the  imperious  instinct  which  seeks  to  act  without 
the  mind  and  to  withdraw  from  the  control  of  the 
latter.  Loveliness,  on  the  contrary,  implies  a 
liberal  government  of  the  mind,  for  here  it  is  the 
mind  that  leads  the  natural  desire  to  acts,  and  has 
no  resistance  to  overcome.  Forbearance  is  only 
due  to  obedience,  severity  is  only  justified  by 
resistance. 

Loveliness  is  circumscribed  within  the  freedom 
of  voluntary ,  dignity  within  the  control  of  invo¬ 
luntary  motions.  Loveliness  leaves  to  the  na¬ 
tural  desire,  wherever  it  executes  the  mandates 
of  the  mind,  an  appearance  of  voluntary  action  ; 
dignity,  on  the  contrary,  subjects  the  natural  de¬ 
sire  which  attempts  to  rule,  to  the  control  of  the 
mind.  Wherever  the  instinct  undertakes  to  act 
and  to  encroach  upon  the  prerogative  of  the  will, 
the  will  should  not  show  any  indulgence,  but 
should  show  its  independence  by  the  most  em¬ 
phatic  resistance.  But  if  the  will  initiates  the 
motion,  and  is  followed  by  the  sensual  desire,  the 
former  should  show  forbearance  instead  of  seve¬ 
rity.  This  is,  in  a  few  words,  the  law  for  both 
natures  in  man,  determining  their  mutual  relation 
and  phenomenal  manifestation. 

Dignity  is  required  in  states  of  suffering  (na^oj), 
loveliness  is  expected  in  a  person’s  deportment 
('£>0$) ;  for  it  is  only  in  states  of  suffering  that  the 
mind,  and  in  acts  that  the  body  can  mauifest  its 
freedom. 

Dignity  being  an  expression  of  the  resistance 
which  the  independent  mind  offers  to  the  natural 
instinct,  and  the  natural  instinct  having  t<?  be  re¬ 
garded  as  a  power  that  renders  resistance  neces¬ 
sary,  it  follows  that  dignity  becomes  ridiculous 
wherever  no  such  power  is  to  be  combated,  and 
contemptible,  wherever  no  such  power  should  be 
combated.  We  laugh  at  the  comedian,  whatever 

This  subject  has  been  discussed  more  fully  ii  a  dis¬ 
quisition  on  pathetic  forms  in  the  third  number  of  *,b<* 
Thalia. 


iESTHETICAL. 


475 


ms  rank  or  official  titles  may  be,  who  affects  dig¬ 
nity  even  in  indifferent  tilings.  We  despise  the 
small  soul  that  affects  dignity  in  the  performance 
of  a  trifling  duty,  which  is  frequently  nothing  else 
than  the  non-commission  of  a  baseness. 

In  general  it  is  not  so  much  dignity  as  love¬ 
liness  that  we  expect  of  virtue.  Dignity  is  im¬ 
plied  in  virtue,  which,  by  its  essence,  presupposes 
a  control,  on  the  part  of  man,  over  his  instincts. 
During  the  performance  of  a  moral  duty,  the 
senses  will  much  more  generally  be  found  in  a 
state  of  restraint  and  even  suppression,  especially 
in  cases  where  a  painful  sacrifice  is  imposed  upon 
them.  Inasmuch  as  the  ideal  of  a  perfect  hu¬ 
manity  implies  an  agreement,  not  an  opposition 
between  the  moral  and  the  sensual  principles, 
this  ideal  does  not  accord  with  the  idea  of  dignity, 
which,  being  expressive  of  that  opposition,  ex¬ 
hibits  to  our  view  either  the  particular  limits  of  the 
subject  or  the  general  limits  of  humanity. 

In  the  former  case,  if  the  subject  should  be  un¬ 
able  to  harmonize  inclination  and  duty,  the  act 
will  lose  in  moral  worth  in  proportion  as  its  per¬ 
formance  is  characterized  by  struggle,  and  dignity 
is  required  to  beautify  the  form.  For  our  moral 
judgment  measures  every  individual  by  the  spe¬ 
cies,  and  man  is  only  excused  in  so  far  as  his  in¬ 
dividual  nature  is  bounded  by  that  of  the  species. 

In  the  second  case,  on  the  contrary,  if  an  act 
of  duty'cannot  be  harmonized  with  the  demands 
of  nature  without  effacing  the  idea  of  humanity, 
the  resistance  of  inclination  becomes  necessary, 
and  it  is  only  the  sight  of  the  struggle  that  can 
satisfy  us  concerning  the  possibility  of  victory. 
In  such  a  case  we  expect  to  see  the  opposition 
manifested  to  the  senses,  and  shall  never  be  per¬ 
suaded  to  believe  in  virtue  where  we  do  not  even 
recognize  the  presence  of  humanity.  Wherever 
moral  duty  commands  an  act  which  inflicts  suffer¬ 
ing  upon  the  sensual  life,  we  deal  in  earnest,  not 
in  playful  things  ;  levity  in  the  performance  of  an 
act  would  revolt  rather  than  satisfy  us ;  not  love¬ 
liness,  but  dignity  will  characterize  the  act.  In 
general,  man  should,  in  all  such  cases,  do  in  a 
lovely  manner  what  he  is  able  to  do  within  the 
limits  of  his  humanity,  and  perform  with  dignity 
whatever  exceeds  these  limits. 

Of  virtue  we  expect  loveliness,  and  dignity  of 
inclination.  Loveliness  is  as  natural  to  inclina¬ 
tion  as  dignity  to  virtue ;  for  inclination  is  essen¬ 
tially  sensual,  favorable  to  natural  freedom  and 
hostile  to  every  forced  condition.  Even  the 
uneducated  man  is  not  wanting  in  a  certain  de¬ 
gree  of  loveliness,  if  love  or  a  similar  passion 
animates  him  ;  where  do  we  find  more  loveliness 
than  in  the  case  of  children  who  are  nevertheless 
wholly  under  the  direction  of  the  senses?  There 
is  danger  lest  inclination  should  convert  a  state 
of  passivity  into  a  ruling  state,  lest  it  should 
stifle  the  moral  independence  of  the  mind,  and 
should  superinduce  a  general  relaxation  of  energy. 
In  ol  der,  therefore,  to  be  respected  by  the  moral 
sense,  inclination  should  always  be  allied  to  dig¬ 
nity.  Hence  it  is  that  a  lover  demands  dignity 
of  the  object  of  his  love.  Dignity  is  his  guarantee 
that  it  is  not  an  animal  want  which  prompted  the 
loved  one's  passion,  but  that  the  latter’s  choice  was 


made  in  perfect  freedom  ;  that  he  was  therefore 
not  desired  as  a  mere  thing ,  but  esteemed  as  a 
human  personality . 

Loveliness  is  expected  of  him  who  imposes, 
dignity  of  him  who  accepts  the  obligation.  In 
order  to  divest  himself  of  a  humiliating  advantage 
over  his  neighbor,  the  former  should  cause  his 
inclination  to  participate  in  the  action  of  his  dis¬ 
interested  will,  and,  by  converting  it  into  an  action 
prompted  by  affection,  give  himself  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  winning  party.  The  latter,  in  order 
not  to  dishonor  in  his  person,  by  the  dependent 
relation  which  he  assumes,  the  humanity  whose 
sacred  palladium  is  freedom,  should  elevate  the 
simple  accession  of  the  instinct  to  an  act  of  his 
will,  and  in  this  way  should  bestow  a  favor  by  ac¬ 
cepting  one. 

A  fault  should  be  criticised  with  loving  gentle¬ 
ness,  and  admitted  with  dignity.  If  the  reverse 
takes  place,  it  will  appear  as  though  the  one 
thought  too  much  of  his  interest,  the  other  too 
little  of  his  disadvantage. 

If  the  strong  man  desires  to  be  loved,  he  should 
blend  his  superiority  with  loveliness.  If  the  weak 
desires  to  be  respected,  he  will  have  to  prop  his 
weakness  by  dignity.  It  is  supposed  that  dignity 
is  proper  to  the  throne,  and  it  is  well  known  that 
those  who  are  seated  on  the  throne,  like  to  see 
loveliness  in  their  counselors,  confessors,  and  par¬ 
liaments.  But  what  may  seem  good  and  praise¬ 
worthy  in  a  political  empire,  is  not  always  so  in 
the  empire  of  taste.  The  king  enters  this  empire 
as  soon  as  he  descends  from  his  throne  (for  thrones 
have  privileges);  even  the  rampant  courtier,  when 
raising  himself  to  the  dignity  of  a  man,  seeks 
refuge  in  his  sacred  liberty.  But  in  such  a  case 
it  is  advisable  for  the  one  to  supply  his  want 
with  the  other’s  abundance,  and  to  yield  of  his 
dignity  as  much  as  he  requires  of  the  other’s  love¬ 
liness. 

Dignity  and  loveliness  manifesting  themselves 
in  different  spheres,  they  do  not  exclude  each 
other  in  the  same  person,  or  even  in  the  same  state 
of  a  person  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  loveliness  from 
tvhich  dignity  obtains  its  credentials,  and  it  is 
dignity  that  bestows  value  upon  loveliness. 

Wherever  dignity  is  met  with,  it  implies  a  cer¬ 
tain  limitation  of  desires  and  inclinations.  But 
whether,  what  seems  to  us  restraint,  is  not  rather 
a  certain  bluntness  or  hardness  of  the  desiring 
faculty,  and  whether,  what  we  consider  moral 
independence,  is  not  rather  the  ascendency  or 
overpowering  activity  of  some  other  passional 
state,  which  checks  the  present  tendency  to  pas¬ 
sionate  excitement,  can  only  be  placed  beyond 
doubt  by  the  loveliness  inherent  in  our  deport¬ 
ment.  Loveliness  evidences  a  calm  and  harmo¬ 
nious  mind,  and  a  sensitive  heart. 

.  Loveliness,  of  itself,  shows  a  susceptibility  of 
the  emotive  principle,  and  an  accord  of  the  emo¬ 
tions  and  sensations.  But  that  it  is  not  indolence 
of  mind  which  leaves  so  much  liberty  to  the  senses, 
and  lays  the  heart  open  to  every  impression  ;  and 
that  it  is  the  moral  power  which  has  realized  yonder 
accord,  can  only  be  guaranteed  by  the  dignity  re¬ 
flected  in  our  conduct.  By  its  dignity  the  person¬ 
ality  gives  proof  of  its  moral  independence ;  at 


476 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  same  time  as  the  will  restrains  the  excess  of 
the  involuntary  motions,  it  shows  that  it  simply 
allows  the  freedom  of  the  voluntary  motions. 

If  loveliness  and  dignity  are  supported,  the 
former  by  natural  beauty,  the  latter  by  force,  and 
united'  in  the  same  person,  the  human  ideal  is 
realized  in  this  person,  who  is  henceforth  justified 
in  the  world  of  mind,  and  acquitted  in  that  of 
sense.  Both  series  of  legislative  enactments  here 
approximate  so  closely  that  their  boundaries  may 
be  said  to  coalesce.  With  a  more  moderate  lustre 
the  rational  liberty  is  reflected  by  the  smile  of  the 
mouth,  by  the  softly  animated  look,  by  the  serene 
brow;  and  with  an  elevated  expression  the  natural 
necessity  seems  to  take  leave  of  the  noble  majesty 
of  the  face.  The  antiques  have  been  formed  in 
accordance  with  this  ideal  of  human  beauty,  as 
may  be  inferred  from  the  divine  shape  of  Niobe, 
from  the  Apollo  of  Belvidere,  from  the  winged 
genius  of  Borghese,  and  from  the  muse  of  the 
Barberinean  palace.* 

Where  gracefulness  and  dignity  are  united,  wre 
are  alternately  attracted  and  repelled  ;  attracted 
as  spirits,  repelled  as  sensual  beings. 

*  With  the  exquisite  and  elevated  judgment  which  is 
peculiar  to  Winckelmann,  this  great  critic  has  conceived 
and  described  the  sublime  beauty  arising  from  the  union 
of  gracefulness  and  dignity.  (See  his  History  of  Art,  first 
part,  p.  480,  Viennese  edition.)  What  he  found  united, 
he  accepted  and  described  as  a  unit,  and  he  did  not  go 
beyond  the  teachings  of  the  senses,  omitting  to  inquire 
whether  the  apparent  unit  might  not  be  separated.  He 
obscures  the  conception  of  gracefulness  by  mixing  it  up 
with  elements  which  evidently  appertain  exclusively  to 
dignity.  But  gracefulness  and  dignity  are  essentially 
distinct,  and  it  is  wrong  to  regard  that  which  rather  cir¬ 
cumscribes  the  idea  of  gracefulness,  as  an  attribute 
thereof.  What  Winckelmann  terms  the  high,  heavenly 
gracefulness,  is  nothing  else  than  beauty  and  gracefulness 
combined  with  over-powering  dignity.  “  Heavenly  grace¬ 
fulness,”  he  says,  “seems  all-sufficient  to  itself;  it  does 
not  offer  itself,  but  wants  to  be  sought  after;  it  is  too 
sublime  to  be  very  striking  to  the  senses  ;  it  withdraws 
within  the  recesses  of  the  soul’s  own  motions,  and  ap¬ 
proximates  to  the  blissful  silence  of  divine  nature.” 
“By  it.”  he  says  somewhere  else,  “the  author  of  Niobe 
risked  his  flight  into  the  empire  of  immaterial  ideas,  and 
attained  to  the  secret  of  combining  the  agony  of  death 
with  the  highest  beauty  [it  would  be  difficult  to  discover 
any  other  sense  in  those  passages  except  that  they  refer 
to  dignity],  “  he  became  the  creator  of  pure  spirits  that 
do  not  excite  the  desires  of  the  senses,  for  they  do  not 
seem  born  for  passion  which  they  only  seem  to  tolerate.” 
In  another  place  he  says  :  “  The  soul  only  spoke  under 
the  silent  surface  of  the  water,  and  never  manifested 
itself  in  a  tumultuous  manner.  In  representing  suffering, 
the  most  acute  pain  remains  hidden,  and  joy  hovers  like 
a  gentle  zephyr,  which  scarcely  agitates  the  leaves,  upon 
the  face  of  Leucothea.” 

All  th  ese  .traits  belong  to  dignity,  not  to  gracefulness, 
for  gracefulness  is  not  concealed,  but  manifests  itself  to 
the  senses;  it  is  not  sublime,  but  beautiful.  But  it  is 
dignity  which  restrains  nature  in  her  manifestations,  and 
gives  repose  even  to  the  features  of  Laocoon  when  strug¬ 
gling  with  the  agony  of  death  and  the  bitterest  pain. 

Hume  makes  the  same  mistake,  though  in  his  ease  this 
is  less  surprising.  He  too  mixes  up  gracefulness  with 
elements  belonging  to  dignity,  although  he  draws  dis¬ 
tinctions  between  gracefulness  and  dignity.  Generally 
his  observations  are  correct,  and  the  proximate  rules 
which  he  derives  from  them,  are  true;  but  we  cannot  fol¬ 
low  his  reasonings  beyond  this  point.  Principles  of 
Criticism,  part  ii. 


Dignity  affords  us  an  example  of  the  subjection 
of  the  sensual  to  the  moral,  which  we  are  obligated 
to  imitate,  but  which  at  the  same  time  exceeds 
our  physical  power.  The  opposition  between  the 
natural  desire  and  the  mandate  of  the  law,  strains 
the  senses,  and  awakens  the  sentiment  which  we 
call  respect,  and  which  is  inseparable  from  dignity. 

In  the  domain  of  gracefulness,  as  well  as  in  that 
of  beauty,  the  demands  of  reason  are  complied 
with  within  the  limits  of  the  sensual  sphere.  This 
unexpected  agreement  of  the  accidental  desire 
and  the  necessities  of  reason  awakens  a  feeling  of 
delight,  absorbing  and  hushing  the  senses,  but 
animating  and  interesting  the  mind  ;  hence  the 
sensual  object  will  be  attracted  by  us.  This  at¬ 
traction  is  designated  as  benevolence,  love ;  a 
sentiment  which  is  inseparable  from  lovely  grace¬ 
fulness  and  beauty. 

In  the  excitement  of  sensual  passion  a  sensual 
object  is  presented  to  the  senses,  promising  the 
gratification  of  a  sensual  want.  The  senses  en¬ 
deavor  to  unite  with  the  sensual  object,  and  desire 
is  the  consequence  ;  a  sensation  which  strains  the 
senses,  but  relaxes  the  mind. 

Of  respect  it  may  be  said  that  it  bows  before , 
of  love,  that  it  inclines  to,  and  of  desire,  that  it 
rushes  upon  its  object.  In  the  case  of  respect, 
reason  is  the  object,  and  sensual  nature  the  sub¬ 
ject.*  In  the  case  of  love,  the  object  is  sensual, 
and  the  subject  is  moral  nature.  In  the ‘case  of 
desire,  both  the  object  and  subject  are  sensual. 

Love  alone  is  a  free  emotion,  for  its  pure  foun¬ 
tain  rushes  forth  from  the  source  of  freedom,  from 
the  bosom  of  our  divine  nature.  Here  it  is  not 
littleness  and  vulgarity  which  contend  against 
greatness  and  elevation  of  character,  it  is  not  the 
sensual  life  which  looks  up  to  the  dizzy  heights  of 
the  law  of  reason ;  it  is  absolute  greatness  itself 
which  sees  itself  imitated-  within  the  limits  of 
lovely  gracefulness  and  beauty,  and  satisfied  in 
the  moral  sphere  ;  it  is  the  law-giver  himself,  the 
God  within  us,  that  plays  with  his  own  image  in 
the  world  of  sense.  Hence  the  mind  melts  away 
under  the  influence  of  love,  whereas  it  feels  con¬ 
strained  by  respect ;  for  there  is  nothing  in  love 
that  limits  it,  since  absolute  greatness  has  nothing 

*  Respect  must  not  be  confounded  with  esteem.  Re¬ 
spect,  in  its  absolute  sense,  refers  to  the  relation  between 
sensual  nature  and  the  demands  of  the  pure,  practical 
reason,  without  regard  to  the  reality  of  such  a  relation. 
“By  respect  we  understand  the  feeling  of  inadequateness 
to  the  realization  of  an  idea  which  is  law  to  us.”  (Kant’s 
Critique  of  Judgment.)  For  this  reason  respect  is  not 
a  pleasant,  rather  an  oppressive  sentiment.  It  is  a  sen¬ 
sation  of  the  distance  which  separates  the  empirical  from 
the  pure  will.  It  cannot,  therefore,  appear  strange,  if 
I  make  sensual  nature  the  subject  of  respect,  although 
this  is  based  only  upon  pare  reason  ;  for  the  inadequate¬ 
ness  to  th.e  realization  of  the  law  can  only  be  founded  in 
the  senses. 

Esteem,  on  the  contrary,  implies  the  actual  realization 
of  the  law,  and  is  not  conceived  for  the  law,  but  for  the 
person  that  acts  in  accordance  with  the  law.  Hence, 
esteem  affords  delight,  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  law  de¬ 
lights  rational  beings.  Respect  is  a  state  of  constraint, 
esteem,  a  more  spontaneous  sentiment.  But  this  is 
owing  to  love,  which  constitutes  an  ingredient  of  esteem  ; 
Even  the  wicked  has  to  respect  goodness  ;  but  in  order 
to  esteem  the  doer  of  good  works,  he  would  have  to  ceas* 
being  wicked. 


iESTHETICAL.  477 


above  it,  and  the  sensual  life,  from  which  alone  a 
limitation  of  the  love  might  emanate,  exists  in  per¬ 
fect  accord  with  the  mind  in  the  forms  of  loveli¬ 
ness  and  beauty.  Love  descends,  respect  as¬ 
cends.  Hence  the  wicked  man  cannot  love  any 
thing,  though  he  may  have  to  respect  a  good 
many  tilings ;  hence  again,  the  good  man  respects 
but  little  what  he  does  not  at  the  same  time  em¬ 
brace  with  love.  The  pure  mind  can  only  experi¬ 
ence  love,  not  respect ;  the  sensual  man  only  re¬ 
spects,  but  does  not  love. 

Whereas  the  guilty  man  lives  in  everlasting 
dread  of  meeting  the  internal  lawgiver  in  the 
world  of  sense,  and  sees  an  enemy  in  every  thing 
that  is  great,  beautiful,  and  excellent,  the  beauti¬ 
ful  soul  knows  no  higher  or  sweeter  delight  than 
to  see  its  own  holiness  imitated  and  realized  out¬ 
side  of  itself,  and  to  embrace  its  immortal  friend 
in  the  world  of  sense.  Love  is  at  the  same  time 
the  most  generous  and  the  most  selfish  principle  in 
nature :  the  most  generous,  for  it  receives  nothing 
from,  but  gives  every  thing  to  its  object,  since 
the  pure  spirit  can  only  give,  but  not  receive ;  the 
most  selfish,  for  it  is  its  own  self  that  it  seeks  and 
values  in  its  object. 

But  for  the  very  reason  that  the  loving  one 
does  not  receive  any  thing  from  the  loved  one 
which  he  had  not  previously  given  to  the  latter,  it 
frequently  happens  that  he  gives  to  the  latter  that 
which  he  had  not  previously  received  from  him. 
The  external  sense  imagines  it  sees  that  which  onlv 
the  internal  sense  beholds ;  the  ardent  wish  as¬ 
sumes  the  form  of  faith,  and  the  lover’s  own  abun¬ 
dance  hides  the  poverty  of  the  loved  one.  Hence 
love  is  so  easily  exposed  to  illusions,  which  rarely 
happens  to  respect  or  desire.  As  long  as  the  in¬ 
ternal  sense  exalts  the  outer,  so  long  the  blissful 
enchantment  of  Platonic  love  continues,  and 
would  seem  the  bliss  of  heaven,  if  it  were  only 
perpetual.  But  as  soon  as  the  internal  sense 
ceases  to  substitute  it  own  perceptions  for  those 
of  the  outer,  this  sense  reclaims  its  rights,  and 
demands  that  which  appertains  to  it,  material  sub¬ 
stance.  The  fire  which  the  heavenly  Venus  had 
kindled,  is  made  use  of  by  the  terrestrial,  and 
the  natural  instinct  very  frequently  avenges  its 
long  neglect  by  a  more  absolute  supremacy.  The 
sensual  eye  being  never  deceived,  it  avails  itself  of 
this  advantage  over  its  noble  rival  with  a  coarse 
effrontery,  and  goes  so  far  as  to  assert  that  itself 
keeps  the  promise  which  the  soul’s  enthusiasm  has 
failed  to  fulfill. 

Dignity  prevents  love  from  being  degraded  to 
desire.  Loveliness  prevents  respect  from  chang¬ 
ing  to  fear. 

True  beauty,  true  loveliness  never  excites  de¬ 
sire.  If  desire  is  excited  the  object  is  either  defi¬ 
cient  in  dignity,  or  the  beholder  in  moral  senti¬ 
ment. 

True  dignity  never  excites  fear.  If  fear  exists, 
we  may  rest  assured  that  the  object  is  either  defi¬ 
cient  in  taste  and  gracefulness,  or  that  the  beholder 
does  not  rejoice  in  a  favorable  testimonial  of 
his  conscience. 

Charm,  loveliness,  and  gracefulness,  are  gener¬ 
ally  employed  as  synonymous  terms  ;  but  they  are 
not  synonymous,  or  rather  they  should  not  be  used 
as  such,  since  the  idea  which  they  express,  is  capa¬ 


ble  of  several  definitions  to  which  different  terms 
might  be  applied. 

There  is  a  gracefulness  which  excites,  and  one 
which  subdues.  The  former  borders  on  the  sen¬ 
sual,  and  the  delight  which  it  affords,  unless 
checked  by  dignity,  may  readily  degenerate  into 
desire.  This  form  of  gracefulness  may  be  desig 
nated  charm.  A  man  whose  susceptibilities  have 
become  blunted,  being  unable  to  stimulate  hi3 
feeling  by  his  own  internal  power,  has  to  be  fur¬ 
nished  with  external  stimuli,  and  to  restore  his 
elasticity  by  light  exercises  of  the  fancy  and  quick 
transitions  from  sensations  to  acts.  This  stimu¬ 
lus  is  furnished  by  the  intercourse  with  a  charm¬ 
ing  person  who  agitates  the  stagnant  sea  of 
his  imagination  by  her  looks  and  conversation. 
The  subduing  gracefulness  is  akin  to  dignity, 
since  it  manifests  itself  by  moderating  restless 
motions.  The  man  who  is  agitated  by  emo¬ 
tions,  turns  to  her,  and  on  her  peace-breathing 
bosom  seeks  repose  from  the  wild  tumult  in  his 
breast.  This  form  of  gracefulness  may  be  desig-- 
nated  as  loveliness.  With  charm  we  frequently 
find  allied  the  laughing  jest  and  the  stinging 
satire  ;  with  loveliness,  on  the  contrary,  pity  and 
affection.  The  enervated  Soliman  finally  lan¬ 
guishes  in  the  bonds  of  Roxalana,  whereas  the 
wild  spirit  of  Othello  is  hushed  by  the  gentle 
love  of  Desdemona. 

Dignity,  too,  has  degrees  ;  where  it  approaches 
to  loveliness  and  beauty,  it  assumes  the  form  of 
nobleness  ;  and  where  it  approaches  to  terror,  it 
becomes  exaltation. 

The  highest  degree  of  loveliness  is  enchantment  ; 
the  highest  degree  of  dignity  is  majesty.  In  the 
presence  of  an  enchanting  object  we  lose  our¬ 
selves,  and  inelt  away  as  it  were  in  contemplating 
its  charms.  We  enjoy  our  liberty  most  by  com¬ 
pletely  losing  it,  and  the  intoxication  of  the  spirit 
borders  on  the  delirium  of  sensuality.  Majesty, 
on  the  contrary,  is  invested  with  a  power  which 
imposes  upon  us  the  duty  of  self-examination. 
We  look  down  in  the  presence  of  the  god  before 
us,  we  forget  every  thing  around,  and  feel  nothing 
but  the  burden  of  our  own  existence. 

Only  sacred  things  are  invested  with  majesty. 
If  a  man  is  enabled  to  represent  sacredness  to  us, 
he  is  invested  with  majesty,  and  though  oifr  knees 
should  not  bend,  yet  our  spirit  will  lie  prostrate 
before  him.  But  we  quickly  rise  again  from  our  pros¬ 
trate  position,  as  soon  as  the  slightest  trace  of 
human  weakness  becomes  visible  in  the  object  of 
our  adoration  ;  for  that  which  is  only  great  by 
comparison,  cannot  prostrate  the  contemplating 
spirit. 

Mere  power,  were  it  ever  so  terrible  and  un¬ 
bounded,  is  unable  to  invest  its  possessor  with 
majesty.  Power  chains  the  being  of  sense  ;  ma¬ 
jesty  fetters  the  mind.  A  man  who  has  power  to 
condemn  me  to  death,  may  be  destitute  of  ma¬ 
jesty  in  my  eyes,  provided  I  am  what  I  should  be. 
This  advantage  over  me  is  at  an  end  as  soon  as 
I  determine  it  shall  be.  But  if  a  man  represents 
to  me  the  pure  will,  I  may  bow  to  him,  if  possible, 
even  in  a  future  life. 

Loveliness  and  dignity  are  too  precious,  not 
to  excite  a  desire  of  imitation  in  vain  and 
foolish  hearts.  But  there  is  but  one  way  to 


478 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


accomplish  such  an  imitation  :  it  is  to  imitate  the 
sentiments  which  those  virtues  embody.  Any 
other  imitation  is  a  mere  aping,  which  will  soon 
betray  itself  by  the  extravagance  of  its  forms. 

As  the  affectation  of  the  sublime  becomes  pom¬ 
posity.  and  the  affectation  of  nobleness  mere  os¬ 
tentation,  so  the  affectation  of  loveliness  becomes 
pedantic  precision,  mere  formulism ,  and  the  af¬ 
fectation  of  dignity  a  rigid  and  solemn  gravity. 

Genuine  loveliness  is  simply  yielding  and  ac¬ 
commodating  ;  spurious  loveliness  is  dissipated. 
Genuine  loveliness  makes  a  temperate  use  of 
the  instruments  of  voluntary  motion,  and  is  anx¬ 
ious  to  avoid  all  unnecessary  restraints  of  the 
freedom  of  the  natural  impulses  ;  spurious  love¬ 
liness  has  not  the  heart  to  make  a  proper  use 
of  the  instruments  of  the  will;  in  order  to  avoid 
the  appearance  of  harshness  and  awkwardness,  it 
sacrifices  at  least  a  portion  of  the  object  of 
motion,  or  seeks  to  reach  it  in  a  roundabout  way. 
Whereas  the  awkward  dancer,  in  dancing  a  min¬ 
uet,  will  display  an  amount  of  force  as  though  he 
had  to  set  a  mill-wheel  in  motion,  and  makes  such 
sharp  corners  with  his  hands  and  feet  as  though 
they  had  to  be  measured  with  geometrical  exact¬ 
ness  ;  the  affected  dancer,  on  the  contrary,  will 
execute  his  steps  with  a  lightness  as  though  he 
were  afraid  of  touching  the  floor,  and  will  content 
himself  with  describing  serpentine  lines  with  his 
hands  and  feet,  though  he  should  not  budge  from  the 
spot  The  fair  sex,  which  is  more  especially  pos¬ 
sessed  of  genuine  loveliness,  most  frequently  affects 
the  spurious  article,  which  is  nowhere  more  offensive 
than  where  it  serves  as  a  bait  to  the  sensual  desire. 
In  such  a  case  the  smile  of  true  gracefulness  is 
converted  into  a  repulsive  grimace  ;  the  beautiful 
play  of  the  eyes,  which  charms  us  when  true  emotion 
radiates  from  them,  becomes  distortion;  the  melt- 
ingly  modulated  voice,  so  irresistible  in  a  true  mouth, 
is  changed  to  a  studied  and  tremulous  sound,  and 
the  whole  harmony  of  female  charms  is  supplanted 
by  the  deceptive  trickery  of  a  spurious  toilet. 

If  theatres  and  ball-rooms  afford  us  an  opportu¬ 
nity  of  observing  an  affected  loveliness,  an  affected 
dignity  may  be  observed  in  the  cabinets  of  minis¬ 
ters  and  in  the  studios  of  savants,  especially  in  uni¬ 
versities.  Whereas  true  dignity  contents  itself 
with  preventing  the  excess  of  passion,  and  with 
wisely  restraining  the  involuntary  motions  of  the 
instinct,  spurious  dignity  rules  even  the  voluntary 
motions  with  an  iron  rod,  suppresses  not  only  the 
sensual  manifestations  but  the  moral  emotions  which 
are  sacred  to  true  dignity,  and  extinguishes  the  ex¬ 
pression  of  the  soul  in  the  countenance.  Spurious 
dignity  is  not  only  severe  toward  resisting,  but  harsh 
toward  yielding  nature  ;  it  seeks  a  ridiculous  great¬ 
ness  in  subjugating  nature  ;  and,  where  subjugation 
is  impossible,  in  hiding  it.  As  though  it  had 
vowed  an  irreconcilable  hatred  to  every  thing 
natural,  it  envelops  the  body  in  the  folds  of  long 
gowns  which  hide  the  human  form,  it  restrains 
the  use  of  the  limbs  by  loading  them  with  a  mass 
of  useless  ornaments,  and  cuts  off  even  the  hair 
in  order  to  replace  the  gift  of  nature  by  the 
work  of  spurious  art.  Whereas  true  dignity, 
which  is  never  ashamed  of  nature,  except  when 
rude  and  vulgar,  preserves  even  when  reserved,  an 
appearance  of  frankness  and  liberality  ;  sentiment 


still  radiates  from  the  eye3,  and  a  serene  and  calm 
spirit  is  reflected  from  the  brow  :  gravity  draws 
the  forehead  into  wrinkles,  becomes  taciturn  and 
mysterious,  and  guards  its  features  as  carefully  as 
a  comedian  upon  the  stage.  All  the  muscles  of 
the  face  are  strained,  all  natural  expression  is 
banished,  and  the  whole  man  looks  like  a  sealed 
letter.  But  spurious  dignity  is  not  always  wrong 
in  checking  the  expression  of  the  features,  lest 
it  might  reveal  more  than  it  is  desirable  to  di¬ 
vulge  ;  true  dignity  is  not  obliged  to  observe  such 
precautions.  True  dignity  only  governs,  but  never 
hides  nature  ;  in  the  case  of  spurious  dignity,  the 
internal  play  of  nature  is  the  more  violent,  the 
more  subdued  it  seems  externally .* 


ON  THE  PATHETIC. t 

An  exhibition  of  suffering,  as  such,  is  not  the 
object  of  art,  but  as  a  means,  it  is  exceedingly 
important  to  art.  The  highest  object  of  art  is 
the  exhibition  of  the  super-sensual,  which  is  ef¬ 
fected  by  the  tragic  art  in  particular,  by  exhibiting 
to  us  the  fact  that  the  will,  in  a  state  of  passion, 
is  independent  of  natural  laws.  The  freedom 
of  the  will  in  us  is  manifested  by  the  resistance 
which  it  offers  to  the  violent  demands  of  the  sen¬ 
sations  ;  the  resistance,  however,  can  only  be 
measured  by  the  violence  of  the  attack.  If  man’s 
intelligence  is  to  manifest  itself  as  a  power  inde¬ 
pendent  of  nature,  the  latter  must  first  have  dis¬ 
played  its  whole  power  before  our  eyes.  The  sen¬ 
sual  being  must  suffer  deeply  and  violently  ;  there 
must  be  pathos  to  enable  the  reason  to  show  its  inde¬ 
pendence,  and  to  manifest  itself  as  an  active  agent. 

*  There  is  a  solemnity  of  a  genuine  kind,  of  which  art 
may  avail  itself.  This  does  not  arise  from  a  desire  to 
appear  important,  but  it  wishes  to  prepare  the  mind  for 
something  important.  Where  a  great  and  deep  impression 
is  to  be  created,  and  the  poet  is  anxious  that  no  part  of 
it  should  be  lost,  he  first  prepares  the  mind  for  its  recep¬ 
tion,  removes  all  disturbing  influences,  and  excites  the 
expectation  of  the  imagination.  This  result  is  accom¬ 
plished  by  a  solemn  presentation  of  the  facts,  by  accumu¬ 
lating  contrivances  the  object  of  which  is  not  perceived, 
and  by  intentionally  retarding  the  progress  of  the  narra¬ 
tive,  where  the  impatience  of  the  reader  demands  haste. 
In  music  a  solemn  impression  is  produced  by  a  slow  and 
uniform  succession  of  strong  sounds  ;  the  force  of  the 
sounds  rouses  the  mind,  and  excites  its  attention  ;  the  slow 
character  of  the  music  delays  the  gratification  of  the 
senses,  and  the  uniformity  of  the  measure  conceals  the 
end  from  the  impatient  listener. 

The  impression  made  by  greatness  and  sublimity  is  not 
a  little  sustained  by  solemnity  which  is  employed  with 
great  effect  in  religious  rites  and  mysterious  celebrations. 
The  effects  of  bells,  of  choral  music,  of  the  organ  are 
well  known  ;  for  the  eye,  too,  there  is  a  solemnity  ;  it  is 
magnificence  allied  to  terror ,  such  as  is  witnessed  in 
funeral  corteges,  and  in  public  displays  characterized  by 
a  great  silence  and  a  slow  measure. 

f  Note  of  the  Editor.  In  the  third  number  of  the  new 
Thalia,  1793,  Schiller  had  inserted  a  treatise  on  the  Sub¬ 
lime  which,  by  its  title,  was  to  be  a  development  of  some 
of  Kant's  ideas.  A  few  years  later,  Schiller  wrote  on 
this  same  subject  the  essay  which  has  been  published  in 
the  second  volume  of  this  edition.  When  a  complete  col¬ 
lection  of  his  prose  writings  was  arranged,  Schiller 
gave  the  preference  to  this  later  essay.  Of  the  former 
essay  only  a  portion,  entitled,  “  On  the  Pathetic ,”  has 
been  received  into  the  present  collection. 


^ESTHETICAL. 


479 


It  cannot  be  known  whether  the  repose  of  the 
moral  sphere  in  man  is  an  effect  of  his  moral  force, 
until  we  have  first  become  convinced  that  this 
repose  does  not  result  from  insensibility.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  control  emotions  which  only  touch 
the  surface  of  the  soul  gently  and  swiftly  like 
the  breeze  ;  but  to  preserve  .one’s  moral  inde¬ 
pendence  in  a  tumult  which  excites  one’s  whole 
sensual  nature,  this  presupposes  a  power  of  resist¬ 
ance  which  is  infinitely  superior  to  the  natural 
passion.  The  exhibition  of  moral  freedom  is 
therefore  rendered  possible  only  by  the  most  in¬ 
tense  exhibition  of  suffering  nature,  and  the  tragic 
hero  must  first  have  shown  his  faculty  of  ex¬ 
periencing  emotions,  before  we  do  homage  to 
him  as  a  rational  being,  and  have  faith  in  the 
strength  of  his  soul. 

Pathos  is  the  first  and  unavoidable  demand 
which  we  make  of  the  tragic  artist;  he  may  carry 
the  exhibition  of  suffering  as  far  as  the  attain¬ 
ment  of  liis  ultimate  object,  the  exhibition  of  moral 
freedom,  will  permit.  He  has  to  burden,  so  to 
say,  his  hero,  or  his  reader,  with  a  full  load  of  suf¬ 
fering,  since  otherwise  it  would  remain  problem¬ 
atical  whether  his  resistance  to  suffering  is  a  moral 
act,  something  positive,  or  rather  something  neg¬ 
ative,  a  deficiency  of  power. 

The  latter  occurs  in  the  former  French  drama, 
where  we  scarcely  ever  or  never  behold  nature  in 
a  state  of  suffering ,  but  where  we  generally  wit¬ 
ness  the  cold,  declamatory  poet,  or  the  comedian 
upon  stilts.  The  chilling  tone  of  declamation 
stifles  nature,  and  the  spurious  propriety  of  which 
the  French  tragedians  boast,  completes  their  ina¬ 
bility  to  present  a  truthful  delineation  of  human 
nature.  Propriety,  even  where  properly  applied, 
falsifies  the  expression  of  nature,  which  is-  never¬ 
theless  required  of  art  under  all  circumstances. 
We  can  hardly  believe  that  the  French  tragedian 
is  suffering,  for  he  discusses  his  moral  condition 
as  calmly  as  the  calmest  mind,  and  his  unceasing 
desire  to  make  an  impression  upon  others,  never 
permits  him  to  allow  the  free  expansion  of  nature 
in  his  own  mind.  Even  in  the  agony  of  pain,  the 
kings,  princesses  and  heroes  of  Corneille  or  Vol¬ 
taire  never  forget  their  rank,  and  would  rather 
divest  themselves  of  their  humanity  than  of  their 
rank.  They  are  like  the  kings  and  emperors  in 
old  picture-books,  who  go  to  bed  with  their  crowns 
on  their  heads. 

H  ow  different  are  the  Greeks  and  their  modern 
followers.  The  Greek  is  never  ashamed  of  nature ; 
he  concedes  their  full  rights  to  the  senses,  yet  he  is 
sure  that  they  will  never  overpower  him.  His  deep 
and  correct  understanding  enables  him  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  the  accidental,  which  bad  taste  regards 
as  the  main  object,  from  the  necessary  ;  whatever 
is  not  inherent  in  humanity,  is  necessarily  an  acci¬ 
dental  accrescence.  The  Greek  artist  who  has  to 
represent  a  Laocoon,  a  Niobe,  a  Philoctetes, 
knows  nothing  of  a  princess,  of  a  king  or  a  king’s 
son  ;  he  clings  to  man.  Hence  it  is  that  the 
sculptor  shows  us  his  figures  in  a  state  of  nudity, 
although  he  knows  that  this  is  not  the  condition 
in  which  man  exists  in  society.  Raiment  is  some¬ 
thing  accidental  which  should  not  have  the  pre- ! 
cedence  over  the  necessary  ;  the  laws  of  propriety 
or  want  are  not  those  of  art.  The  sculptor  is 


bound  and  anxious  to  show  us  man,  who  is  hidden 
by  garments ;  hence  the  sculptor  is  right  in  dis¬ 
carding  them. 

As  the  Grecian  sculptor  discards  the  useless 
and  troublesome  burden  of  garments  in  order  to 
afford  room  for  human  nature,  so  the  Greek  poet 
frees  his  men  from  the  useless  and  troublesome 
constraint  of  conventional  rules,  and  from  all 
chilling  laws  of  propriety  which  only  serve  to 
impose  upon  man  an  air  of  affectation,  and  to  con¬ 
ceal  his  nature.  In  Homer’s  poems,  and  in  the 
dramatic  works  of  the  Greeks,  suffering  nature 
speaks  the  language  of  truth,  of  sincerity,  and 
penetrates  to  the  very  depths  of  our  hearts  ;  all 
the  passions  have  free  play,  no  emotion  is  sup¬ 
pressed  by  the  rule  of  propriety.  Heroes  arc  as 
susceptible  to  the  common  sufferings  of  mortals 
as  other  people;  what  makes  them  heroes  is  the 
very  fact  that  they  feel  their  sufferings  intensely 
without  being  overpowered  by  them.  They  love 
life  as  much  as  other  men  do,  but  not  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  be  prevented  from  sacrificing  it,  if 
such  a  sacrifice  is  demanded  by  duty  and  hu¬ 
manity.  Philoctetes  fills  the  Greek  stage  with 
his  lamentations;  even  the  raging  Hercules  gives 
free  utterance  to  his  pain.  Iphigenia,  destined  as 
an  offering  to  the  gods,  confesses  with  touching 
simplicity  that  she.  parts  with  the  light  of  the  sun 
with  regret.  The  Greek  never  seeks  his  glory  in 
insensibility  and  indifference  to  suffering,  but  in 
bearing  it  in  spite  of  his  susceptibility  to  such  a 
state.  Even  the  Grecian  gods  are  obliged  to  ren¬ 
der  homage  to  nature  as  soon  as  the  poet  attempts 
to  bring  them  nearer  to  humanity.  The  wounded 
Mars  howls  with  pain  like  ten  thousand,  and 
Venus,  having  been  pricked  with  a  lance,  ascends 
to  Olympus  in  tears,  deprecating  all  combats. 

This  tender  susceptibility  to  suffering  ;  this 
warm,  honest,  and  open  nature,  which  excites  our 
deep  and  living  sympathy  in  the  Greek  works  of 
art,  is  a  model  of  imitation  for  all  artists,  and  a 
law  which  the  Genius  of  Grecian  art  has  enacted. 
The  first  demand  which  is  addressed  to  man,  ema¬ 
nates  from  nature,  which  should  never  be  repelled  ; 
for  man,  before  being  any  thing  else,  is  a  sentient 
being.  The  second  demand  is  addressed  to  him 
by  reason,  for  he  is  a  rationally-sentierit  being,  a 
moral  personality,  whose  duty  it  is  to  control  na¬ 
ture  instead  of  allowing  nature  to  exercise  an  un¬ 
limited  sway.  Not  till  nature  has  obtained  her 
rights,  and  reason  has  maintained  hers,  propriety 
is  permitted  to  enforce  a  third  demand,  and  to 
impose  upon  man  in  the  expression  of  his  sensa¬ 
tions  as  well  as  his  thoughts,  a  regard  for  society, 
to  bid  him  behave  like  a  civilized  being. 

The  first  law  of  tragic  art  is  the  exhibition 
of  suffering  nature.  The  second  law,  the  exhibi¬ 
tion  of  moral  resistance  to  suffering. 

A  passional  state  as  such  is  indifferent,  the  exhi¬ 
bition  of  which,  in  itself  considered,  would  be 
without  any  aesthetic  value  ;  for,  we  repeat,  no¬ 
thing  that  simply  concerns  man’s  sensual  nature, 
is  worthy  of  artistic  representation.  For  this  rea¬ 
son  not  only  the  relaxing  (or  dissolving)  emotions, 
but  all  the  highest  degrees  of  manifestations  of 
any  passion  are  beneath  the  dignity  of  tragic  art. 

The  dissolving  passions,  the  simply  tender  emo¬ 
tions  belong  to  the  domain  of  the  agreeable,  with 


480 


MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 


which  tragic  art  has  nothing  to  do.  They  simply 
delight  the  senses  by  a  process  of  relaxation, 
referring  to  the  outer,  not  to  the  inner  condition 
of  man.  Many  of  our  novels  and  tragedies,  es¬ 
pecially  of  our  so-called  dramas,  (intermediate 
productions  between  comedies  and  tragedies,)  and 
of  our  favorite  family-pieces,  belong  to  this  class 
of  performances.  They  simply  effect  a  discharge 
of  tears,  and  a  pleasurable  ease  in  the  circulatory 
apparatus  ;  but  the  mind  remains  empty,  and  the 
nobler  energies  of  man  derive  no  support  from 
such  exhibitions.  In  the  same  way,  according  to 
Kant,  many  persons  feel  edified  by  a  sermon 
which  does  not  build  up  any  thing  in  them. 
Modern  music,  likewise,  seems  to  aim  chiefly  at 
affecting  the  senses,  pandering  to  the  ruling  taste 
which  wants  to  be  tickled,  not  powerfully  stirred, 
moved  and  elevated.  Languishing  or  subduing 
productions  are  preferred  ;  if  the  music  in  a  con¬ 
cert-room  is  ever  so  noisy,  every  ear  is  pricked  as 
soon  as  a  softly-subduing  passage  occurs.  At 
such  a  time  an  expression  of  sensuality  partaking 
of  the  character  of  animality,  becomes  manifest 
in  every  countenance,  the  intoxicated  eyes  are 
moistened  with  tears,  the  open  mouth  seems  lan¬ 
guishing  with  desire,  a  voluptuous  tremor  seizes  on 
the  whole  body,  the  respiration  becomes  hurried  and 
feeble,  in  short  all  the  symptoms  of  intoxication 
become  manifest  ;  an  evideut  proof  that  the 
senses  are  reveling,  and  that  the  mind  or  the  free 
will  in  man  is  sacrificed  to  the  sensual  impression. 
All  such  emotions  are  excluded  from  the  do¬ 
main  of  art  by  a  noble  and  manly  taste,  since  they 
merely  please  the  senses  with  which  true  art  has 
nothing  in  common. 

On  the  other  hand  all  those  passional  states  are 
excluded  from  the  domain  of  true  art  which  sim¬ 
ply  torture  the  mind  without  affording  any  com¬ 
pensation  to  the  senses.  These  states  suppress 
the  moral  freedom  as  much  by  pain  as  the  former 
did  by  the  delights  of  sensuality,  and  can  only  ex¬ 
cite  detestation,  but  no  emotions  worthy  of  art. 
Art  should  delight  the  mind  and  please  the  moral 
will.  He  who  becomes  a  prey  to  pain,  is  nothing 
but  a  tortured  animal,  he  ceases  to  be  a  suffering 
man  ;  for  we  expect  man  to  offer  a  moral  resist¬ 
ance  to  suffering,  by  which  the  freedom  of  the 
will,  the  power  of  intelligence  can  alone  be  made 
manifest. 

For  this  reason  artists  and  poets  who  expect  to 
realize  pathos  by  the  sensual  power  of  passion 
and  .an  intense  description  of  suffering,  have  a 
poor  conception  of  their  art.  They  forget  that 
suffering  should  never  be  the  ultimate  object  of  | 
the  exhibition,  nor  can  it  be  the  immediate  source  ! 
of  the  delight  which  tragic  representations  afford 
us.  The  pathetic  is  aesthetic  only  in  so  far  as  it  is 
elevated.  Effects  which  can  only  be  traced  to  a 
sensual  source,  and  are  only  founded  in  some  sen¬ 
sation,  never  are  elevated,  should  they  betray  ever 
so  great  an  amount  of  force  :  for  all  mental  eleva¬ 
tion  emanates  solely  from  the  reason. 

A  n  exhibition  of  simple  passion,  be  it  delight¬ 
ful  or  painful,  without  a  simultaneous  exhibition 
of  the  super-sensual  resistance,  is  designated  as 
vulgar ,  the  opposite  as  noble.  Vulgar  and  noble 
are  conceptions  which,  in  all  cases,  have  reference 
to  the  part  which  man’s  super-sensual  nature 


either  takes  or  does  not  take  in  an  act  or  work. 
Nothing  is  noble  but  that  which  emanates  from 
the  reason  ;  whatever  the  senses  alone  give  birth 
to,  is  vulgar.  We  say  that  a  man  acts  vulgarly  if 
he  simply  follows  the  inspiration  of  his  sensual 
instinct  ;  that  he  acts  properly,  if  he  gratifies  his 
instinct  with  a  due  regard  for  the  law  ;  that  he 
acts  nobly,  if  he  follows  the  precepts  of  reason 
without  regarding  his  instincts.  We  call  a  face 
vulgar,  if  it  does  not  reflect  by  a  single  trait  the 
human  intelligence  ;  we  call  it  expressive,  if  the 
features  are  fashioned  by  mind,  and  noble,  if  they 
are  fashioned  by  a  pure  mind.  We  call  an  archi¬ 
tectonic  work  common,  if  it  reveals  no  other  than 
a  physical  end  ;  we  call  it  noble,  if,  independent 
of  physical  ends,  it  likewise  expresses  ideas. 

We  assert,  therefore,  that  good  taste  forbids 
the  exhibition  of  a  passional  state,  were  it  other¬ 
wise  ever  so  vigorous,  which  expresses  no  other 
than  physical  suffering  or  physical  resistance, 
without  at  the  same  time  manifesting  the  higher 
humanity,  the  presence  of  a  super-sensual  power; 
such  an  exhibition  is  forbidden  for  the  simple  rea¬ 
son  that  not  suffering,  of  itself,  but  the  resistance 
to  suffering  belongs  to  the  domain  of  pathos,  and 
is  worthy  of  being  represented  by  art.  Hence 
the  absolutely  highest  degrees  of  passion  are  ex¬ 
cluded  from  the  domain  of  art  as  well  as  of  poesy; 
for  all  such  manifestations  suppress  the  internally- 
resisting  force,  or  rather,  presuppose  the  sup¬ 
pression  of  this  force,  for  no  passion  can  attain  its 
absolutely  highest  degree  of  development  as  long 
as  man’s  intelligence  continues  to  offer  some  re¬ 
sistance. 

The  question  now  arises — In  what  manner  does 
this  super-sensual  force  of  resistance  in  cases  of 
passional  excitement  manifest  itself  ?  Simply  by 
controlling,  or  more  generally,  by  combating  the 
passion.  I  use  the  term  passion,  for  the  senses, 
too,  may  combat;  but  this  is  no  combat  with  the 
passion,  but  with  the  cause  which  excites  it ;  no 
moral,  but  a  physical  resistance  which  is  mani¬ 
fested  even  by  the  worm  when  trod  upon,  or  by 
the  bull  when  it  is  wounded  :  yet  such  a  resistance 
does  not  excite  any  pathetic  emotions.  Man,  in 
common  with  every  animal,  seeks  to  express  his 
sufferings,  to  remove  his  enemy,  to  save  a  suffering 
limb  ;  the  instinct  performs  such  acts  without 
first  interrogating  the  will.  They  do  not  manifest 
his  humanity,  his  intelligence.  The  senses  will 
always  combat  their  enemy,  but  never  themselves. 

The  combat  against  passion  is  a  combat  against 
the  senses,  and  presupposes  a  something  distinct 
from  the  senses.  By  means  of  his  intelligence 
and  muscular  power  man  can  defend  himself 
against  the  object  that  ijiflicts  suffering  upon  him  ; 
against  the  suffering  itself  he  has  no  other  arms 
than  the  powrer  of  reason. 

Rational  ideas  must  therefore  either,  be  ex¬ 
pressed  in  the  wrork  of  art,  or  else  they  must  be 
awakened  by  it,  if  pathos  is  to  be  the  result. 
Ideas  cannot,  properly  speaking  and  in  a  positive 
sense,  be  represented  to  the  senses,  because  they 
cannot  be  rendered  visible  by  any  corresponding 
forms.  But  they  can  indeed  be  represented  nega¬ 
tively  and  indirectly,  if  something  is  presented  to 
the  senses  the  conditions  of  which  are  in  vain 
sought  for  in  nature.  Every  phenomenon  the 


J5STHETICAL. 


481 


origin  of  which  cannot  be  traced  to  the  world  of 
sense,  is  an  indirect  representation  of  the  super- 
sensual. 

How  does  art  accomplish  the  representation  of 
someting  supernatural  without  employing  super¬ 
natural  means  ?  What  sort  of  a  phenomenon  is  it 
which  is  achieved  by  natural  agencies  (for  without 
these  it  would  not  be  a  phenomenon),  and  yet 
which  cannot  be  traced  to  physical  causes  without 
incurring  contradictions  ?  This  is  the  problem  : 
how  is  it  solved  by  the  artist  ? 

We  must  recollect  that  the  phenomena  which 
may  be  observed  in  man  while  in  a  state  of  pas¬ 
sional  excitement,  are  of  two  kinds.  Either  they 
r.re  proper  to  him  as  an  animal,  and  obey  the 
natural  law  without  the  will  being  able  to  control 
them,  or,  in  general,  without  the  moral  force  being 
able  to  exercise  anv  influence  over  them.  The  in- 
stinct  gives  rise  to  such  phenomena  by  its  imme¬ 
diate  action,  and  they  obey  blindly  its  laws.  To 
this  category  belong  the  organs  of  the  circulation, 
of  respiration,  and  the  surface  of  the  skin ;  but 
even  the  organs  which  are  subject  to  the  will,  do 
not  always  wait  for  a  decision  of  the  will,  but  they 
are  frequently  set  in  motion  by  the  immediate  influ¬ 
ence  of  the  instinct,  especially  in  cases  where  the 
physical  condition  is  threatened  with  pain  or  dan¬ 
ger.  Our  arm,  it  is  true,  is  under  the  control  of 
the  will,  but  if  we  seize  something  hot  unawares, 
the  sudden  withdrawal  of  the  hand  is  not  an  act 
of  the  will,  but  prompted  by  instinct.  We  may 
go  still  further.  Speech  certainly  is  under  the 
control  of  the  will,  but  even  this  instrument  and 
work  of  the  understanding  may  be  disposed  of  by 
the  instinct  without  first  appealing  to  the  will, 
whenever  a  violent  pain  or  even  a  powerful  emo¬ 
tion  surprises  us.  Let  the  most  resolute  Stoic  see 
all  at  once  something  exceedingly  marvelous  or 
frightful ;  let  him  all  at  once  see  somebody  glide 
down  a  precipice,  a  loud  exclamation  will  escape 
his  lips  ;  nor  will  the  exclamation  be  an  inarticu¬ 
late  sound,  but  some  intelligible  word,  and  nature 
will  act  in  him  before  the  will  is  prepared  for 
action.  This  shows  that  phenomena  may  occur 
in  man’s  individuality  which  cannot  be  attributed 
to  him  as  an  intelligent  personality,  but  have  to  be 
ascribed  to  his  instinct  as  a  force  of  nature. 

But  there  occur  phenomena  in  man  which  are 
or  may  be  regarded  as  being  under  the  influence 
and  control  of  the  will,  and  which  the  will  might 
have  'prevented.  For  these  phenomena  the  per¬ 
sonal  will,  not  the  instinct ,  should  beheld  accoun¬ 
table.  It  is  the  business  of  the  instinct  to  take 
care  of  the  interest  of  the  senses  with  a  blind 
zeal ;  but  it  is  the  duty  of  the  will  to  restrain  the 
instinct  by  lawrs.  Of  itself  the  instinct  does  not 
no  ;d  any  laws ;  but  the  personal  will  has  to  pre¬ 
vent  the  instinct  from  violating  the  precepts  of 
xeason.  It  is  therefore  certain  that  in  passional 
states,  the  instinct  should  not  exercise  an  absolute 
sway,  but  that  it  should  be  limited  by  man’s  will. 
If  the  instinct  alone  determines  the  phenomenal 
manifestations  of  passion,  nothing  remains  to 
remind  us  of  the  personal  will ,  and  man  is 
reduced  to  the  level  of  a  brute  ;  for  this  appel- 
ation  belongs  to  every  being  of  nature  that  is 
ruled  by  instinct.  If  the  human  personality  is  to 
be  made  manifest,  man  has  to  develop  phenomena 
You.  II. — 31 


which  are  either  contrary  to  the  instinct,  or  are 
not,  at  any  rate,  determined  by  the  instinct.  The 
fact  of  their  not  having  arisen  from  the  move¬ 
ments  of  the  instinct,  is  sufficient  to  reveal  to  us 
the  existence  of  a  higher  source,  as  soon  as  we 
become  satisfied  that  the  instinct  would  have  de¬ 
termined  the  phenomena  in  a  different  way,  if  its 
power  had  not  been  restrained. 

Now  we  are  able  to  state  the  manner  in  which  the 
super-sensual  moral  power  of  man,  his  moral  self¬ 
hood  can  be  made  manifest  in  states  of  passional 
excitement.  It  is  by  this,  that  all  the  organs 
which  are  subject  to  the  exclusive  control  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  over  which  the.  will  has  no  power,  or  ex¬ 
ercises  power  only  under  certain  circumstances, 
betray  the  presence  of  suffering,  whereas  the  or¬ 
gans  which  are  withdrawn  from  the  blind  power, 
of  the  instinct,  and  do  not  necessarily  recognize 
the  natural  law,  either  show  little  or  no  suffering, 
and  appear  to  a  certain  extent  in  a  state  of  free¬ 
dom.  By  the  disharmony  between  the  traits  en¬ 
graved  upon  animal  nature  in  accordance  with  a 
law  of  necessity,  and  the  traits  determined  by  the 
independent  action  of  the  mind,  we  recognize 
the  presence  of  a  super -sensual  principle  in  man, 
which  has  power  to  limit  the  movements  of  nature, 
and  by  this  power  is  distinguished  from  the  purely 
animal  nature.  This  purely  animal  nature  obeys 
the  natural  law,  and  may  appear  subdued  by  the 
violence  of  an  emotion.  It  is  here  that  the  whole 
intensity  of  suffering  becomes  manifest,  which 
serves  as  a  standard  by  which  the  force  of  re¬ 
sistance  should  be  measured  ;  for  the  force  of  re¬ 
sistance,  or  the  amount  of  moral  force  in  man  can 
only  be  determined  by  the  force  of  the  attack. 
The  more  decisively  and  violently  the  animal 
passion  breaks  forth,  without  being  able  to  main¬ 
tain  a  corresponding  power  in  the  sphere  of  hu¬ 
manity,  the  more  prominent  the  humanity  will 
become,  the  more  gloriously  man’s  moral  indepen¬ 
dence  will  become  manifest,  the  more  pathetic  the 
work  of  art,  and  the  more  sublime  the  pathos  will 
appear.* 

In  the  statues  of  the  ancients  this  aesthetic 
principle  is  exhibited  to  the  sense  of  vision  ;  but 
it  is  difficult  to  convey  in  definite  and  precise  lan¬ 
guage  the  impression  made  upon  our  minds  by 
the  sight  of  the  living  features.  The  group  of 

#  By  the  sphere  of  animality  I  comprehend  the  whole 
system  of  phenomena  in  man  which  are  under  the  blind 
power  of  the  natural  instinct,  and  may  be  accounted  for 
with  perfect  satisfaction  without  presupposing  a  free 
will,'  by  the  sphere  of  humanity  I  comprehend  the  phe¬ 
nomena  which  are  subject  to  the  free  will.  If,  in  an  ar¬ 
tistic  representation,  the  passional  emotion  in  the  sphere 
of  animality  is  wanting,  the  representation  leases  us  cold  ; 
if  the  passional  emotion  becomes  overpowering  in  the 
sphere  of  humanity,  it  disgusts  and  revolts  us.  In  the 
sphere  of  animality,  the  passional  emotion  should  remain; 
integral,  otherwise  the  pathetic  character  will  be  want¬ 
ing  ;  it  is  only  when  reaching  the  sphere  of  humanity 
that  this  emotion  maybe  resolved  into  a  series  of  phe¬ 
nomena.  A  suffering  person,  represented  as  lamenting 
and  weeping,  will  only  excite  feeble  emotions,  for  lamen¬ 
tations  and  tears  resolve  pain  already  in  the  sphere  of 
animality.  We  are  much  more  powerfully  seized  by  the 
subdued  and  mute  pain,  where  nature  refuses  help,  ana 
where  we  have  to  seek  refuge  in  something  far  beyond 
ordinary  nature;  it  is  in  this  appeal  to  the  super-sensual 
that  pathos  and  the  tragic  power  are  founded. 


482 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Laocoon  and  his  children  may  be  regarded  as 
the  measure  of  what  the  ancient  sculptors  were 
capable  of  achieving  in  the  pathetic  range.  “Lao¬ 
coon,”  writes  Winckelmann  in  his  History  of  Art 
(page  699,  Vienna,  4to  edition),  “is  a  nature  in 
prey  to  the  most  intense  pain,  fashioned  in  the 
image  of  a  man,  who  seeks  tp  oppose  this  pain 
with  all  the  moral  energy  of  which  he  feels  him¬ 
self  possessed;  whilst  the  pain  gorges  the  muscles 
with  blood  and  causes  every  nerve  to  be  strained 
to  the  utmost,  the  strong  mind  is  seen  in  the 
swelling  brow,  and  the  chest  heaves  with  the  op¬ 
pressed  respiration  ;  and  with  the  subdued  sensa¬ 
tion  of  torture,  in  order  to  restrain  and  conceal 
the  pain.  The  anxious  moans  which  he  seeks  to 
suppress,  and  the  breath  which  he  endeavors  to 
retain,  exhaust  the  abdomen,  and  depress  his 
sides,  suggesting  thoughts  concerning  the  motion 
of  his  intestines.  But  his  own  suffering  seems  to 
cause  him  less  anguish  than  the  pain  inflicted 
upon  his  children,  who  turn  their  faces  to  their 
father,  crying  for  help  ;  for  the  paternal  heart  is 
revealed  by  the  woeful  expression  of  the  eyes, 
where  pity  seems  to  be  floating  in  a  dim  mist. 
His  features  express  grief,  but  not  a  boisterous 
shriek  of  complaint,  his  eyes  are  looking  upward 
for  help.  The  mouth  seems  filled  with  sorrow, 
the  weight  of  which  depresses  the  lower  lip  ;  but 
in  the  everted  upper  lip  the  sorrow  is  mingled 
with  pain,  which  dilates  and  draws  up  the  nostrils, 
as  if  from  a  feeling  of  indignation  at  the  unme¬ 
rited  torture  which  is  inflicted  upon  him.  Under 
the  brow  the  combat  between  pain  and  resistance, 
concentrated  in  one  point,  as  it  were,  is  expressed 
with  striking  truthfulness ;  for  whilst  the  pain  is 
pressing  the  eyebrows  upward,  the  resistance  to 
the  pain  depresses,  the  muscular  tissue  above  the 
eye,  in  the  direction  of  the  upper  eyelid,  so  that 
this  lid  is  almost  completely  covered  by  the  over¬ 
hanging  bundles  of  muscular  fibre.  Not  being 
able  to  beautify  nature,  the  artist  has  sought  to 
exhibit  her  with  more  expression,  more  force  and 
power ;  where  the  most  intense  pain  is  felt,  the 
greatest  beauty  is  made  manifest.  The  left  side, 
into  which  the  furious  serpent  discharges  its  poi¬ 
son  after  the  bite,  seems  to  suffer  most  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  the  proximity  of  the  pain  to  the 
region  of  the  heart.  He  seems- to  raise  his  lower 
extremities,  as  if  attempting  to  escape  from  his 
pain  ;  no  part  is  at  rest ;  even  the  marks  of  the 
vchisel  serve  to  make  the  skin  appear  still  more 
rigidly  congealed.” 

With  how  much  truth  and  delicacy  the  struggle 
-of  intelligence  against  the  suffering  of  sensual  na¬ 
ture  is  shown  in  this  description  !  how  strikingly 
the  phenomena  are  indicated  by  which  animal 
pain  and  human  power,  the  violence  of  the  natural 
law  and  the  dignity  of  rational  liberty  manifest 
themselves  !  Virgil  has  depicted  the  same  scene 
.in  his  Eneid  ;  but  it  was  not  a  part  of  the  poet’s 
plan  to  dwell  upon  the  moral  state  of  Laocoon, 
as  the  sculptor  had  to  do.  With  Virgil  the 
whole  narrative  is  something  accessory ;  the  in¬ 
tention  which  he  sought  to  realize  was  sufficiently 
accomplished  by  the  representation  of  the  physi¬ 
cal  condition  without  the  inner  soul  of  the  sufferer 
being  disclosed  to  us,  since  the  poet  desired  to  in¬ 
spire  us  with  terror  rather  than  to  move  us  to 


pity.  In  this  respect  the  poet’s  duty  was  of  a 
negative  order,  namely,  not  to  efface  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  humanity  or  of  moral  resistance  by  an  ex¬ 
cessive  exhibition  of  suffering ;  for  this  would 
have  inevitably  called  up  feelings  of  horror  and 
indignation.  For  this  reason  the  poet  preferred 
dwelling  upon  the  cause  of  the  pain,  and  depict¬ 
ing  more  circumstantially  the  frightful  shape  of 
the  two  serpents,  and  the  fury  with  which  they  as¬ 
sailed  their  victim,  rather  than  to  enlarge  upon 
its  painful  sensations.  He  passed  by  these  in  a 
hurry,  since  he  desired  to  preserve  in  all  its  force 
the  idea  of  divine  punishment  and  the  impression 
of  terror.  If  he  had  communicated  to  us  of  Lao- 
coon’s  person  as  much  as  the  sculptor  has  done, 
the  suffering  man  would  have  become  the  hero  of 
the  scene  in  the  place  of  the  punishing  god,  and 
the  episode  would  no  longer  have  been  adapted 
to  the  whole  work. 

Virgil’s  narrative  is  known  by  Lessing’s  excel¬ 
lent  commentary.  But  Lessing  has  simply  re¬ 
ferred  to  it  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  by  this 
example  the  limits  of  descriptive  poetry  and  paint¬ 
ing,  not  for  the  purpose  of  expounding  the  idea  of 
pathos.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  narrative  is 
equally  adapted  to  this  last  object. 

“  Ecce  autem  gemini  Tenedo  tranquilla  per  alta 
(Horresco  referens)  immensis  orbibus  angues 
Incuinbunt  pelago,  pariterque  ad  littora  tendunt. 
Peetora  quorum  inter  fluetus  arrecta,  jubseque 
Sanguine®  exsuperant  undas,  par3  csetera  pontum 
Pone  legit,  sinuatque  immensa  volumine  terga. 

Fit  sonitus  spumante  sale,  jamque  arva  tenebant, 
Ardentes  oculos  suffecti  sanguine  et  igni, 

Sibila  lambebant  linguis  vibrantibus  ora.” 

The  first  of  the  three  conditions  of  the  sublime, 
which  have  been  indicated  in  previous  paragraphs, 
namely,  power,  is  here  expressed  ;  a  great  natural 
power  bent  on  destruction,  and  laughing  all  re¬ 
sistance  to  scorn.  The  conversion  of  this  power 
into  something  terrible,  and  of  this  terrible  into 
something  sublime,  depends  upon  two  distinct 
operations  of  the  mind,  or  two  kinds  of  perception 
which  we  generate  within  us  by  an  independent 
exercise  of  the  mind.  By  contrasting  this  irre¬ 
sistible  power  of  Nature  with  the  feeble  power  of 
resistance  vouchsafed  to  the  physical  man,  the 
former  appears  terrible;  and  by  contrasting  it 
with  our  will,  and  recollecting  the  absolute  inde¬ 
pendence  of  the  latter,  of  every  influence  as  exer¬ 
cised  by  Nature,  this  power  becomes  invested  with 
sublimity.  These  two  relations  are  set  up  by  our¬ 
selves  ;  all  that  the  poet  gave  us,  was  a  subject 
endowed  with  great  power,  which  the  subject 
sought  to  manifest.  If  we  tremble  at  the  thought 
of  this  power,  it  is  because  we  imagine  ourselves, 
or  some  creature  like  us,  engaged  in  combat  with 
it.  If  we  feel  elevated  in  spite  of  our  trembling, 
it  is  because  we  are  conscious  that,  although  con¬ 
quered  by  this  power,  we  have  nothing  to  fear  for 
our  moral  freedom,  for  the  independence  of  our 
will.  So  far,  the  picture  is  simply  invested  with 
a  contemplative  sublimity. 

“Diffugimus  visu  exsangues,  illi  agmine  certo, 
Laocoonta  petunt.” 

Now,  power  is  allied  to  terror,  and  the  contem¬ 
platively  sublime  passes  into  the  pathetic.  We 


iESTHETICAL. 


483 


*^e  power  and  terror  engage  in  combat  with  human 
weakness.  Laocoon  or  ourselves,  the  difference  is 
one  of  degrees.  The  sympathetic  instinct  scares 
the  instinct  of  preservation  out  of  its  repose,  the 
monsters  dart  at  us,  and  escape  is  impossible. 

Henceforth  it  no  longer  depends  upon  us 
whether  we  care  to  measure  this  power  with  our 
own,  and  to  bring  it  in  conflict  with  our  own  ex¬ 
istence.  This  takes  place  without  any  contrivance 
of  our  own,  through  the  object  itself.  Hence  our 
fear  does  not,  as  in  the  previous  moment,  arise 
from  a  subjective  cause  in  our  own  minds,  but  is 
founded  in  the  object.  For  although  the  whole 
is  a  mere  fiction  of  the  imagination,  yet  we  dis¬ 
tinguish  in  this  fiction  a  conception  which  is  com¬ 
municated  to  us  from  without,  from  another  which 
is  the  product  of  our  own  internal  independent 
mental  activity. 

Hence  the  mind  loses  a  portion  of  its  liberty, 
because  it  receives  from  without  that  which  it  had 
previously  realized  by  its  own  independent  action. 
The  idea  of  danger  is  invested  with  an  appearance 
of  objective  reality,  and  the  emotion  assumes  a 
serious  character. 

If  we  were  mere  beings  of  sense,  obeying  no 
other  instinct  than  that  of  self-preservation,  we 
should  stop  here,  and  remain  in  a  state  of  suffer¬ 
ing.  But  there  is  something  in  us  which  is  not 
affected  by  the  senses,  and  whose  action  is  not 
determined  by  physical  causes.  This  independent 
something  is  the  moral  principle.  In  proportion 
as  this  principle  is  developed  in  us,  the  state  of 
suffering  will  be  more  or  less  modified,  and  will 
manifest  itself  with  more  or  less  intensity. 

In  persons  endowed  with  a  high  order  of  moral 
force,  the  terror  of  the  imagination  readily  passes 
into  the  sublime.  In  proportion  as  the  imagination 
loses  its  freedom,  reason  enforces  its  own  ;  and  the 
moral  sense  expands  within  us ,  in  proportion  as 
its  sphere  outside  of  us  is  limited.  Driven  from 
every  intrenchment  which  might  afford  protection 
to  the  senses,  we  throw  ourselves  into  the  uncon¬ 
querable  citadel  of  our  moral  freedom,  and  by 
abandoning  a  precarious  protection  in  the  world 
of  sense,  we  gain  absolute  and  endless  safety. 
But  before  we  apply  to  our  own  moral  nature  for 
help,  we  have  to  be  reduced  to  extremities  ;  the 
feeling  of  exalted  freedom  can  only  be  purchased 
by  suffering.  A  common  soul  does  not  elevate 
itself  beyond  it,  and  the  sublimity  of  pathos  seems 
simply  terrible;  but  a  soul  endowed  with  moral 
energy  passes  through  a  state  of  suffering  to  the 
consciousness  of  its  sublimest  power,  and  invests 
the  terrors  of  the  imagination  with  a  robe  of 
sublimity. 

“Laocoonta  petunfc,  ac  primum  parva  duorum 
Corpora  gnatorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implicat,  ac  miseros  inorsu  depascitur  artus.” 

The  assault  upon  the  moral  man,  the  father, 
preceding  that  upon  the  physical,  the  effect  is  very 
striking.  All  emotions  assume  a  more  sesthetic 
form,  when  emanating  from  an  indirect  source, 
and  no  sympathy  is  stronger  than  the  sympathy 
excited  by  another  person’s  suffering. 

“Post  ipsum  auxilio  subeuntem  ac  tela  ferentem 
Corripiunt.” 


The  moment  had  now  arrived  where  our  respect 
was  to  be  excited  for  the  hero,  as  a  moral  person¬ 
ality,  and  this  moment  was  adequately  improved 
by  the  poet.  From  his  description  we  have  learned 
the  whole  power  and  fury  of  the  hostile  monsters, 
and  we  know  that  all  resistance  *is  utterly  futile. 
If  I  >aocoon  had  been  an  ordinary  mortal,  he 
would,  like  the  other  Trojans,  have  sought  safety 
in  flight.  But  he  has  a  feeling  heart,  and  his 
children’s  danger  keeps  him  chained  to  the  spot. 
This  single  trait  renders  him  worthy  of  our  whole 
pity.  In  whatever  condition  of  mind  the  serpents 
might  have  seized  him,  we  should  have  been  moved 
and  horrified.  But  being  seized  at  the  very  mo¬ 
ment,  when  he  stands  before  us  in  all  the  glory 
of  a  father’s  love  ;  at  the  very  moment  when  his 
ruin  is  the  inevitable  consequence  of  his  anxiety 
to  fulfill  a  father’s  duty  by  saving  his  children,  our 
sympathy  is  enkindled  to  the  utmost  degree.  By 
his  own  free  choice  lie  plunges  into  his  own  de¬ 
struction,  and  his  death  becomes  an  act  of  his  will. 


In  the  exhibition  of  pathos,  the  senses  must 
show  suffering,  and  the  mind  must  show  its  free¬ 
dom.  In  pathetic  representations,  if  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  physical  suffering  is  wanting,  there  is  a 
deficiency  of  aesthetic  force,  and  our  hearts  remain 
cold.  If  the  moral  expression  is  wanting,  the 
representation  can  never  become  pathetic ,  were 
the  physical  suffering  otherwise  ever  so  intense. 
The  moral  sense  will  revolt  against  such  brutish 
scenes.  While  exercising  his  moral  freedom,  we 
should  behold  man  suffering  physical  pain  ;  and 
while  he  is  suffering  physical  pain,  he  should  mani¬ 
fest  the  moral  independence  of  his  mind. 

In  states  of  suffering,  the  independence  of  the 
mind  may  be  manifested  in  two  different  ways ; 
negatively  :  if  the  moral  sense  does  not  receive 
the  law  from  physical  nature,  and  the  physical 
state  does  not  determine  the  moral  sentiment ;  or 
positively  :  if  the  moral  sense  dictates  the  law  to 
physical  nature,  and  the  moral  sentiment  rules 
the  physical  state.  The  former  relation  leads  to 
sublime  conceptions ,  the  latter  to  sublime  acts. 

Every  character  that  is  above  fate,  is  a  sublime 
conception.  “  A  brave  mind,  struggling  against 
adversity,”  says  Seneca,  “  is  an  attractive  spec¬ 
tacle,  even  to  the  gods.”  Such  a  spectacle  is 
afforded  by  the  Roman  Senate  after  the  disaster 
of  Cannae.  Even  Milton’s  Lucifer  inspires  us 
with  a  sentiment  of  admiration,  when  his  indomi¬ 
table  spirit  examines  for  the  first  time,  and  without 
quailing,  the  horrors  of  hell,  his  new  abode 

. “Hail,  horrors!  hail, 

Infernal  world  !  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell, 

Receive  thy  new  possessor!  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 

The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 

Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven. 

.  ,  .  .  .  Here,  at  least 

We  shall  be  free;”  <fcc. 

Medea’s  reply  in  the  tragedy  belongs  to  the 
same  category. 

The  sublimity  of  a  conception  may  be  beheld, 
being  founded  upon  co-existence  ;  the  sublimity 
of  an  act,  on  the  contrary,  can  only  be  imagined, 
being  founded  in  succession,  and  the  understand¬ 
ing  being  required  to  trace  a  state  of  suffering  to 


484 


MISCELLANEOUS  WKITINGS. 


the  free  determination  of  the  will.  Hence  the 
former,  the  sublimity  of  conception,  belongs  to 
the  province  of  the  painter  and  sculptor  ;  the 
poet  may  appropriate  both  orders  of  sublimity. 
Even  if  a  sublime  act  is  to  be  represented  upon 
canvas  or  in  marble,  it  has  to  be  represented  as  a 
sublime  conception. 

In  order  to  establish  the  sublimity  of  an  act, 
man’s  suffering  should  not  only  exercise  no  influ¬ 
ence  upon  his  moral  nature,  but  should,  on  the 
contrary,  be  the  work  of  his  moral  character. 
This  may  be  accomplished  in  two  different  ways. 
Either  indirectly,  in  obedience  to  a  moral  law,  if 
he  chooses  suffering  out  of  respect  for  some  moral 
duty.  In  such  a  case  the  conception  of  duty  be¬ 
comes  his  determining  motive ,  and  his  suffering 
becomes  an  act  of  the  will.  Or  directly  by  a  law 
of  necessity,  if  moral  penance  is  done  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  violation  of  some  duty.  In  this 
case  his  conception  of  duty  operates  upon  him 
as  a  power .  and  his  suffering  is  merely  an  effect. 
An  example  of  the  indirect  way  is  afforded  by 
Regalus  when  he  abandons  himself  to  the  vindic¬ 
tive  fury  of  the  Carthaginians  in  order  to  keep  his 
word.  He  would  illustrate  the  second  way,  if  he 
had  broken  his  pledge,  and  had  been  made  misera¬ 
ble  by  the  consciousness  of  his  guilt.  In  either 
case,  the  physical  suffering  would  have  a  moral 
cause,  with  this  difference — that  in  the  one  case 
Begulus  shows  to  us  his  moral  character  ;  in  the 
other,  his  adaptation  to  moral  conduct.  In  the 
former  case,  he  appears  to  us  morally  great,  in  the 
second,  his  greatness  is  purely  of  an  aesthetic  nature. 

This  last  difference  is  of  importance  to  tragic 
art,  and  deserves  a  more  particular  elucidation. 

In  an  aesthetic  sense,  a  man  is  a  sublime  object 
already,  if  he  represents  to  us  the  dignity  of  hu¬ 
man  destiny  by  his  state,  even  though  this  destiny 
should  not  be  realized  by  his  acts.  In  a  moral 
sense  he  is  invested  with  sublimity,  if  he  realizes 
his  destiny  by  his  acts,  if  we  not  only  respect  his 
capacity,  but  the  use  he  makes  of  it;  if  not  only 
his  natural  disposition,  but  his  actual  conduct  re¬ 
flects  moral  dignity.  It  makes  a  vast  difference 
whether  we  base  our  judgment  upon  a  man’s 
moral  disposition  and  the  possibility  of  moral  ft-ee- 
dom,  or  upon  the  acts  emanating  from  that  dispo¬ 
sition,  and  upon  the  life  determined  by  a  free  will. 

I  repeat  that  this  difference  is  considerable,  and 
that  it  depends  not  merely  upon  the  objects 
judged,  but  upon  differences  in  our  modes  of 
judging.  Morally  the  same  object  may  excite 
our  displeasure,  aesthetically  our  pleasure.  But 
even  if  our  judgment  should  be  satisfied  in  both 
respects,  the  satisfaction  is  obtained  in  different 
ways.  He  may  be  aesthetically  useful,  without 
being  morally  satisfactory,  and  on  the  other  hand, 
he  may  be  morally  satisfactory  without  being 
aesthetically  useful. 

Let  us  look  at  Leonidas  devoting  himself  to 
death  in  the  pass  of  Thermopylae.  Morally  con¬ 
sidered,  this  act  is  the  fulfillment  of  a  moral  law 
in  spite  of  all  opposition  on  the  part  of  the  in¬ 
stinct.  Aesthetically  considered,  this  act  illus¬ 
trates  the  moral  power  as  independent  of  the 
compulsory  violence  of  the  instinct.  This  act 
satisfies  my  moral  sense,  my  reason  ;  it  delights 
my  aesthetic  sense,  the  imagination. 


This  difference  in  my  sensations  in  the  case 
of  the  same  object,  I  account  for  in  the  following 
manner  : 

As  our  being  is  distinguished  into  two  principles 
or  natures,  so  our  sensations,  in  accordance  with 
this  distinction,  are  divided  into  two  entirely  dis¬ 
tinct  classes.  As  rational  beings  we  feel  appro¬ 
bation  or  disapprobation ;  as  sensual  beings  we 
experience  delight  or  displeasure.  Both  sensa¬ 
tions,  approbation  and  delight,  are  founded  upon 
gratification  ;  the  former  upon  the  gratification  of 
a  claim,  for  reason  merely  claims,  but  is  not  in 
need  of  any  thing ;  the  latter  upon  the  gratifica¬ 
tion  of  a  request,  for  the  senses  are  merely  in 
need,  but  cannot  claim.  Both  the  claims  of  reason 
and  the  wants  of  the  senses,  are  related  to  each 
other  as  necessity  to  need  ;  both  come  under  the 
category  of  necessity,  only  with  this  difference 
that  the  necessity  of  the  reason  is  absolute,  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  the  senses  conditional.  But  in  the  case 
of  either  the  gratification  is  accidental.  Hence 
the  sentiment  of  delight  as  well  as  of  approbation 
is  founded  in  last  resort  upon  an  agreement  of  the 
accidental  with  the  necessary.  If  this  necessity 
is  imperative,  approbation  will  be  the  sentiment ; 
if  it  is  need,  the  sentiment  will  be  delight ;  in 
either  case  the  sentiment  will  be  the  more  intense 
the  more  accidental  is  the  gratification. 

In  order  to  establish  a  moral  judgment,  reason 
demands  that  the  act  should  be  invested  with  a 
moral  character,  and  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  we  should  will  what  is  right.  But  the  will 
being  free,  our  doing  right  is  (physically)  acci¬ 
dental.  If  we  actually  do  right,  the  agreement 
between  this  accidental  use  of  our  freedom  with 
the  mandate  of  reason  excites  approbation  which 
is  the  more  intense  the  more  accidental  and  doubt¬ 
ful  this  use  of  our  freedom  was  made  by  the  an¬ 
tagonism  of  the  sensual  inclinations. 

In  determining  the  aesthetic  value  of  an  act,  the 
object  is  considered  with  reference  to  the  wants 
of  the  imagination  which  cannot  command,  but 
simply  desire  that  the  accidental  should  agree 
with  its  interests.  The  interest  of  the  imagination 
consists  in  maintaining  its  play  independently  of 
all  laws.  This  tendency  to  lawless  independence 
is  by  no  means  favored  by  the  moral  obligation  of 
the  will  to  act  in  the  direction  of  a  specific  and 
rigidly-determined  object ;  and  inasmuch  as  the 
moral  obligation  of  the  will  is  the  object  of  the 
moral  judgment,  it  is  readily  seen  that  this  species 
of  judgment  is  not  favorable  to  the  imagination. 
A  moral  obligation  on  the  part  of  the  will  can 
only  be  conceived  on  the  supposition  of  its  abso¬ 
lute  independence  of  the  compulsory  power  of  the 
natural  instinct ;  the  possibility  of  morality  im¬ 
plies  freedom,  and  in  this  respect  harmonizes  most 
perfectly  with  the  interests  of  the  imagination. 
But  inasmuch  as  the  imagination  by  its  necessities 
cannot  prescribe  laws  in  the  same  way  as  reason 
dictates  to  the  will,  the  faculty  of  freedom,  when 
considered  with  reference  to  the  imagination,  is 
something  accidental,  the  agreement  of  which 
with  the  necessity  of  reason  must  excite  delight. 
In  judging  the  sacrifice  of  Leonidas  morally ,  we 
consider  the  necessity  rather  than  the  accidental 
performance  of  the  deed.  If  we  judge  it  aestheti¬ 
cally,  we  consider  the  accidental  performance  of 


JESTHETICAL. 


485 


the  act  rather  than  its  necessity.  If  the  will  is 
free,  it  is  its  duty  to  act  so,  and  not  otherwise  ; 
but  that  there  should  exist  a  freedom  of  the  will 
which  renders  it  possible  thus  to  act,  is  a  favor 
bestowed  by  nature  upon  the  faculty  to  which 
freedom  is  a  necessity.  Hence  if  a  virtuous  act 
is  judged  by  the  moral  sense,  by  reason,  the 
highest  possible  award  is  approbation,  since  reason 
never  finds  more  than  it  claims,  and  very  rarely 
as  much.  On  the  contrary,  if  the  same  act  is 
judged  by  the  aesthetic  sense,  the  imagination,  we 
experience  a  positive  delight,  since  the  imagination 
cannot  claim  an  agreement  with  its  necessities, 
and  must  feel  surprised  by  their  gratification  as  by 
some  lucky  chance.  We  approve  of  Leonidas 
actually  conceiving  the  heroic  resolution;  but 
we  exult  and  are  delighted  at  his  ability  to  con¬ 
ceive  it. 

The  difference  between  these  two  ways  of 
judging  becomes  still  more  striking,  if  we  suppose 
an  act  which  is  differently  judged  by  the  moral 
sense  and  by  the  aesthetic  faculty.  Take  the 
voluntary  burning  of  Peregrinus  Proteus  at  Olym¬ 
pia.  Morally  considered,  I  cannot  approve  of 
this  act  inasmuch  as  it  was  prompted  by  impure 
motives,  for  the  sake  of  which  the  duty  of  self- 
preservation  was  violated.  H£sthetically  con¬ 
sidered,  this  act  excites  my  delight,  for  the  reason 
that  it  illustrates  man’s  power  to  resist  even  the 
most  powerful  of  all  instincts,  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation.  Whether  it  was  a  purely  moral 
sentiment  or  some  more  powerful  sensual  excite¬ 
ment  which  suppressed  the  instinct  of  self-preser¬ 
vation  in  the  enthusiastic  Peregrine,  is  of  no  con¬ 
sequence  in  the  aesthetic  appreciation  of  an  act, 
since  the  individual  man  and  the  relation  of  his 
own  will  to  the  will-power  are  no  longer  con¬ 
sidered,  but  the  human  will  is  regarded  in  a  general 
sense  as  a  faculty  inherent  in  the  species,  in  its  re¬ 
lation  to  the  opposing  power  of  the  senses  like¬ 
wise  considered  in  its  universality.  In  judging 
the  act  morally ,  self-preservation  was  represented 
as  a  duty  whose  violation  shocked  our  moral 
sense ;  in  estimating  the  act  aesthetically,  self- 
preservation  was  regarded  as  an  interested  motive , 
whose  disregard  caused  in  us  a  feeling  of  delight. 
In  the  aesthetic  estimation  of  an  act,  we  perform 
an  operation  diametrically  opposite  to  that  which 
the  moral  judgment  performs.  In  the  aesthetic 
mode  we  place  the  sensually-finite  individual,  and 
the  morbidly-determinable  will  opposite  to  the 
absolute  will-power  and  moral  duty ;  in  exe¬ 
cuting  a  moral  judgment,  we  place  the  abso¬ 
lute  will-power  and  moral  force  opposite  to  the 
compulsory  power  of  nature  and  the  limits  of  the 
senses.  Hence  the  aesthetic  judgment  leaves  us 
free,  elevates  and  inspires  us,  since  the  mere 
faculty  of  willing  in  an  absolute  sense,  the  mere 
capacity  to  perform  moral  acts,  places  us  in  the 
vantage-ground  toward  the  senses  ;  since  the  mere 
possibility  of  freeing  ourselves  from  the  compul¬ 
sory  power  of  nature,  flatters  our  longing  for  free¬ 
dom.  Hence  the  moral  judgment  restrains  us, 
humiliates  us,  since  in  every  special  act  of  the 
will  we  are  under  disadvantages  toward  the  abso¬ 
lute  will-power,  and  the  limitation  of  the  will  to 
the  one  determination  which  is  demanded  by  duty, 
is  contrary  to  the  lawless  aspirations  of  the  imagi¬ 


nation.  Yonder,  we  soar  from  the  actual  to  the 
possible,  from  the  individual  to  the  species  ;  hert 
we  descend  from  the  possible  to  the  actual,  and 
circumscribe  the  species  by  the  individual  ;  i* 

is,  therefore,  no  wonder  that,  in  performing  acts 
of  the  aesthetic  judgment,  our  inner  consciousness 
should  expand,  and  that  in  performing  acts  of  the 
moral  judgment,  it  should,  on  the  contrary,  feel 
circumscribed  and  fettered.* 

All  this  shows  that  the  moral  and  the  aesthetic 
manner  of  judging,  so  far  from  supporting  each 
other,  on  the  contrary  oppose  each  other,  since 
they  urge  the  moral  sense  into  two  different  direc¬ 
tions ;  for  the  lawfulness  which  is  demanded  by 
reason  in  the  name  of  morality,  does  not  accord 
with  the  lawless  freedom  insisted  upon  by  the 
imagination  as  its  aesthetic  privilege.  For  this 
reason  a  subject  will  be  so  much  less  fitted  for 
aesthetic  purposes,  as  it  is  fitted  for  moral  ends ; 
and  if  the  poet  should  nevertheless  have  to  select 

it,  he  will  do  well  to  treat  the  subject  in  such  a 
way  that  our  reason  is  not  so  much  directed  to 
the  rule  of  the  will,  as  our  imagination  to  the  fa¬ 
culty  of  willing.  For  his  own  sake  the  poet  will 
have  to  pursue  this  course,  for  his  empire  termi¬ 
nates  where  the  free  will  determines  the  act.  We 
are  his  only  as  long  as  we  live  in  the  world  of 
sense  ;  he  loses  us  as  soon  as  we  look  into  our 
own  breast.  This  becomes  inevitable  as  soon  as 
we  cease  to  regard  an  object  as  a  'phenomenon , 
and  it  rules  over  us  as  a  lawful  power. 

Even  the  manifestations  of  the  sublimest  virtue 
are  useless  to  the  poet  for  his  purposes,  except  in 
so  far  as  they  are  characterized  by  power.  The 
direction  of  the  power  does  not  concern  him. 
Even  if  he  should  exhibit  to  our  view  the  most 
perfect  models  of  morality,  the  poet  has  no  other 
object,  nor  should  he  have  any  other  than  to  de¬ 
light  us.  But  nothing  can  afford  us  delight  ex¬ 
cept  that  which  improves  our  being,  and  nothing 
can  afford  us  a  moral  delight  except  that  which 
elevates  our  moral  nature.  But  how  can  the  du- 

#  I  may  observe,  incidentally,  that  this  solution  ac¬ 
counts  for  the  difference  in  the  aesthetic  impression 
which  Kant’s  conception  of  duty  generally  makes  upon 
these  different  classes  of  his  readers.  One  not  insignifi¬ 
cant  portion  of  the  public  finds  this  conception  of  duty 
very  humiliating:  another  judges  that  it  elevates  the 
heart.  Both  are  right;  the  cause  of  this  difference  is  to 
be  traced  to  the  different  stand-points  from  which  both 
consider  the  subject.  There  is  nothing  great  in  doing 
one’s  duty ;  if,  in  doing  the  best  we  are  able,  we  simply 
fulfill  a  duty,  and  still  fulfill  it  imperfectly,  there  is  no¬ 
thing  inspiring  even  in  the  highest  virtue.  But  faith¬ 
fully  to  persevere  in  one’s  duty  in  spite  of  the  limits 
of  the  senses,  and  steadily  to  obey  the  sacred  law  of 
mind  in  spite  of  the  fetters  of  matter,  is  a  truly  ele¬ 
vating  spectacle  and  worthy  of  our  admiration.  Con¬ 
trasted  with  spirit-life,  there  is,  indeed,  nothing  meritori¬ 
ous  in  virtue;  and  whatever  efforts  we  may  make,  we 
shall  always  be  useless  servants  ;  but  contrasted  with  the 
world  of  sense,  virtue  is  a  sublime  reality.  In  so  far  as  we 
judge  acts  morally,  with  reference  to  the  moral  law,  we 
shall  have  little  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  morality  ;  but 
in  so  far  as  we  regard  the  possibility  of  these  acts,  and 
contrast  the  moral  power  to  which  they  can  be  traced, 
with  the  world  of  sense,  in  other  words,  in  so  far  as  we 
judge  these  acts  aesthetically,  we  are  entitled  to  indulge 
a  certain  feeling  of  conscious  pride;  this  is  even  un¬ 
avoidable,  since  we  discover  in  us  a  principle  which  is 
beyond  all  comparison  great  and  boundless. 


486 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tiful  deportment  of  another  person  improve  our 
being  and  enhance  our  moral  power?  This  actual 
fulfillment  of  duty  depends  upon  the  use  lie  acci¬ 
dentally  makes  of  his  freedom,  and  which  on  this 
very  account  proves  nothing  in  our  favor.  It  is 
simply  the  faculty  for  a  similar  dutiful  conduct 
that  we  share  with  him,  and  by  considering  his 
faculty  as  the  reflex  of  our  own,  we  feel  our  moral 
power  enhanced.  It  is  by  the  imagined  possibility 
of  an  absolutely  free  will  that  the  real  exercise 
thereof  delights  our  aesthetic  sense. 

We  become  still  more  convinced  of  this,  if  we 
consider  how  little  the  poetical  force  of  the  im¬ 
pression  which  is  made  upon  us  by  moral  charac¬ 
ters  or  acts,  depends  upon  their  historical  reality. 
The  pleasure  which  ideal  characters  excite  in  our 
minds,  is  not  diminished  by  the  thought  that  they 
are  poetical  fictions ;  for  it  is  upon  the  poetic, 
not  the  historical  truth,  that  all  aesthetic  effects 
are  founded.  Poetic  truth  does  not  mean  the 
actual  occurrence  of  a  fact,  but  the  possibility  of 
such  occurrence  as  founded  in  the  nature  of  the 
thing.  The  aesthetic  power,  therefore,  resides  in 
the  imagined  possibility. 

Even  in  the  actual  events  of  historical  persons, 
the  poetical  does  not  consist  in  the  occurrence 
of  those  events,  but  in  the  power  which  is  made 
manifest  by  it.  The  circumstance  that  these  per¬ 
sons  have  lived,  and  that  these  events  have  ac¬ 
tually  taken  place,  may  augment  our  pleasure,  but 
it  will  be  with  an  heterogeneous  addition  which  is 
rather  prejudicial  than  advantageous  to  the  poeti¬ 
cal  impression.  It  has  been  supposed  that  the 
poetry  of  Germany  might  be  benefited,  if  the  poets 
would  make  national  subjects  the  themes  of  their 
art.  We  are  told  that  Greek  poetry  acquired  such 
a  powerful  sway  over  the  hearts,  because  it  pic¬ 
tured  native  scenes  and  perpetuated  native  deeds. 
It  cannot  be  denied  that  this  circumstance  enabled 
the  ancient  poets  to  produce  effects  of  which  mo¬ 
dern  poetry  cannot  boast, — but  did  these  effects 
belong  to  the  poet  and  his  art?  Woe  unto  the 
genius  of  Grecian  art,  if  this  accidental  advantage 
were  its  only  distinction  over  modern  genius ! 
Woe  unto  the  artistic  taste  of  the  Greeks,  if 
these  historical  features  in  the  works  of  the  poets 
had  been  required  to  create  and  foster  it!  Only 
a  barbaric  taste  requires  to  be  allured  to  beauty 
by  the  stimulus  of  private  interest  ;  it  is  only  the 
bungler  who  borrows  of  his  subject  a  power  which 
he  despairs  of  embodying  in  the  form  of  his  com¬ 
position.  Poesy  is  not  to  wander  through  the 
cold  regions  of  memory,  is  not  to  appoint  eru¬ 
dition  as  her  interpreter,  interest  as  her  advocate. 
She  is  to  strike  the  heart  because  she  gushed  from 
it;  she  is  not  to  aim  at  the  citizen  in  man,  but  at 
man  in  the  citizen. 

It  is  fortunate  that  true  genius  does  not  heed 
the  suggestions  which  we  offer  to  it  out  of 
kindness  rather  than  by  right ;  otherwise  Sulzer 
and  his  followers  would  have  given  to  German 
poetry  an  exceedingly  equivocal  direction.  It  is 
indeed  an  honorable  mission  for  the  poet  to  pro¬ 
mote  man’s  moral  culture,  and  to  kindle  patriotic 
feelings  in  his  heart,  and  the  muses  know  best, 
how  closely  the  arts  of  the  beautiful  and  the  sub¬ 
lime  are  related  to  this  object.  But  that  which 
poetry  executes  indirectly  with  a  high  degree  of 


excellence,  would  be  badly  done  by  her,  if  it  were, 
made  the  direct  object  of  her  performances.  In 
the  case  of  man,  poetry  never  executes  a  special 
business,  and  no  instrument  is  less  fitted  to  per¬ 
form  some  special  service.  Her  sphere  of  action 
is  the  totality  of  human  nature ;  she  can  only 
affect  single  traits  or  acts  by  affecting  human 
character  generally.  Poetry  may  be  to  man  what 
love  is  to  the  hero.  She  can  neither  advise  him, 
nor  fight  his  battles,  nor  perform  any  other  work 
for  him  ;  but  she  may  educate  him  to  become  a 
hero,  she  may  call  him  to  perform  deeds,  she  may 
arm  him  with  strength. 

The  cesthetic  power  with  which  the  sublimity 
of  sentiments  and  actions  seizes  us,  does  not  by 
any  means  depend  upon  the  interest  which  rea¬ 
son  feels,  that  acts  should  be  done  rightly ,  but 
upon  the  interest  which  the  imagination  experi¬ 
ences  that  it  should  be  possible  to  act  rightly ;  in 
other  words,  that  no  sensation,  were  it  ever  so 
powerful,  should  be  capable  of  suppressing  the 
moral  freedom.  This  possibility  resides  in  every 
strong  manifestation  of  freedom  and  will-power, 
and  wherever  this  possibility  is  met  with,  there 
the  poet  finds  a  suitable  object  for  his  work.  It 
is  indifferent  so  far  as  his  interest  is  concerned, 
from  what  class  of  characters,  bad  or  good,  -  he 
takes  his  heroes,  since  the  same  measure  of  power 
which  is  required  for  good  deeds,  is  very  often  re¬ 
quired  to  do  evil  with  consistent  energy.  In  the 
aesthetic  sphere,  how  much  more  we  regard  power 
than  its  direction,  or  how  much  more  freedom  than 
legality,  is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  we  had  rather 
see  power  and  freedom  manifested  at  the  expense 
of  legality,  than  to  see  legality  triumph  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  power  and  freedom.  In  cases  where  the 
moral  law  allies  itself  to  motives  which  threaten 
to  carry  the  will  along  by  their  overpowering  in¬ 
fluence,  the  character  gains  in  aesthetic  beauty  if 
it  succeeds  in  resisting  the  moral  opposition.  The 
vicious  man  begins  to  excite  our  interest  as  soon 
as  he  has  to  risk  property  and  life  for  the  purpose 
of  carrying  out  his  evil  designs  ;  and  the  virtuous 
ceases  to  claim  our  attention  in  proportion  as  his 
happiness  compels  him  to  conduct  himself  pro¬ 
perly.  Vindictiveness,  for  instance,  is  undoubt¬ 
edly  an  ignoble  and  even  a  low  passion.  Not¬ 
withstanding  it  becomes  an  aesthetic  phenomenon 
as  soon  as  he  who  gratifies  his  revenge,  makes 
painful  sacrifices  to  accomplish  this  purpose.  In 
murdering  her  children,  Medea  aimed  at  Jason’s 
heart,  but  at  the  same  time  she  stabs  her  own 
with  the  dagger  of  pain,  and  her  revenge  becomes 
invested  with  aesthetic  sublimity,  as  soon  as  we 
behold  the  tenderly-loving  mother. 

In  these  respects  the  aesthetic  judgment  con¬ 
tains  more  truth  than  is  generally  supposed. 
Evidently  vices  bearing,  evidence  of  strength 
of  will,  imply  a  higher  capacity  for  true  moral 
freedom  than  virtues  supported  by  inclination  ; 
for,  in  the  case  of  the  consistent  villain,  a  single 
victory  over  himself,  a  single  change  of  maxims 
may  prove  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  employ  in 
the  performance  of  good  deeds  the  consistent 
energy  and  will-power  which  he  had  hitherto  de¬ 
voted  to  evil  practices.  Else,  why  should  we 
repel  with  a  feeling  of  repugnance,  the  half-good 
character,  whereas  we  admire  with  feelings  of 


J3STHETICAL. 


487 


trembling  awe,  the  accomplished  evil-doer?  Un¬ 
doubtedly  because,  in  the  case  of  the  former,  we 
abandon  even  the  possibility  of  absolute  moral 
freedom,  whereas  it  is  evident,  that  the  latter  may 
by  a  single  act  of  his  will,  elevate  himself  to  the 
full  possession  of  human  dignity. 

In  {esthetic  judgments  we  are  not  influenced  by 
the  absolute  morality  of  the  person  or  act,  but  by 
the  co-existing  freedom,  and  the  morality  pleases 
our  imagination  only  in  so  far  as  the  part  of  freedom 
is  rendered  prominent  by  the  former.  Hence  it  is 
an  evident  confusion  of  boundaries,  if  moral  ends  are 
expected  of  aesthetic  subjects,  and  if  the  imagina¬ 
tion  is  to  be  driven  from  its  legitimate  domain  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  enlarge  the  forum  of 
reason.  Either  it  will  have  to  be  entirely  subju¬ 
gated,  in  which  case  all  aesthetic  effects  are  lost ;  or 
it  will  share  its  domain  with  reason,  in  which  case 
morality  will  not  be  benefited  very  greatly.  By 
pursuing  two  different  objects,  the  danger  will  be 
incurred  of  missing  both ;  the  freedom  of  the 
imagination  will  be  chained  by  the  laws  of  reason, 
and  the  necessity  of  the  reason  will  be  destroyed 
by  the  lawless  freedom  of  the  imagination. 


ON  THE  CAUSES  OF  DELIGHT  IN  TRAGIC 

SUBJECTS* 

However  much  a  few  modern  aestheticians  may 
make  it  their  business  to  defend  the  fine  arts 
against  the  general  belief,  that  they  aim  at  plea¬ 
sure,  as  against  a  degrading  reproach,  this  belief 
will  nevertheless  continue  to  exist  upon  its  firm 
ground,  and  the  fine  arts  will  not  be  willing  to 
exchange  their  ancient,  undisputed,  and  beneficent 
calling  for  a  new  one  to  which  they  are  to  be  very 
generously  elevated.  Without  .dreading  to  be 
degraded  by  their  destiny  to  afford  us  delight, 
they  will,  on  the  contrary,  pride  themselves  in 
the  privilege  of  accomplishing  by  their  own  di¬ 
rect  activity  that  which  all  the  other  develop¬ 
ments  and  manifestations  of  the  human  mind  ac¬ 
complish  only  in  an  indirect  manner.  Nobody 
who  admits  the  existence  of  an  end  in  nature, 
will  deny  that  happiness  is  the  end  which  she 
seeks  to  realize  in  the  case  of  man,  although 
he  ought  not  to  perform  moral  acts  for  the  mere 
purpose  of  acquiring  happiness.  With  nature,  or 
rather  with  her  Author,  the  fine  arts  have  this  in 
common,  that  they  seek  to  distribute  pleasure  and 
to  create  happiness.  They  bestow  in  a  playful 
manner  the  blessings  which  the  severe  labors  of 
industry  only  yield  after  a  hard  and  fatiguing 
struggle.  With  persevering  application  we  have 
to  purchase  the  delights  of  the  understanding,  with 
painful  sacrifices  the  approbation  of  reason,  and 
with  hard  privations  the  pleasures  of  the  senses, 
cr  we  have  to  atone  for  their  excesses  by  a  long 
chain  of  sufferings;  art  alone  affords  enjoy¬ 
ments  which  have  not  first  to  be  earned  by  labor, 
which  impose  no  sacrifice,  and  need  not  be  atoned 
for  by  bodily  or  mental  penance.  But  who  wants 
to  confound  the  merit  of  affording  this  kind  of 
delight,  with  the  pitiable  merit  of  creating  amuse- 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  first  number 
of  the  new  Thalia  of  1792. 


ment?  Who  would  deny  to  the  fine  arts  the 
power  of  affording  rational  delight,  simply  because 
they  are  above  the  low  aim  of  affording  the  grati¬ 
fications  of  common  amusement? 

The  honest  intention  of  pursuing  moral  go.od- 
ness  everywhere  as  the  highest  purpose  which  has 
led  to,  and  protected  so  many  mediocre  produc¬ 
tions  in  the  fine  arts,  has  caused  a  similar  damage 
to  the  theory  of  art.  In  order  to  assign  a  high  rank 
to  the  fine  arts  ;  in  order  to  win  for  them  the  favor 
of  the  government  and  the  respect  of  mankind, 
they  are  expelled  from  their  peculiar  domain,  and 
are  saddled  with  a  calling  which  is  foreign  tc 
them  and  contrary  to  their  essential  nature.  It  is 
supposed  that  by  supplanting  the  frivolous  object 
of  affording  amusement,  by  a  moral  end,  a  great 
service  is  rendered  to  them  ;  their  evident  influ¬ 
ence  upon  the  public  morality  must  necessarily 
sustain  such  an  assertion.  A  contradiction  is 
supposed  to  underlie  the  doctrine  that  the  same 
art  which  so  highly  promotes  the  highest  object 
of  humanity,  should  accomplish  this  end  only  inci¬ 
dentally,  and  should  make  the  procurement  of  plea¬ 
sure,  which  is  supposed  to  be  such  a  common  thing, 
its  chief  aim.  But  this  apparent  contradiction  could 
easily  be  solved  by  a  substantial  theory  of  pleasure 
and  a  complete  philosophy  of  art.  Such  a  theory 
would  show  that  a  liberal  pleasure,  as  is  afforded 
by  art,  rests  upon  a  moral  basis,  and  that  the 
whole  of  man’s  moral  nature  is  interested  in  it. 
Such  a  theory  would  likewise  show  that  the  pro¬ 
duction  of  such  pleasure  can  only  be  accomplished 
by  moral  means,  and  that,  therefore,  art  can  only 
accomplish  its  highest  object  by  walking  in  the 
ways,  of  morality.  For  a  just  appreciation  of  art 
it  is  perfectly  immaterial  whether  her  end  is 
moral,  or  whether  she  can  attain  her  end  only  by 
moral  means  ;  for,  morality  being  her  object  in 
either  case,  she  has  to  be  in  the  closest  union  with 
the  moral  sense  ;  but  so  far  as  the  perfection  of 
art  is  concerned,  it  is'  by  no  means  immaterial 
which  of  these  is  the  end,  and  which  the  means. 
If  morality  is  the  direct  object  of  art,  she  loses 
both  her  freedom  which  gives  her  power,  and  the 
incentive  of  pleasure  which  secures  for  her  such 
universal  efficiency.  Play  is  changed  to  a  serious 
business;  and  yet  it  is  play  which  enables  her  to 
execute  the  business  most  certainly.  It  is  only 
by  achieving  her  highest  aesthetic  effect,  that  art 
will  exercise  a  beneficent  influence  upon  morality: 
but  she  cannot  achieve  this  highest  aesthetic 
effect  without  enjoying  her  freedom  to  its  fullest 
extent. 

It  is  moreover  certain  that  every  pleasure  which 
emanates  from  a  moral  source,  improves  man’s 
morality,  and  that  here  the  effect  must  again  be  con¬ 
verted  into  cause.  The  pleasure  derived  from  the 
beautiful,  the  touching,  the  sublime,  strengthens 
our  moral  feelings,  as  the  pleasure  derived  from 
benevolence,  from  love,  &c.,  strengthens  these 
affections  and  virtues.  As  a  contented  mind  is 
the  sure  lot  of  a  morally-excellent  man,  so  moral 
perfection  loves  to  be  the  companion  of  a  con¬ 
tented  heart.  It  is  not,  therefore,  merely  because 
art  affords  delight  by  moral  means,  that  she  has 
a  moral  effect,  but  because  the  pleasure  itself, 
which  is  afforded  by  art,  becomes  a  means  of 
morality. 


483 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


There  are  as  many  means,  by  which  art  attains 
her  end,  as  there  are  sources  of  liberal  pleasure. 
I  call  a  pleasure  liberal,  where  the  mental  powers, 
reason  and  imagination,  are  active,  and  where  the 
emotion  is  produced  by  a  conception  of  the  mind; 
in  opposition  to  the  sensual  or  physical  pleasure, 
where  the  soul  is  subjected  to  a  blind,  natural  ne¬ 
cessity,  and  the  sensation  is  the  immediate  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  physical  cause.  Sensual  pleasure 
is  the  only  kind  of  pleasure  that  should  be  ex¬ 
cluded  from  the  domain  of  the  fine  arts;  the 
talent  of  exciting  sensual  pleasure,  can  never  ele¬ 
vate  itself  to  the  rank  of  art,  or  only  where  the 
sensual  impressions  are  arranged,  strengthened, 
or  moderated  according  to  an  artistic  plan,  and 
this  plan  is  recognized  by  the  mind  as  a  concep¬ 
tion  of  its  own.  But  even  in  such  a  case,  only 
that  portion  of  the  plan  should  be  designated  as 
art,  which  has  for  its  object  the  procurement  of  a 
liberal  pleasure,  namely,  the  tasteful  arrangement 
which  delights  our  understanding,  not  the  phy¬ 
sical  charms  which  only  delight  our  senses. 

The  general  source  of  every  pleasure,  even  of 
the  sensual,  is  adaptation  or  fitness.  The  plea¬ 
sure  is  sensual,  if  the  adaptation  is  not  recognized 
as  a  conception  of  the  mind,  but  by  a  law  of  ne¬ 
cessity  develops  the  sensation  of  pleasure  as  its 
physical  consequence.  A  suitable  circulation  of 
the  blood,  for  instance,  in  single  organs  or  in  the 
whole  body,  produces  bodily  delight  with  all  its 
varieties  and  modifications  ;  we  feel  this  suitable¬ 
ness  by  the  medium  of  agreeable  sensations,  but 
we  do  not  obtain  any  conception  of  it,  either  lucid 
or  confused. 

Pleasure  is  liberal  or  free,  if  the  adaptation  is 
recognized  as  a  conception  of  the  mind,  and  this 
conception  is  accompanied  by  an  agreeable  sensa¬ 
tion  :  all  conceptions  accompanied  by  the  per¬ 
ception  of  accord  and  adaptation,  are  sources  of 
a  liberal  pleasure,  and  in  so  far  capable  of  being 
improved  by  art  for  such  a  purpose.  These 
sources  may  be  classified  as  follows  :  Good,  True, 
Perfect,  Beautiful,  Touching,  Sublime.  The  good 
occupies  our  reason  ;  the  true  and  the  perfect  the 
understanding:  the  beautiful,  the  understanding, 
with  the  imagination  ;  thetouchingand  the  sublime, 
the  reason  allied  to  imagination.  Mere  charm  or 
a  simple  invitation  to  activity  addressed  to  power 
may  afford  delight,  but  art  avails  herself  of  charm 
only  for  the  purpose  of  serving  as  an  accompa¬ 
niment  to  the  higher  sentiment  of  fitness;  con¬ 
sidered  by  itself  it  is  lost  among  the  mass  of  vital 
sensations,  and  art  scorns  it  as  she  scorns  all 
other  sensual  delights. 

A  difference  of  the  source  from  which  art  de¬ 
rives  the  means  of  affording  pleasure,  does  not, 
of  itself,  authorize  a  classification  of  the  arts,  since 
several,  and  even  all  kinds  of  pleasure  may  meet 
in  the  same  class.  But  in  so  far  as  a  certain  art  is 
pursued  as  the  main  object,  it  may  not  give  rise  to 
a  special  class,  but  it  may  determine  a  special 
mode  of  viewing  the  works  of  art.  Arts  which 
chiefly  gratify  the  understanding  and  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  arts  which  make  the  true,  the  perfect,  the 
beautiful,  their  chief  object,  might  be  designated 
as  the  fine  arts  (arts  of  taste,  the  understanding) ; 
those  on  the  contrary,  which  chiefly  engage  the 
reason  and  imagination,  arts  which  make  the  good, 


the  sublime  and  the  touching  their  main  object, 
might  be  united  in  one  class  under  the  name  of 
touching  or  sympathetic  arts  (arts  of  the  heart, 
or  the  emotions).  It  is,  indeed,  impossible  to 
separate  the  touching  from  the  beautiful,  but  the 
beautiful  may  very  well  exist  without  the  touching. 
Although  this  difference  of  views  does  not  justify 
a  perfect  classification  of  the  liberal  arts,  it  serves 
at  least,  to  indicate  more  precisely  the  principles 
which  should' guide  us  in  the  criticism  of  art,  and 
to  prevent  the  confusion  which  must  inevitably 
supervene  if,  in  determining  the  laws  of  aesthetics, 
the  very  different  departments  of  the  touching  and 
the  beautiful  are  confounded. 

The  touching  and  the  sublime  agree  in  pro¬ 
ducing  pleasure  by  displeasure,  and  inasmuch  as 
pleasure  arises  from  the  perception  of  fitness,  and 
pain  from  its  opposite,  they  agree  in  causing  us  to 
feel  a  fitness  which  presupposes  the  want  thereof. 

The  sense  of  the  sublime  is  composed  on  the 
one  hand  of  the  consciousness  of  our  weakness,  and 
of  our  want  of  power  to  compass  an  object,  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  of  the  consciousness  of  su¬ 
premacy  which  shrinks  from  no  limits,  and  sub¬ 
jects  to  the  mental  sway  that  to  which  our  physi¬ 
cal  energies  succumb.  The  sublime  object  is  op¬ 
posed  to  our  sensual  power,  and  this  want  of  fit¬ 
ness  must  necessarily  awaken  displeasure.  At 
the  same  time  it  is  instrumental  in  awakening  in 
us  the  consciousness  of  another  power  superior  to 
that  which  subdued  the  imagination.  By  resisting 
the  senses  a  sublime  object  becomes  adapted  to 
reason,  and  affords  delight  by  stimulating  the 
higher  powers  at  the  same  time  that  it  inflicts  pain 
by  subjecting  the  lower  faculties  to  restraints. 

By  emotion,  in  the  st  rict  acceptation  of  the  term, 
we  understand  the  mixed  sensation  of  suffering 
and  of  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  it.  Our 
own  misfortune  can  only  excite  our  emotion,  if  the 
pain  caused  by  it  is  sufficiently  mild  to  afford  room 
for  the  pleasure  which  a  sympathizing  beholder 
might  experience  from  it.  The  loss  of  some 
great  possession  prostrates  us  to-day,  and  our  pain 
moves  the  spectator’s  heart.  A  year  hence  we 
think  of  this  loss  with  emotion.  The  weak  is  at 
all  times  a  prey  to  his  pain  ;  the  hero  and  the 
sage  are  only  moved  by  their  own  highest  misfor¬ 
tune. 

Like  the  sense  of  the  sublime,  emotion  has  two 
ingredients,  pain  and  pleasure  ;  here  as  yonder, 
fitness  is  based  upon  its  opposite.  It  seems  a 
want  of  fitness  in  nature  that  man  should  suffer, 
since  suffering  is  not  his  destiny  ;  this  want  of  fit¬ 
ness  is  painful  to  us.  But  the  pain  which  the 
want  of  fitness  causes,  is  suitable  or  adapted  to 
our  rational  nature  generally,  and,  in  so  far  as  it 
invites  us  to  be  active,  it  is  adapted  to  the  wants 
of  human  society.  Hence  the  pain  which  the 
want  of  fitness  causes  in  us,  must  necessarily 
afford  us  pleasure,  since  that  pain  is  adapted  to 
our  moral  nature.  In  order  to  determine  whether 
pain  or  pleasure  will  be  most  prominent  in  an 
emotion,  we  shall  have  to  ascertain  whether  fitness 
or  the  want  thereof  will  chiefly  interest  the  mind’s 
attention.  This  may  depend  upon  the  number 
of  ends  which  are  to  be  attained  or  will  be  vio¬ 
lated,  or  upon  their  relation  to  the  last  and  high-  ' 
est  end. 


JE3THETICAL. 


489 


The  suffering  of  a  virtuous  person  moves  us  more 
painfully  than  the  suffering  of  a  vicious  person,  be¬ 
cause  in  the  former  case  not  only  the  general  end 
of  happiness,  but  also  the  special  end  of  acquiring 
happiness  by  virtue,  is  defeated  ;  in  the  latter  case 
only  the  former  end  is  set  aside.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  happiness  of  a  villain  causes  us  much 
more  pain  than  the  unhappiness  of  a  virtuous 
man,  for  this  reason  that  vice  itself,  and  secondly, 
the  reward  of  vice  imply  a  want  of  fitness. 

Moreover  virtue  is  much  more  able  to  reward, 
than  fortunate  vice  is  able  to  punish  itself ;  for  this 
very  reason  the  honest  man  in  his  misfortune  will  re- 
main  faithful  to  virtue  much  sooner  than  a  vicious 
person-,  while  enjoying  happiness,  will  return  to 
virtue. 

In  determining  the  relation  of  pleasure  to  pain 
in  emotions,  we  have  especially  to  ascertain 
whether  the  violated  end  surpasses  in  importance 
the  attained,  or  the  attained  end  that  which  is 
violated.  No  fitness  comes  nearer  to  our  heart 
than  the  fitness  in  moral  things,  and  nothing  sur¬ 
passes  the  pleasure  which  this  kind  of  fitness 
causes  us.  Fitness  in  natural  things,  might  con¬ 
tinue  problematical,  which  in  moral  things  is  de¬ 
monstrated  to  us.  It  alone  is  founded  upon  our 
rational  nature  and  upon  an  internal  necessity. 
It  is  the  nearest,  the  most  important,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  evident  to  us,  because  it  is 
not  determined  by  external  influences,  but  by  an 
internal  principle  of  our  reason.  It  is  the  palla¬ 
dium  of  our  freedom. 

This  moral  fitness  is  most  intensely  felt,  if  it 
maintains  its  supremacy  when  struggling  against 
other  forms  of  fitness  ;•  it  is  only  when  the  moral 
law  is  contending  against  all  other  natural  laws,  and 
all  of  them  lose  their  power  over  the  human  heart  in 
presence  of  this  law,  that  its  whole  power  is  most 
perfectly  sho\vn.  In  these  natural  laws  we  in¬ 
clude  every  thing  that  does  not  appertain  to  the 
province  of  morality,  every  thing  that  does  not 
acknowledge  reason  as  the  highest  legislative 
power  ;  hence  sensations,  instincts,  passions,  as 
well  as  physical  necessities  and  fate.  The  more 
terrible  the  antagonists,  the  more  glorious  the 
victory  ;  resistance  alone  can  render  the  power 
manifest.  This  shows,  “  that  the  highest  con¬ 
sciousness  of  our  moral  nature  can  only  be  pre¬ 
served  in  a  violent  condition,  in  a  condition  of 
struggle,  and  that  the  highest  moral  pleasure  is 
always  accompanied  by  pain.” 

The  species  of  poesy  which  affords  us  the  high¬ 
est  moral  delight,  has  to  employ  mixed  sensations, 
and  has  to  delight  us  by  pain.  This  end  is  more 
particularly  accomplished  by  tragedy ,  whose  do¬ 
main  comprehends  all  possible  cases,  where  some 
natural  fitness  is  sacrificed  to  a  moral,  or  a  moral 
fitness  to  one  of  a  higher  order.  It  might  not  be 
impossible,  according  as  the  struggle  between  the 
moral  and  some  other  fitness  is  recognized  and 
felt,  to  build  up  a  scale  of  pleasure  from  the  low¬ 
est  to  the  highest  degree,  and  to  fix  the  degree  of 
an  agreeable  or  painful  sensation  a  priori  by  the 
principle  of  fitness.  From  this  same  principle 
definite  orders  of  tragedies  might  perhaps  be  de¬ 
rived,  and  a  complete  table  of  all  possible  classes  of 
such  compositions  might  perhaps  be  determined  a 
priori  ;  so  that  we  might  DC  enabled  to  assign  its 


place  to  every  published  tragedy,  and  to  calculate 
beforehand  the  degree  as  well  as  the  quality 
of  the  emotion  beyond  which  it  cannot  soar. 
This  subject  will  be  discussed  in  a  special  article. 

A  few  examples  will  illustrate  the  statement 
that  the  perception  of  a  moral  fitness  is  far 
superior  in  our  internal  minds  to  the  fitness  in 
purely  physical  things. 

When  we  behold  Huon  and  Amanda  tied  to 
the  stake,  preferring  death  by  fire  to  acquiring  a 
throne  by  becoming  faithless  to  that  which  they 
loved,  what  is  it  that  makes  this  scene  for  us  an 
object  of  heavenly  delight  ?  It  would  seem  as 
though  the  opposition  between  their  present  con¬ 
dition  and  the  smiling  destiny  which  they  scorn  ; 
the  apparent  want  of  natural  fitness  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  which  virtue  is  rewarded  by  misery,  the 
unnatural  denial  of  the  love  of  self,  &c.,  should 
fill  us  with  intense  pain,  since  all  these  circum¬ 
stances  overwhelm  our  souls  with  perceptions  of  a 
want  of  fitness  ;  but  what  do  we  care  about  na¬ 
ture  with  all  her  ends  and  laws,  if  her  want  of  fit¬ 
ness  affords  us  an  opportunity  of  beholding  in  its 
fullest  light  the  moral  fitness  ?  The  experience  of 
the  victorious  power  of  the  moral  law  which  this 
spectacle  presents,  is  such  an  exalted  and  essential 
good  that  we  are  tempted  to  become  reconciled  to 
the  evil  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  it.  Accord 
in  the  empire  of  freedom  delights  us  infinitely 
more  than  all  the  contradictions  in  the  natural 
world  are  able  to  deceive  us. 

When  Coriolanus,  conquered  by  the  duty  of 
husband,  son,  and  citizen,  leaves  Rome  whose  con¬ 
quest  he  had  almost  accomplished,  when  he  sup¬ 
presses  his  vengeance,  leads  his  army  back,  and 
offers  himself  up  to  the  hatred  of  a  jealous  rival, 
he  evidently  perpetrates  an  act  ill  adapted  to  his 
object ;  by  this  step  he  not  only  loses  the  fruit 
of  all  his  former  victories,  but  he  designedly 
rushes  into  his  ruin  ;  but  what  an  excellence, 
what  a  greatness,  to  prefer  the  most  violent  an¬ 
tagonism  to  inclination,  to  an  opposition  to  the 
moral  law,  and,  by  such  conduct,  to  violate 
all  the  rules  of  prudence  contrary  to  the  highest 
interests  of  the  senses,  for  no  other  reason  than 
to  act  in  agreement  with  the  higher  moral  duty ! 
Every  sacrifice  of  life  is  contrary  to  life’s  inten¬ 
tion,  for  life  is  the  condition  of  all  good ; 
but  the  sacrifice  of  life  for  moral  ends  is  emi¬ 
nently  to  the  purpose,  for  life  is  never  import- 
j  ant  as  an  end,  but  only  as  a  means  to  morality. 
Hence,  if  a  case  should  occur,  where  life  becomes 
a  means  to  morality,  life  should  be  given  up  for  the 
moral  end.  “  It  is  not  necessary  that  I  should  live, 
but  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  preserve  Rome 
from  famine,”  said  the  great  Pompey,  when  about 
to  set  sail  for  Africa,  and  his  friends  requested 
him  to  postpone  his  departure  until  the  gale  had 
blown  over. 

But  the  suffering  of  a  criminal  delights  us  tra¬ 
gically  no  less  than  the  suffering  of  a  virtuous 
person  ;  nevertheless  the  impression  of  a  want 
of  moral  fitness  is  conveyed  to  us  in  his 
case.  The  opposition  of  his  acts  to  the  moral 
law  fills  us  with  indignation  ;  the  moral  im¬ 
perfection  which  his  conduct  implies,  fills  us  with 
pain,  not  to  speak  of  the  misery  of  the  innocent 
whom  his  crimes  have  sacrificed.  Here  the  pain 


490 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


which  the  sufferings  of  persons  cause  us,  is  not 
counterbalanced  by  our  satisfaction  with  their  mo¬ 
rality  :  yet  both  forms  of  suffering  constitute  a 
fruitful  theme  for  art  upon  which  we  may  dwell 
with  intense  delight.  It  is  not  difficult  to  har¬ 
monize  this  fact  with  what  we  have  sought  to  es¬ 
tablish. 

It  is  not  merely  obedience  to  the  moral  law,  but 
pain  on  account  of  its  violation,  that  conveys  a 
conception  of  moral  fitness.  The  sadness  which 
springs  from  the  consciousness  of  moral  imper¬ 
fection  is  adapted  to  an  end,  or  appropriate,  in¬ 
asmuch  as  it  is  the  opposite  of  the  satisfaction 
which  accompanies  the  moral  rectitude  of  our 
acts.  Repentance,  self-condemnation,  even  in 
their  highest  degree,  are  morally  sublime,  since 
they  never  could  be  felt  unless, deep  in  the  crimi¬ 
nal’s  heart,  an  incorruptible  feeling  for  right  and 
wrong  were  awakened,  whose  sentence  overpowers 
even  the  most  ardent  interests  of  self-love.  Re¬ 
pentance  arises  from  contrasting  a  deed  with  the 
moral  law  ;  it  is  a  disapproval  of  the  deed  which 
conflicts  with  the  law.  Hence,  at  the  moment 
when  the  repentance  is  felt,  the  moral  law  must 
be  the  highest  tribunal  in  man;  it  must  be  of 
more  importance  to  him  than  the  price  of  his 
crime,  since  the  consciousness  of  having  offended 
the  moral  law,  embitters  his  enjoyment  of  the 
fruit  of  his  criminal  deed.  The  state  of  mind 
which  recognizes  the  moral  law  as  the  highest 
tribunal,  is  a  state  of  moral  adaptation,  hence  a 
source  of  moral  delight.  What  can  be  more  sub¬ 
lime  than  the  heroic  despair  which  tramples  in  the 
dust  all  the  goods  of  life,  and  life  itself,  because  it 
cannot  bear,  cannot  overpower  the  disapproving 
voice  of  the  internal  judge  ?  Whether  the  vir¬ 
tuous  makes  a  voluntary  sacrifice  of  his  life,  in 
order  to  act  in  accordance  with  the  moral  law ; 
or,  whether  the  criminal,  impelled  by  his  rebuking 
conscience,  destroys  himself  in  order  to  punish 
himself  for  his  transgression  of  the  moral  law, 
our  respect  for  the  law  rises  in  either  case  to  an 
equally  high  degree  ;  if  there  should  be  a  differ¬ 
ence,  the  advantage  would  be  on  the  side  of  the 
criminal,  since  the  consciousness  of  doing  right, 
might  in  some  measure,  have  facilitated  the  reso¬ 
lution  of  the  virtuous,  and  the  moral  merit  of  an 
act  decreases  in  proportion  as  inclination  and 
pleasure  contribute  to  its  performance.  Re¬ 
pentance  and  despair  on  account  of  the  commis¬ 
sion  of  a  crime,  show  us  the  powrer  of  the  moral 
law  later,  but  not  less  fully;  they  constitute 
pictures  of  the  sublimest  morality,  except  that 
they  reflect  a  state  of  violence.  A  man  who  de¬ 
spairs  on  account  of  the  violation  of  a  moral  law, 
is  caused  by  this  despair  to  return  to  his  allegi¬ 
ance  ;  the  more  terribly  his  self-condemnation 
manifests  itself,  the  more  powerfully  the  admoni¬ 
tions  of  the  moral  law  are  heard  by  him. 

But  there  are  cases  where  the  moral  pleasure  is 
purchased  by  a  moral  pain  ;  this  happens  if  a  mo¬ 
ral  duty  has  to  be  violated  in  order  to  act  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  a  higher  and  more  general  duty. 
If  Coriolanus,  instead  of  besieging  his  own  native 
city,  had  been  encamped  with  his  army  before 
Andum  or  Corioli;  if  his  mother  had  been  a  Vol- 
8clan  matron,  and  if  her  prayers  had  had  the  same 


effect  upon  him,  this  victory  of  filial  duty  would 
have  made  an  opposite  impression  upon  us.  In 
such  a  case  respect  for  the  mother  would  have 
been  opposed  by  the  higher  obligation  of  a  citizen, 
which  should  be  obeyed  before  filial  duty  in 
case  a  conflict  between  them  should  ensue.  The 
commandant  who  is  left  to  choose  between  sur¬ 
rendering  the  town  or  seeing  his  captive  son 
pierced  before  his  own  eyes,  unhesitatingly  chooses 
the  latter,  because  the  duty  toward  his  child  is  in¬ 
ferior  to  the  duty  toward  his  country.  At  first 
sight  our  heart  revolts  at  seeing  a  father  act  in 
such  dreadful  opposition  to  the  natural  instinct 
and  to  paternal  duty;  but  soon  we  are  filled  with 
admiration  at  the  thought  that  a  moral  impulse, 
even  when  allied  to  inclination,  could  not  lead 
reason  astray  in  her  determination.  When  the 
Corinthian  Timoleon  causes  a  cherished  but 
ambitious  brother  to  be  murdered,  because  his 
sense  of  patriotic  duty  prompts  him  to  extermi¬ 
nate  whatever  seems  dangerous  to  the  liberties  of 
the  republic,  it  is  indeed  not  without  a  feeling  of 
horror  that  we  see  him  execute  this  unnatural  deed, 
which  is  so  contrary  to  our  moral  sense;  but  soon 
our  detestation  gives  way  to  the  highest  respect 
for  his  heroic  virtue,  which  maintains  her  claims 
against  all  foreign  influences  of  the  inclination, 
and  decides  as  correctly  and  calmly  in  the  wildest 
tumult  of  the  feelings  as  in  a  state  of  the  most  un- 
disturbed  rest.  Our  view's  of  republican  duty  may 
differ  from  those  of  Timoleon  ;  this  does  not  alter 
the  moral  delight  which  wre  experience.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  in  cases  w'here  our  understanding  is 
not  on  the  side  of  the  active  agent,  that  we  re¬ 
cognize  with  a  peculiar  force  our  desire  to  rank 
the  love  of  duty  above  fitness,  and  the  accord 
with  reason  above  the  accord  with  the  under¬ 
standing. 

No  moral  phenomenon  will  be  viewred  in  so 
many  different  ways  as  this,  for  reasons  which  it  is 
not  difficult  to  understand.  All  men  are  endowed 
with  moral  sense,  but  not  all  in  that  degree  of 
strength  and  independence  which  the  proper  esti¬ 
mation  of  the  above-mentioned  cases  requires. 
Most  men  content  themselves  with  either  approv¬ 
ing  of  an  act  whose  agreement'  with  the  moral 
law  is  readily  apparent,  or  rejecting  another  whose 
opposition  to  this  law  is  equally  evident.  But  a 
clear  understanding,  and  a  reason  which  is  inde¬ 
pendent  of  every  natural  power  and  even  of  moral 
instincts  are  required,  in  order  correctly  to  deter¬ 
mine  the  relation  of  moral  duty  to  the  highest 
principle  of  morality.  Hence  the  same  act  which 
may  embody  in  the  eyes  of  a  few  the  highest 
adaptation  to  purpose,  may  appear  to  the  great 
crowd  as  a  revolting  contradiction,  although  both 
classes  of  critics  express  a  moral  judgment;  hence 
it  is,  that  the  emotion  kindled  by  such  acts  can¬ 
not  be  communicated  universally,  as  the  unity  of 
human  nature  and  the  necessity  of  the  moral  law 
might  lead  us  to  expect.  But  it  is  well  known 
that  even  that  wdiich  is  true  and  elevated  in  the 
highest  sense,  is  viewed  by  many  as  extravagance, 
because  the  measure  of  reason  which  takes  cog¬ 
nizance  of  the  sublime,  is  not  the  same  in  all.  A 
small  soul  is  overwhelmed  by  such  a  load  of  con¬ 
ceptions,  or  feels  painfully  stretched  far  beyond 


iESTHETICAL. 


491 


its  moral  level.  Does  not  the  great  crowd  fre¬ 
quently  see  the  most  abominable  confusion,  where 
a  thinking  mind  admires  the  highest  order? 

Thus  much  concerning  the  sense  of  moral  fit¬ 
ness  in  so  far  as  tragic  emotions  and  the  delight 
of  suffering  are  based  upon  it.  Nevertheless 
there  are  many  cases  where  a  natural  fitness 
seems  to  afford  delight  at  the  expense  of  the  mo¬ 
ral  fitness.  We  are  evidently  delighted  at  the 
consistent  manner  in  which  a  villain  arranges  his 
machinery,  although  both  contrivances  and  object 
are  contrary  to  our  moral  sense.  Such  a  man  is 
capable  of'  exciting  our  liveliest  interest,  and  we 
dread  the  failure  of  plans,  the  defeat  of  which,  if 
moral  fitness  were  the  chief  and  direct  object  of 
art,  we  ought  to  desire  with  the  most  intense  en¬ 
thusiasm.  But  this  phenomenon  does  not  do 
away  with' what  has  been  said  hitherto  about  the 
sense  of  moral  fitness,  and  its  influence  upon  our 
delight  in  tragic  emotions. 

Under  all  circumstances,  fitness,  whether  con¬ 
trary  to  morality  or  not  referring  to  it  at  all,  affords 
us  pleasure.  This  pleasure  remains  unalloyed  as 
long  as  we  do  not  become  conscious  of  a  moral 
end  which  is  violated  by  our  enjoyment.  In  the 
same  way  as  the  intelligent  instinct  of  animals, 
the  industry  of  bees,  &c.,  delight  us,  without  this 
natural  necessity  being  referred  to  an  intelligent 
will,  still  less  to  a  moral  end,  so  the  fitness  of 
every  human  business  affords  us  pleasure  as  long 
as  we  have  no  other  thoughts  concerning  it  than 
the  relation  of  means  to  an  end.  But  if  we  take  it 
into  our  heads  to  refer  this  end  and  its  means  to 
some  moral  principle,  and  if,  in  such  a  case,  we 
discover  a  contradiction  between  it  and  the  end  ; 
in  short,  if  we  are  reminded  of  this  act  being  that 
of  a  moral  being,  a  deep  indignation  takes  the 
place  of  the  former  pleasure,  and  no  fitness  of  the 
understanding,  were  it  ever  so  striking,  is  capa¬ 
ble  of  reconciling  us  to  the  conception  of  a  want 
of  moral  fitness.  We  should  never  be  strongly 
reminded  that  this  Richard  III.,  this  Iago,  this 
Lovelace,  are  men ;  otherwise  an  interest  in  these 
characters  would  inevitably  change  to  the  oppo¬ 
site.  Daily  experience  shows  that  we  possess  and 
frequently  exercise  the  faculty  of  turning  our  at¬ 
tention  voluntarily  from  a  certain  phase  of  ob¬ 
jects  to  some  other  side,  and  that  the  pleasure 
which  is  alone  possible  for  us  by  this  act  of  ab¬ 
straction,  invites  us  to  perform,  and  to  dwell 
upon  it. 

Not  un frequently  an  ingenious  malice  wins  our 
favor  chiefly  because  it  is  the  means  of  promising 
for  us  the  enjoyment  of  moral  fitness.  The  more 
dangerous  the  traps  with  which  Lovelace  besets 
Clarissa’s  virtue ;  the  harder  the  trials  which  the 
ingenious  cruelty  of  a  despot  causes  the  perse¬ 
verance  of  his  innocent  victim  to  undergo,  so 
much  more  glorious  is  the  triumph  of  moral  fit¬ 
ness.  We  rejoice  at  the  power  of  a  sentiment  of 
duty  which  gives  so  much  trouble  to  the  ingenious 
cunning  of  a  seducer.  On  the  contrary,  to  the 
consistent  villain  we  impute  the  triumph  over  the 
moral  sense  which  we  know  must  become  stirring 
in  him,  as  a  sort  of  merit,  because  that  triumph 
gives  evidence  of  a  certain  force  of  mind,  and  a 
certain  fitness  of  the  understanding  not  to  suffer 


moral  emotions  to  turn  him  away  from  his  pur¬ 
pose. 

For  all  that,  it  is  undeniable  that  the  fitness  of 
villainy  can  only  cause  a  perfect  delight,  if  it  is 
annihilated  by  the  moral  fitness.  In  such  a  case 
it  becomes  the  condition  of  our  highest  pleasure, 
because  it  alone  is  capable  of  placing  the  supre¬ 
macy  of  the  moral  sense  very  prominently  before 
our  minds.  There  is  no  more  convincing  proof 
of  this  than  the  last  impression  with  which  the 
author  of  Clarissa  dismisses  us.  The  highest 
fitness  of  the  understanding  which  we  had  in¬ 
voluntarily  to  admire  in  Lovelace’s  ijitrigue  of 
seduction,  is  gloriously  defeated  by  the  fitness  of 
reason  with  which  Clarissa  opposes  this  formida¬ 
ble  enemy  of  her  innocence,  and  by  this  means  we 
are  enabled  to  combine  in  a  high  degree  the  en¬ 
joyment  of  these  two  kinds  of  fitness. 

In  so  far  as  it  is  the  object  of  the  tragic  poet  to 
procure  a  living  perception  of  the  workings  of 
moral  fitness  ;  in  so  far  as  he  makes  an  intelligent 
choice  and  use  of  the  means  adapteO  to  this  end, 
he  will  delight  the  appreciative  beholder  both 
by  the  moral  and  the  natural  fitness.  By  the 
former  he  gratifies  the  heart,  by  the  latter  the 
understanding.  .  The  great  crowd  experiences 
blindly,  as  it  were,  the  effect  which  the  artist  in¬ 
tended  to  produce  upon  the  heart,  but  does  not 
perceive  the  magic  contrivances  by  means  of 
which  art  manages  to  achieve  this  result.  But 
there  is  a  class  of  critics  on  whom  the  effect 
which  the  artist  sought  to  produce  upon  the 
heart,  is  lost,  but  whose  taste  may  be  gained  by 
the  fitness  of  the  means  that  were  employed  for 
the  achievement  of  his  object.  The  most  delicate 
cultivation  of  taste  frequently  degenerates  into 
this  contradiction,  especially  where  the  moral 
culture  does  not  keep  pace  with  the  development 
of  the  understanding.  This  class  of  critics  only 
seeks  to  gratify  its  understanding  by  the  touching 
and  the  sublime ;  this  they  feel  and  examine  with 
the  most  correct  taste :  but  beware  of  appealing  to 
their  hearts  I  Age  and  culture  lead  us  toward 
this  cliff;  for  the  character  of  the  cultivated  man 
the  highest  glory  consists  in  happily  subduing 
this  pernicious  influence.  Among  the  nations  of 
Europe,  the  French  have  been  led  nearest  to  this 
extreme,  and  as  in  all  other  things,  so  in  this,  we 
are  striving  to  follow  this  model. 


ON  TRAGIC  ART.* 

A  state  of  passional  excitement,  independent 
of  all  relation  on  the  part  of  its  object  to  the  im¬ 
provement  or  deterioration  of  our  moral  nature, 
affords  us  delight ;  we  endeavor  to  excite  sueh  a 
state  in  us,  even  though  we  should  have  to  make 
some  sacrifices  to  accomplish  this  purpose.  Our 
most  common  amusements  are  founded  upon  this 
incentive ;  it  is  not  very  material  whether  desire 
or  loathing  is  the  object  of,  such  a  state,  whether 
it  is,  by  its  nature,  agreeable  or  painful.  Expe- 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  second  numb©» 
of  the  new  Thalia,  1792. 


492 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


rience  ever  teaches  that  a  passional  state,  if  dis¬ 
agreeable,  has  a  more  powerful  charm  for  us,  and 
that  the  attraction  for  such  a  state  seems  to  hold 
inverse  relations  to  its  nature.  It  is  generally  no¬ 
ticed  that  the  sad,  the  terrible,  the  horrible  even, 
allure  us  with  irresistible  charm  ;  that  we  feel 
equally  repelled  and  attracted  by  scenes  of  woe, 
of  horror.  All  crowd  with  eager  expectation 
round  the  narrator  of  a  murder;  the  most  fanci¬ 
ful  ghost-story  is  greedily  devoured  by  us,  and 
this  greed  is  greater  the  more  our  hair  stands 
on  end. 

This  emotion  manifests  itself  with  still  greater 
intensity  at  the  sight  of  actual  objects.  A  gale, 
in  which  a  whole  fleet  perishes,  if  seen  from  the 
shore,  would  enchant  our  phantasy  as  strongly  as 
it  would  revolt  our  feeling  heart;  vye  might  find 
it  difficult  to  persuade  ourselves  with  Lucretius 
that  this  pleasure  results  from  contrasting  our 
own  safety  with  the  dangers  of  the  gale.  How 
great  the  crowd  that  follows  a  criminal  to  the 
scene  of  his  tortures  !  Such  a  phenomenon  can 
neither  be  accounted  for  by  the  delight  of  a  satis¬ 
fied  love  of  justice,  nor  by  the  ignoble  pleasure 
of  gratified  revenge.  In  the  hearts  of  the  spec¬ 
tators  this  wretch  may  even  be  excused,  the  warm¬ 
est  pity  may  desire  to  work  for  his  preservation  ; 
in  spite  of  this,  a  curious  desire  is  excited,  with 
more  or  less  intensity,  in  the  heart  of  the  spectator, 
to  witness  with  eye  and  ear  the  expression  of  his 
tortures.  If  the  man  of  education  and  refine¬ 
ment  constitutes  an  exception  in  this  respect,  it 
is  not  because  the  incentive  of  curiosity  is  silent 
in  him,  but  because  he  is  overpowered  by'the  pain¬ 
ful  strength  of  pity,  or  is  held  in  check  by  the 
laws  of  propriety.  The  brute  son  of  nature  who 
is  not  checked  by  a  feeling  of  tender  humanity, 
abandons  himself  without  fear  to  this  powerful  in¬ 
centive.  This  must  therefore  be  founded  in  man’s 
original  moral  disposition,  and  must  admit  of  an 
explanation  by  the  general  laws  of  psychology. 

But  even  it  we  find  these  sensations  of  brute 
nature  incompatible  with  the  dignity  of  human 
nature,  and  hesitate,  on  this  account,  to  found 
upon  them  a  law  for  the  species,  yet  we  are  abund¬ 
antly  warranted  by  experience  to  believe  in  the 
reality  and  universality  of  the  delight  which  pain¬ 
ful  emotions  cause.  The  struggle  between  op¬ 
posing  inclinations  and  duties,  which  is  a  source 
of  misery  for  him  who  endures  it,  delights  the 
spectator;  with  increasing  delight  we  follow  the 
progress  of  a  passion  that  finally  draws  its  vic¬ 
tim  down  into  the  precipice.  The  same  tender 
feeling  which  frightens  us  away  from  the  sight  of 
physical  suffering,  or  from  the  physical  expression 
of  moral  suffering,  enables  us  to  experience  a  so 
much  sweeter  delight  by  sympathizing  with  a  purely 
moral  pain.  The  interest  with  which  we  dwell 
upon  descriptions  of  such  scenes,  is  universal. 

These  statements  only  apply  to  passional  states 
that  are  communicated  or  imitated  ;  for  the  close 
iclation  existing  between  the  original  state  and 
our  own  desire  for  happiness,  engages  our  atten¬ 
tion  too  intensely  to  leave  room  for  the  delight 
which  the  state  itself,  disembarrassed  from  every 
interested  relation,  of  itself  affords.  In  him  who 
is  really  ruled  by  a  painful  passion,  the  feeling  of 
pain  is  overpowering,  however  much  the  hearer  or 


spectator  may  be  enchanted  by  the  exhibition  of 
the  former’s  suffering.  Notwithstanding,  the 
original  painful  state  of  feeling  is  not  wholly 
without  delight,  even  for  him  who  is  suffering  it ; 
but  the  degrees  of  this  kind  of  delight  differ  ac¬ 
cording  as  men  are  endowed  with  different  moral 
susceptibilities.  If  restlessness,  doubt,  fear,  did  not 
offer  some  delight,  games  of  chance  would  attract 
us  much  less,  we  should  never  rush  into  danger 
with  reckless  daring,  sympathy  with  strange  people 
could  not  delight  us  most  intensely  at  the  moment 
when  the  illusion  is  greatest,  and  when  the  most 
intense  degree  of  identification  with  the  repre¬ 
senting  artist  has  been  reached.  We  do  not  mean 
by  this  that  painful  passional  states  afford  delight 
in  themselves,  nobody  will  think  of  asserting  such 
a  thing ;  it  is  sufficient  if  these  moral  states  ex¬ 
press  the  conditions  by  which  certain  kinds  of 
pleasure  are  alone  possible  for  us.  Hence  it  is 
that  minds  which  are  particularly  susceptible  to, 
and  desirous  of  these  kinds  of  pleasure,  will  be¬ 
come  more  readily  reconciled  with  these  painful 
conditions,  nor  will  they  wholly  lose  their  freedom 
even  in  the  most  violent  tumults  of  passion. 

The  relation  which  the  subject  has  to  our  sen¬ 
sual  or  moral  faculty,  causes  the  displeasure  which 
we  experience  from  disagreeable  states  of  passion, 
and  the  delight  which  we  experience  from  agree¬ 
able  states.  The  relation  existing  between  man’s 
moral  nature  and  his  sensual,  determines  the  de¬ 
gree  of  freedom  which  may  be  maintained  in 
passional  states  ;  and  since  we  know  that  moral 
things  are  beyond  the  caprice  of  choice,  and  that 
the  sensual  instinct  is,  or  at  least  should  be,  sub¬ 
ject  to  the  laws  of  reason,  it  is  evident  that  there 
is  a  possibility  of  preserving  perfect  freedom  in 
passional  states  arising  on  the  plane  of  the  selfish 
instinct,  and  of  determining  the  degree  to  which 
they  shall  be  allowed  to  expand.  This  degree 
will  be  lower  in  man  in  proportion  as  the  moral 
sense  retains  its  supremacy  over  the  desire  of 
sensual  happiness,  and  the  interested  attachment 
to  one's  own  selfhood  is  diminished  by  the  obedi¬ 
ence  to  the  general  laws  of  reason.  In  states  of 
passion  such  a  man  will  feel  less  deeply  the  degree 
to  which  a  subject  is  related  to  his  instinctive  de¬ 
sire  of  happiness,  and  will  consequently  be  much 
less  affected  by  the  want  of  delight  which*  is  the 
natural  consequence  of  such  a  relation  ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  will  pay  more  attention  to  the  rela¬ 
tion  existing  between  the  subject  and  his  moral 
nature,  and,  for  this  reason,  will  be  more  receptive 
of  the  delight  which  the  relation  to  the  moral 
law  not  uuf'requently  causes  us  to  experience  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  painful  suffering  of  the 
senses.  Such  a  moral  composition  is  most  capable 
of  enjoying  the  delight  of  pity,  and  of  keeping  even 
the  original  passional  state  within  the  boundaries 
of  pity.  Hence  the  exalted  value  of  a  philosophy 
of  life  which  weakens  in  us  the  selfish  conscious¬ 
ness  of  individual  existence  by  a  constant  refer¬ 
ence  to  general  laws,  which  teaches  us  to  lose 
sight  of  our  little  selves  in  the  sum  of  the  great 
whole,  and  enables  us  to  treat  ourselves  as  if  we 
were  strangers  to  our  reason.  This  exalted  dis¬ 
position  of  the  mind  is  the  privilege  of  strong  and 
philosophical  characters,  who  have  learned  by  un¬ 
ceasing  efforts  and  struggles  against  themselves. 


JSSTHETICAL.  .  493 


to  subdue  the  selfish  instinct.  Not  even  the  most 
painful  loss  carries  them  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  grief,  with  which  a  fair  share  of  delight  may 
still  be  allied.  Those  only  who  are  capable  of 
parting  with  themselves  as  it  were,  enjoy  the 
privilege  of  participating  in  their  own  existence, 
and  to  feel  their  own  sufferings  in  the  mild  re¬ 
flection  of  sympathy. 

What  has  been  said  so  far,  may  reveal  to  a 
great  extent  the  sources  of  the  delight  which  a 
passional  state,  and  more  particularly  a  state  of 
sadness,  may  afford  by  its  own  inherent  nature. 
We  have  seen  that  this  delight  is  greater  in  moral 
natures,  and  that  it  acts  with  so  much  more  free¬ 
dom  as  the  mind  is  less  dependent  upon  the  selfish 
principle  in  man.  It  is  moreover  more  intense  in 
states  of  sadness  where  self-love  is  mortified,  than 
in  states  of  joyfulness  which  presuppose  a  gra¬ 
tification  of  the  self-love;  hence,  it  becomes 
stronger,  if  the  selfish  instinct  is  violated,  and 
weaker,  if  it  is  flattered.  We  are  only  acquainted 
with  two  sources  of  delight,  the  gratification  of 
the  instinct  of  happiness,  and  the  fulfillment  of 
moral  laws  ;  if  it  is  shown  that  a  delight  does  not 
emanate  from  the  first  of  these  two  sources,  it 
must  necessarily  emanate  from  the  second.  Hence 
it  is  from  our  moral  nature  that  gushes  forth  the 
delight  which  the  exhibition  of  painful  passional 
states  affords  us  under  certain  circumstances,  even 
if  these  states  are  experienced  by  ourselves. 

Several  attempts  have  been  made  to  explain 
the  delight  of  pity;  but  only  few  explanations 
could  prove  satisfactory,  because  the  cause  of  the 
phenomenon,  instead  of  being  traced  to  the  nature 
of  the  passional  state,  was  traced  rather  to  ac¬ 
cessory  circumstances.  To  many,  the  delight  of 
pity  is  nothing  else  than  the  soul’s  delight  in  its 
own  sensitiveness ;  to  others  it  is  the  delight  in 
powerfully  moved  forces,  an  intense  evolution  of 
the  desiring  principle,  in  one  word,  a  gratifica¬ 
tion  of  the  instinct  of  action ;  others  derive  the 
delight  of  pity  from  the  discovery  of  morally 
beautiful  traits  of  character  which  the  conflict 
with  misfortune  and  passion  has  rendered  mani¬ 
fest.  But  the  problem  has  as  yet  remained  un¬ 
solved  why  the  pain  itself,  the  actual  suffering 
attracts  us  most  powerfully  in  those  who  are  the 
objects  'of  our  pity,  since  by  the  explanations 
which  we  have  furnished,  a  feebler  degree  of  suf¬ 
fering  evidently  should  be  more  favorable  to  what 
we  have  recited  as  the  causes  of  our  delight  in  the 
emotional  state.  The  intensity  of  the  conceptions 
that  have  been  roused  in  our  imagination,  the  moral 
excellence  of  the  suffering  persons,  the  retrospec¬ 
tive  glance  of  the  sympathizing  spectator  at  him¬ 
self,  may  enhance  the  delight  of  emotions,  but  do 
not  constitute  the  producing  cause.  The  suffer¬ 
ing  of  a  weak  soul,  the  pain  of  a  villain,  indeed 
do  not  afford  us  this  enjoyment,  but  only  because 
they  do  not  excite  our  pity  in  the  same  degree  as 
suffering  heroism  or  struggling  virtue.  The  ques¬ 
tion  therefore  again  presents  itself,  why  the  degree 
of  suffering  determines  the  degree  of  sympathetic 
delight  in  some  emotion  ;  this  question  can  only 
be  answered  by  the  proposition,  that  the  assault 
upon  our  sensual  life  is  the  very  condition  upon 
which  the  manifestation  of  the  moral  power  whose 


activity  excites  delight  in  sympathetic  sufferings, 
depends. 

This  power  is  no  other  than  reason.  In  so  far 
a,s  the  free  agency  of  reason,  as  an  absolute  and 
independent  power,  deserves  more  particularly 
to  be  designated  as  activity ;  in  so  far  as  the 
moral  nature  only  feels  perfectly  free  and  inde¬ 
pendent  when  performing  moral  acts  ;  so  far  it  is, 
indeed,  the  gratified  incentive  to  action,  from  which 
our  delight  in  sad  emotions  is  derived.  It  is, 
however,  not  the  number,  not  the  intensity  of  the 
conceptions,  not  the  agency  of  the  desiring  faculty 
generally,  but  a  definite  species  of  the  former,  and 
a  definite,  rationally-determined  agency  of  the 
latter,  upon  which  this  delight  is  founded. 

A  passional  state  that  is  communicated,  de¬ 
lights  us  because  it  gratifies  the  instinct  of  acti¬ 
vity  ;  a  state  of  sadness  produces  this  effect  in  a 
higher  degree,  because  it  gratifies  that  instinct  in 
a  higher  degree.  It  is  only  when  perfectly  free, 
when  conscious  of  its  rational  nature,  that  the 
moral  mind  manifests  its  highest  activity,  since  it 
is  only  under  such  circumstances  that  it  employs 
a  power  which  is  superior  to  all  resistance. 

A  moral  state  which  is  chiefly  favorable  to  the 
manfestation  of  this  power,  which  awakens  this 
higher  activity,  is  the  most  suitable  to  a  rational 
being,  and  most  satisfactory  to  the  instinct  of  ac¬ 
tivity  ;  hence  it  must  be  allied  to  a  high  degree 
of  delight.*  Such  a  state  is  developed  in  us  by 
the  sadness  of  passion,  the  delight  in  which  must 
surpass  the  delight  in  joyful  passional  states  in 
the  same  degree  as  the  moral  power  in  us  is  su¬ 
perior  to  the  sensual. 

That  which  is  only  a  subordinate  element  in 
the  whole  system  of  ends,  may  be  separated  by 
art  from  this  connection,  to  be  treated  as  a  chief 
end.  For  nature,  delight  may  be  only  an  indirect 
end ;  for  art,  it  is  the  highest.  Hence  it  is 
especially  the  object  of  art,  not  to  neglect  the 
exalted  delight  which  is  contained  in  the  emotion 
of  sadness.  The  art  which  makes  the  delight  of 
pity  its  special  object,  is  called  tragic  art  in  the 
most  general  acceptation  of  the  term. 

Art  accomplishes  its  object  by  imitating  nature, 
namely:  by  fulfilling  the  conditions  in  which  de¬ 
light  becomes  a  possible  reality,  and  uniting  for 
this  purpose,  according  to  an  intelligent  plan,  the 
.scattered  contrivances  of  nature,  in  order  to 
realize,  as  an  ultimate  end,  what  nature  had 
only  treated  as  a  secondary  or  incidental  end. 
Tragic  art  will,  therefore,  imitate  nature  in  such 
acts  as  are  chiefly  capable  of  awakening  the  emo¬ 
tion  of  sympathy. 

In  order  to  lay  down  general  rules  for  tragic 
art,  it  is  above  all  things  necessary  to  be  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  conditions  in  which,  according 
to  common  experience,  an  emotion  is  most  cer¬ 
tainly  and  most  intensely  enjoyed  ;  and,  at  the 
same"  time,  to  direct  one’s  attention  to  the  circum¬ 
stances  which  limit  or  even  destroy  it. 

Experience  indicates  two  opposite  causes  which 
prevent  emotions  from  being  enjoyed  :  if  the  ex¬ 
cited  pity  is  either  too  feeble,  or  else  if  it  is  ex- 

*  See  the  Treatise  on  the  Cause  of  Delight  in  Tragic 
Subjects. 


494 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


cited  so  strongly  that  the  communicated  emotion 
assumes  the  intensity  of  a  genuine  state.  The  j 
former  may  be  owing  to  the  weak  impression 
which  the  original  suffering  makes  upon  us,  in  ■ 
which  case  we  use  the  phrase  that  our  heart  re-  j 
mains  cold,  and  we  experience  neither  pain  nor 
pleasure  ;  or  else  the  difficulty  may  be  owing  to  [ 
the  presence  of  stronger. emotions  which  combat 
the  impression  that  had  been  received,  and  by 
preponderating  in  the  moral  nature,  weaken  the 
delight  of  pity,  or  totally  stifle  it. 

According  to  what  has  been  advanced  in  the  pre¬ 
ceding  essay  on  the  causes  of  delight  in  tragic  sub¬ 
jects,  every  tragic  emotion  is  prompted  by  the 
conception  of  a  want  of  fitness  which  suggests  to 
the  mind  a  superior  fitness  whenever  the  emo¬ 
tion  affords  us  delight.  It  depends  upon  the 
relation  existing  between  these  two  opposite  con¬ 
ceptions,  whether  delight  or  its  opposite  is  to  be 
the  predominating  accompaniment  of  an  emotion. 
If  the  conception  of  a  want  of  fitness  exists  more 
vividly  than  that  of  fitness,  or  if  the  violated  end 
is  more  important  than  the  end  which  has  been 
accomplished  :  dissatisfaction  will  always  predo¬ 
minate,  whether  this  proposition  applies  objec¬ 
tively  to  the  human  species  generally,  or  only  sub¬ 
jectively  to  particular  individuals. 

If  we  become  too  much  displeased  with  the 
cause  of  a  misfortune,  our  pity  with  the  person 
who  suffers  it,  becomes  weakened.  Two  totally 
different  emotions  cannot  co-exist  in  the  mind  in 
the  same  degree  at  one  and  the  same  time.  The 
iudignation  at  the  author  of  this  suffering  becomes 
the  ruling  state  to  which  every  other  emotion 
must  yield.  Our  sympathy,  for  instance,  with  the 
unfortunate,  whom  we  desire  to  pity,  is  weakened, 
if  we  know  that  lie  plunged  into  his  misery  by  his 
own  fault,  with  unpardonable  recklessness,  or 
does  not  know  how  to  save  himself,  either  because 
he  lacks  the  courage  or  the  intelligence  for  such  ! 
a  purpose.  Our  pity  for  the  unfortunate  Lear, 
who  is  so  cruelly  abused  by  his  daughters,  is  con¬ 
siderably  weakened  by  the  reflection  that  this 
weak-minded  old  man  gave  up  his  crown  with  so 
much  levity,  and  distributed  his  love  among  his 
daughters  with  so  little  discretion.  In  Cronegk’s 
tragedy  Olint  and  Sophronia,  our  pity  is  only 
feebly  excited  by  these  two  martyrs  of  their  faith, 
who  suffer  the  most  horrible  tortures,  and  our  ad¬ 
miration  is  only  feebly  excited  by  their  heroism, 
for  the  reason  that  insanity  alone  can  be  guilty  of 
an  act  like  that  by  which  Olint  brings  himself 
and  his  whole  people  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice. 

Our  pity  is  likewise  weakened,  if  the  author  of 
a  misfortune,  whose  innocent  victims  are  to  be  the 
objects  of  our  compassion,  fills  our  souls  with  detes¬ 
tation.  The  highest  perfection  of  his  work  must  al¬ 
ways  be  damaged,  if  the  tragic  poet  cannot  get 
along  without  a  villain,  and  if  he  is  compelled  to  de¬ 
rive  the  greatness  of  the  suffering  from  the  great¬ 
ness  of  malice.  This  proposition  is  corroborated 
by  Shakespeare’s  Iago  and  Lady  Macbeth,  Cleo¬ 
patra  in  Roxalana,  Francis  Moor  in  the  Rob¬ 
bers.  A  poet  who  understands  his  true  interest, 
will  contrive  misfortune  not  as  the  result  of  a 
malicious  purpose  which  intends  it,  much  less  as 
the  result  of  mental  weakness,  but  as  that  of  the 
force  of  circumstances.  If  the  misfortune  does 


|  not  originate  in  moral  sources,  but  in  external 
I  things  which  neither  have  volition,  nor  are  subject 
to  it,  our  pity  is  more  genuine;  at  any  rate,  it  is 
1  not  weakened  by  the  idea  of  a  want  of  moral 
fitness.  But  in  such  a  case  the  sympathizing 
spectator  cannot  be  spared  the  disagreeable  sen¬ 
sation  of  a  want  of  fitness  in  nature,  which  has  to 
save  the  moral  fitness.  Our  pity  reaches  a  much 
higher  degree,  if  both  he  who  suffers  and  he  who 
causes  the  suffering,  become  the  objects  thereof. 
This  can  only  take  place,  if  the  author  of  the  suf¬ 
fering  neither  excited  our  hatred  nor  contempt, 
but  is  impelled,  contrary  to  his  inclination,  to  be¬ 
come  the  author  of  the  misfortune.  For  instance, 
it  is  a  peculiar  beauty  of  the  German  Iphigenia 
that  the  King  of  Taurus,  the  only  one  who  resists 
the  wishes  of  Orestes  and  his  sister,  should  never 
lose  our  respect,  and  should  finally  compel  us 
even  to  love  him. 

This  species  of  the  pathetic  is  still  sur¬ 
passed  by  another  species  where  the  cause  of 
misfortune  is  not  only  not  contrary  to  morality, 
but  is  only  possible  through  morality,  and  where 
the  reciprocal  suffering  depends  upon  the  suspi¬ 
cion  that  both  parties  had  respectively  inflicted  it 
upon  each  other.  Of  this  kind  is  the  situation 
of  Ximene  and  Roderic  in  the  Cid  of  Pierre 
Corneille,  a  situation  which,  so  far  as  the  plot  is 
concerned,  is  undoubtedly  the  masterpiece  of  the 
tragic  stage.  Honor  and  filial  duty  arm  Roder¬ 
ick  hand  against  the  father  of  his  beloved, 
whom  he  conquers  by  his  bravery;  honor  and  filial 
duty  raise  up  a  terrible  accuser  and  pursuer 
against  him  in  Ximene,  the  daughter  of  the  slain. 
Both  are  acting  contrary  to  their  inclination,  which 
trembles  with  as  much  anxiety  at  the  thought  of 
rendering  the  persecuted  object  miserable,  as  it  is 
impelled  by  moral  duty  to  cause  this  misery.  Both 
therefore  win  our  highest  respect  because  they 
i  fulfill  a  duty  at  the  expense  of  their  inclination  ; 
both  inflame  our  pity  in  the  highest  degree,  be¬ 
cause  they  are  suffering  voluntarily  and  from  mo¬ 
tives  which  secure  to  them  our  highest  respect. 
Here  our  pity  is  so  little  disturbed  by  unpleasant 
sensations,  that  it  blazes  up  on  the  contrary,  in  a 
two-fold  flame;  it  is  only  the  inability  to  combine 
the  idea  of  misfortune  with  the  highest  fitness  for 
happiness,  that  can  cloud  our  sympathetic  de¬ 
light.  However  much  may  be  gained  by  the  fact 
that  our  indignation  at  this  want  of  fitness  does 
not  fall  upon  a  moral  personality,  but  upon  the 
necessity  of  circumstance,  yet  a  blind  submission 
to  fate  is  always  humiliating  and  mortifying  to 
free,  morally-independent  beings.  It  is  this  that 
taints  even  the  most  excellent  compositions  of  the 
Greek  stage  ;  in  all  these  compositions  appeal  is 
finally  made  to  necessity ;  and  our  reason,  which, 
however,  demands  a  rational  denouement,  is  left 
in  presence  of  an  indissoluble  knot.  But  at  the 
highest  point  to  which  the  morally-cultivated 
man  is  able  to  ascend,  and  to  which  pathos  is 
likewise  able  to  elevate  itself,  this  knot  is  solved, 
and  all  dissatisfaction  disappears  with  this  solu¬ 
tion.  buch  a  result  takes  place,  if  we  cease  to  be 
displeased  as  the  thread  of  fate  becomes  disen¬ 
tangled,  and  a  dim  intuition  or  rather  a  distinct 
consciousness  of  a  teleological  combination  of 
things,  of  a  sublime  order,  of  a  benevolent  will,  is 


JESTHETICAL. 


495 


kindled  in  the  soul.  In  such  a  case  our  delight 
in  the  existence  of  a  moral  accord  is  joined  by 
the  quickening  conception  of  a  most  perfect  fit¬ 
ness  in  the  great  whole  of  nature,  the  apparent 
violation  of  which,  in  a  single  painful  case,  stimu¬ 
lates  our  reason  to  seek  a  justification  of  this 
case,  by  the  determination  of  universal  laws,  and 
to  resolve  the  single  discord  in  the  mass  of  uni¬ 
versal  harmony.  Grecian  art  has  never  reached 
this  severe  height  of  tragic  emotions,  because 
neither  the  popular  religion,  nor  even  philosophy, 
disclosed  these  avenues  of  light.  It  is  reserved 
for  modern  art,  which  enjoys  the  advantage  of 
receiving  purer  material  from  a  more  enlightened 
philosophy,  to  fulfill  even  this  highest  postulate, 
and  thus  to  unfold  the  whole  moral  dignity  of 
art.  Although  we  moderns  have  to  give  up  the 
expectation  of  seeing  Grecian  art  restored,  since 
the  philosophical  genius  of  the  age  and  modern 
culture  generally  are  not  favorable  to  poesy;  yet 
these  circumstances  affect  tragic  art  less  injuri¬ 
ously,  which  is  founded  upon  a  moral  element. 
Our  civilization  may,  perhaps,  compensate  tragic 
art  for  the  robbery  which  the  tendencies  of  the 
age  have  committed  on  art  generally. 

As  tragic  emotions  may  be  weakened  by  the  ad¬ 
mixture  of  unpleasant  conceptions  and  feelings, 
and  as  the  delight  which  these  emotions  cause 
may  be  diminished  by  such  influences,  so  these 
same  emotions  may  be  intensified,  by  too  close  an 
approximation  to  the  genuine  passional  state,  to 
such  a  degree  that  pain  may  become  the  prepon¬ 
derating  feeling.  We  have  stated  that  the  dis¬ 
pleasure  which  passional  states  cause,  originates 
in  the  manner  in  which  the  object  is  related  to  our 
senses,  and  that  the  delight  which  those  states 
cause,  depends  upon  the  manner  in  which  they 
themselves  are  related  to  our  own  moral  condition. 
Hence  between  the  senses  and  the  moral  sphere  a 
definite  relation  is  supposed  to  exist,  upon  which  the 
relation  of  pleasure  to  displeasure  in  sad  emotions 
depends,  and  which  cannot  be  altered  or  reversed, 
without  at  the  same  time,  reversing  the  sensations 
of  pleasure  or  displeasure  which  accompany  the 
emotions,  or  converting  them  into  their  opposite. 
The  more  vividly  the  sensual  power  is  excited,  the 
more  feebly  the  moral  sense  will  act.  and  vice 
versa ,  the  more  the  sensual  power  is  diminished, 
the  more  the  moral  power  will  be  strengthened. 
That  which  causes  the  sensual  power  to  prepon¬ 
derate  in  the  mind,  must  diminish  our  delight  in 
emotions  which  emanate  from  a  moral  source, 
for  the  very  reason  that  the  moral  susceptibility 
Las  become  depressed  ;  on  the  contrary, whatever 
heightens  this  susceptibility,  must  take  away  the 
sting  of  pain,  even  if  the  passional  states  should 
be  experienced  by  ourselves.  Our  sensual  sus¬ 
ceptibility  acquires  this  preponderance,  if  our  con¬ 
ception  of  the  person’s  suffering  becomes  so  in¬ 
tense  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  discriminate 
between  a  communicated  and  an  original  passional 
emotion,  between  our  own  selfhood  and  that  of 
the  suffering  subject,  between  truth  and  fiction. 
This  susceptibility  becomes  likewise  preponder¬ 
ating,  if  it  is  fed  by  accumulating  the  objects  of 
’ts  interested  attention,  and  by  the  dazzling  light 
which  an  excited  imagination  spreads  over  it. 
Nothing,  on  the  contrary,  is  more  calculated  to 


restrain  it  within  proper  limits  than  the  assist¬ 
ance  of  super-sensual,  moral  ideas,  by  which  the 
suppressed  reason  is  raised  up  again  as  by  spiri¬ 
tual  supports,  and  is  enabled  to  elevate  itself  into 
a  bright  sky  beyond  the  cloudy  region  of  senti¬ 
ment.  Hence  the  great  charm  which  general 
truths  or  moral  axioms,  if  the  dramatic  dialogue 
is  appropriately  interspersed  with  them,  have.had 
for  all  civilized  nations,  and  the  almost  extrava¬ 
gant  use  which  already  the  Greeks  made  of  the:;.. 
Nothing  occurs  more  opportunely  for  a  moral 
character,  after  the  long  continuance  of  a  passive 
state  of  suffering,  than  to  be  roused  from  the 
bondage  of  the  senses,  and  to  be  re- instated  into 
a  condition  of  freedom  and  moral  independence. 

Thus  much  of  the  causes  which  limit  our  pity, 
and  oppose  the  enjoyment  of  sad  emotions.  Let 
us  now  enumerate  the  conditions  which  favor  the 
existence  of  pity,  and  most  infallibly  and  in¬ 
tensely  awaken  the  delight  of  emotions. 

All  pity  presupposes  conceptions  of  suffering; 
the  intensity  of  the  former  is  proportionate  to  the 
vividness,  truth,  completeness  and  duration  of  the 
latter. 

1.  The  more  vivid  the  conceptions,  the  more 
warmly  the  feelings  are  invited  to  participate  :  the 
more  intensely  the  sensual  power  becomes  excited, 
and  hence  the  more  actively  the  moral  power  is 
invited  to  resist.  Conceptions  of  suffering  may 
be  arrived  at  in  two  different  ways  which  are  not 
equally  favorable  to  the  vividness  of  the  impres¬ 
sion.  We  are  much  more  strongly  affected  by 
sufferings  which  we  witness,  than  by  those  which 
are  communicated  to  us  orally  or  in  writing.  The 
former  arrest  the  free  play  of  our  imagination, 
and,  striking  our  senses  immediately,  find  the 
shortest  road  to  our  heart.  Narration,  on  the 
contrary,  first- elevates  the  special  to  something 
general,  which  afterward  enables  us  to  appreciate 
the  particular  case  ;  an  operation  of  the  understand¬ 
ing  which  must  necessarily  weaken  the  impression. 
A  feeble  impression  cannot  hold  undivided  pos¬ 
session  of  the  moral  sphere,  and  heterogeneous  in¬ 
fluences  will  be  allowed  to  operate,  disturbing  the 
impression  and  scattering  the  attention.  Very 
frequently  narration  causes  us  to  substitute  for 
the  passional  state  of  the  active  agent  the  condi¬ 
tion  of  the  narrator,  by  which  the  illusion  which 
is  so  necessary  to  the  development  of  pity,  is  in¬ 
terrupted.  As  often  as  the  narrator  urges  his  own 
personality  upon  our  attention,  the  action  is  inter¬ 
rupted,  and  our  sympathizing  emotions  must  neces¬ 
sarily  experience  a  corresponding  check  ;  this  is 
even  the  case  if  the  dramatic  poet  forgets  himself 
in  the  dialogue,  and  makes  the  personating  artist  in¬ 
dulge  in  observations  which  could  onlybemadeby 
the  cold  spectator.  There  is  hardly  any  of  our 
modern  tragedies  that  is  completely  free  from  this 
fault,  but  the  French  alone  have  elevated  it  to  the 
rank  of  a  rule.  An  immediate  and  living  presence 
and  actual  representation  are  therefore  required, 
in  order  to  impart  to  our  conceptions  of  suffering 
the  force  without  which  no  high  degree  of  emotion 
can  exist. 

2.  But  if  these  impressions  of  a  person’s  suffer¬ 
ings  are  wanting  in  truth,  they  may  be  ever  so 
vivid  without  exciting  a  sensible  degree  of  pity. 
We  have  to  form  a  conception  of  the  suffenng 


496 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  which  we  are  expected  to  sympathize  ;  to  this 
end,  there  must  be  an  agreement  between  the  suf¬ 
fering  and  something  that  existed  in  us  previously. 
The  possibility  of  pity  depends  upon  the  percep¬ 
tion  or  supposition  of  a  similarity  between  us  and 
the  suffering  subject.  Wherever  this  similarity 
is  perceived,  pity  becomes  a  necessary  result ; 
where  it  is  wanting,  pity  is  impossible.  The  more 
visible  and  perfect  the  similarity,  the  more  in¬ 
tense  our  pity  ;  the  slighter  the  similarity,  the 
weaker  the  pity.  If  we  are  to  feel  the  passional 
state  of  another  person  by  imitation,  all  the  condi¬ 
tions  of  this  state  must  be  present  in  us  ;  other¬ 
wise  the  external  cause  which,  by  its  union  with 
these  conditions,  gave  rise  to  the  passional  state, 
could  not  produce  a  similar  effect  in  us.  We 
should  be  enabled  without  constraint,  to  exchange 
the  personality  of  the  doer  for  our  own,  and  to 
ingraft,  for  the  time  being,  his  state  upon  our  own 
selfhood.  But  how  is  it  possible  to  feel  another 
man’s  state  in  us,  unless  we  first  see  ourselves  re¬ 
flected  by  him  ? 

This  similarity  extends  to  the  whole  foundations 
of  the  moral  mind,  inasmuch  as  they  are  universal 
and  necessary.  Universality  and  necessity  are 
chief  ingredients  of  our  moral  nature.  The  sen¬ 
sual  faculty  may  be  prompted  to  changes  in  its 
manifestation  by  accidental  causes  ;  even  the  per¬ 
cipient  faculties  are  subject  to  changeable  condi¬ 
tions  ;  o*ur  moral  nature  alone  obeys  its  own  laws, 
and  is,  therefore,  the  most  fit  to  furnish  a  general 
and  sure  standard  of  similarity.  Hence  we  desig¬ 
nate  as  true,  a  conception  which  agrees  with  our 
peculiar  mode  of  thinking  and  feeling,  which  holds 
relations  of  affinity  to  our  thoughts,  which  is 
readily  seized  and  ingrafted  upon  the  sphere  of 
our  emotions.  If-  the  similarity  concerns  the 
peculiar  individuality  of  our  emotive  sphere,  the 
peculiar  expression  of  the  general  human  type  in 
us,  which  may  be  supposed  as  non-existing  with¬ 
out  damaging  this  general  image  of  humanity 
within  us.  the  conception  is  true  only  for  us  ;  but 
if  the  similarity  refers  to  the  general  and  neces¬ 
sary  form  which  is  supposed  to  be  characteristic 
of  the  human  type  and  species,  the  truth  may  be 
said  to  be  of  an  objective  character.  To  the  Ro¬ 
man,  the  verdict  of  the  first  Brutus,  the  suicide 
of  Cato,  possess  objective  truth.  The  concep¬ 
tions  and  feelings  from  which  the  acts  of  these 
two  men  emanate,  are  not  immediate  develop¬ 
ments  of  the  common  nature  of  man,  but  of  their 
own  specially-determined  individualities.  In  order 
to  share  these  feelings  with  them,  we  should  have 
to  possess  Roman  dispositions,  or,  at  any  rate,  a 
momentary  ability  to  acquire  them.  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  it  is  sufficient  to  be  simply  man,  in  order  to 
be  filled  with  intense  and  elevated  emotions  by  the 
heroic  sacrifice  of  Leonidas,  by  the  calm  resigna¬ 
tion  of  Aristides,  by  the  voluntary  death  of  Soc¬ 
rates,  and  to  be  moved  to  tears  by  the  terrible 
change  in  the  fortunes  of  Darius.  In  opposition 
to  the  former,  we  designate  such  conceptions  as 
objectively  true,  because  they  harmonize  with  the 
common  nature  of  man,  and,  from  this  harmony, 
derive  as  rigid  a  universality  and  necessity  as 
it  they  were  independent  of  every  subjective  con¬ 
dition. 

For  all  that,  a  description  or  scene  which  is  I 


subjectively  true,  and  presupposes  the  existence 
of  accidental  determinations,  should  not  be  con¬ 
founded  with  determinations  of  an  arbitrary  char¬ 
acter.  For  the  subjectively  true  flows  no  less 
from  the  general  organization  of  the  human 
mind,  which  had  been  determined  to  specific  acts 
by  special  influences,  and  of  which  both  the  ob¬ 
jective  and  subjective  manifestations  constitute 
necessary  conditions.  If  Cato’s  resolution  were 
contrary  to  the  general  laws  of  human  nature,  it 
could  not  even  be  subjectively  true.  Exhibitions 
of  the  subjective  order  have  a  more  restricted 
sphere  of  action,  because  they  presuppose  other 
determinations  beside  those  general  ones.  Tragic 
art  may  avail  itself  of  them  with  great  effect,  if  it 
is  to  be  of  an  intensive,  not  so  much  of  an  extensive 
nature  ;  nevertheless  the  absolutely  true,  the 
purely  human,  in  human  relations  will  always 
prove  the  most  fruitful  theme  of  art,  where  its 
province  becomes  universal,  without  the  necessity 
being  imposed  upon  it  of  sacrificing  the  strength 
of  the  impression. 

3.  A  third  requisite  for  the  vividness  and  truth 
of  tragic  delineation,  is  completeness.  Whatever 
external  contribution  is  required,  in  order  to  ex¬ 
cite  the  intended  emotion,  should  be  fully  ex¬ 
hausted.  If  the  spectator,  were  his  feelings 
otherwise  ever  so  Roman,  is  to  appropriate  to 
himself  the  state  of  Cato’s  soul,  if  he  is  to  iden¬ 
tify  himself  with  the  last  resolution  of  this  repub¬ 
lican  Stoic,  he  must  find  this  resolution  not  only 
founded  in  the  soul  of  the  Roman,  but  also  in  the 
circumstances  ;  he  must  see  exhibited  to  his  view 
Cato’s  situation  in  all  its  completeness  and  ex¬ 
tent,  not  a  single  link  in  the  chain  of  the  deter¬ 
minations  which  led  to  the  final  resolution  of  the 
Roman  as  their  necessary  result,  must  be  wanting. 
Without  this  completeness  the  truth  of  a  delinea¬ 
tion  is  not  recognizable;  for  it  is  only  the  simi¬ 
larity  of  circumstances  which  is  perfectly  clear  to 
our  minds,  that  can  justify  our  judgment  con¬ 
cerning  the  similarity  of  emotions,  since  an  emo¬ 
tional  state  can  only  arise  from  a  combination  of 
external  and  internal  conditions.  If  we  are  to 
decide  whether  we  would  have  acted  as  Cato  did, 
we  have  to  identify  ourselves  with  all  his  external 
circumstances,  and  then  only  we  are  authorized  to 
contrast  our  emotions  with  his  own,  to  draw  con¬ 
clusions  regarding  their  similarity,  and  to  pro¬ 
nounce  a  verdict  concerning  their  truthfulness. 

This  completeness  of  delineation  is  only  pos¬ 
sible  by  the  union  of  a  number  of  single  con¬ 
ceptions  and  emotions  which  are  related  to  each 
other  as  cause  and  effect,  and  in  their  connection, 
stand  before  our  consciousness  as  a  unit.  If  these 
conceptions  are  to  touch  us  vividly,  they  must 
make  an  immediate  impression  upon  our  sensual 
faculty,  and,  inasmuch  as  narration  always  weak¬ 
ens  this  effect,  they  must  originate  in  some  present 
action.  To  complete  the  tragic  delineation,  we 
have,  therefore,  to  present  to  the  senses  a  series 
of  single  acts  which  are  combined  in  the  tragic 
performance  as  their  unit. 

4.  If  a  high  degree  of  emotion  is  to  be  awakened 
by  the  conceptions  suggested  by  the  sight  ol  sin¬ 
tering,  they  have  to  act  upon  us  uninterruptedly. 
The  passional  or  emotional  state  which  the  suffer- 

I  ings  of  other  persons  excite  in  us,  is  a  forced  con- 


iESTHETICAL. 


497 


dition,  from  which  we  would  fain  be  released.  This 
would  cause  a  too  easy  disappearance  of  the  illusion 
which  is  so  essential  to  the  continuance  of  pity. 
Hence  the  feelings  have  to  be  chained  to  these 
conceptions  as  if  by  force,  and  have  to  be  deprived 
of  the  freedom  of  prematurely  getting  rid  of  the 
illusion.  To  achieve  this  result,  vivid  conceptions 
and  strong  impressions,  which  assail  our  senses, 
are  not  sufficient ;  for  the  more  violently  the  sen¬ 
sual  perceptions  are  excited,  the  more  powerfully 
the  soul  reacts  in  order  to  conquer  this  impression. 
A  poet  who  desires  to  excite  our  emotions,  should 
not  weaken  this  independent  power  of  the  soul  ; 
for  it  is  upon  the  conflict  of  this  force  with 
physical  sufferings  that  the  delight  of  sad  emotions 
depends.  If,  therefore,  the  moral  sentiment,  in 
spite  of  its  opposing  independence,  is  to  remain 
chained  to  the  emotions  excited  by  suffering,  they 
should  be  interrupted  at  intervals  and  with  be¬ 
coming  tact,  or  they  should  be  relieved  by  opposite 
emotions,  after  which  the  former  would  return  with 
increasing  force,  and  the  vividness  of  the  former 
impression  would  be  restored.  Against  exhaus¬ 
tion,  against  the  blunting  effect  of  habit,  a  change 
of  emotions  is  the  most  powerful  remedy.  A 
change  of  this  kind  quickens  the  exhausted  senses 
with  new  life,  and  a  graduated  succession  of  im¬ 
pressions  rouses  the  moral  power  to  a  proportion¬ 
ate  resistance.  'Phis  should  be  unremittingly  busy 
in  maintaining  its  freedom  against  all  sensual  con¬ 
straint,  but  it  should  not  conquer  till  the  close, 
much  less  it  should  succumb  in  the  conflict;  in 
the  former  case  there  would,  otherwise,  be  no 
suffering,  and  no  action  in  the  latter,  whereas 
emotion  results  from  the  union  of  the  two.  The 
great  secret  of  tragic  art  resides  in  the  skillful 
management  of  this  conflict ;  here  she  shows  her¬ 
self  in  all  the  glory  of  her  effulgent  splendor. 

The  achievement  of  this  result  requires  a  series 
of  alternate  conceptions,  hence,  a  suitable  com¬ 
bination  of  several  acts  corresponding  to  these 
conceptions,  unwinding,  like  a  ball  of  thread,  the 
main  action,  and  gradually  and  completely  devel¬ 
oping  the  intended  tragic  impression,  and  finally 
holding  the  mind  captive  as  in  a  net.  The  artist, 
if  I  may  employ  this  figure,  first  gathers  up  with 
careful  economy  all  the  single  rays  of  the  subject 
which  he  intends  to  use  as  the  instrument  of  his 
tragic  purpose  ;  in  his  hands  they  become  like  so 
many  flashes  of  lightning  which  enkindle  all 
hearts.  Whereas  the  beginner  launches  the 
thunderbolt  of  terror  and  fear  against  the  hearts 
of  his  spectators  at  once  and  without  result, 
the  tragic  master  approaches  his  end  step  by 
step,  by  a  succession  of  gradual  shocks,  which 
penetrate  the  soul  to  its  depths,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  lie  touches  it  gradually  and  without 
haste. 

Upon  deducing  results  from  these  teachings,  we 
shall  find  that  tragic  emotions  are  based  upon 
the  following  conditions  :  First,  the  object  of  our 
pity  must  belong  to  our  species  in  the  full  sense 
of  the  term,  and  the  act  for  which  our  sympathy 
is  to  be  excited,  must  be  a  moral  act,  it  must  be¬ 
long  to  the  domain  of  freedom.  Secondly,  the 
suffering,  its  sources  and  degrees,  must  be  com¬ 
municated  to  us  completely  in  a  succession  of 
united  events;  and  thirdly,  these  objects  must  be 
Vol.  II.— 82 


presented  to  our  senses  by  adequate  acts,  they 
should  not  be  simply  narrated.  In  tragedy,  all 
these  conditions  are  combined  and  fulfilled  by  art. 

According  to  this,  tragedy  may  be  defined  as 
the  poetic  imitation  of  a  coherent  series  of  events 
(a  complete  action),  which  exhibits  to  us  men  in  a 
condition  of  suffering,  and  which  has  for  its  object 
the  exciting  of  our  pity. 

First,  it  is  the  imitation  of  an  action.  The  con¬ 
ception  of  imitation  distinguishes  tragedy  from  all 
other  kinds  of  poesy  winch  simply  narrate  or 
describe.  In  tragedies,  the  single  events  are  ex¬ 
hibited  to  the  senses  or  to  the  imagination,  as  if 
actually  occurring,  immediately,  without  the  in¬ 
terpolation  of  a  third  element.  The  epopsea,  the 
novel,  the  simple  narrative,  by  their  form,  remove 
the  action  to  a  distance,  because  they  interpolate 
the  narrator  between  the  reader  and  the  acting 
persons.  But  it  is  well  known  that  distant  and 
past  things  weaken  the  impression  and  the  sympa¬ 
thizing  power  of  the  soul  ;  whereas  they  are 
strengthened  by  the  actual  exhibition  of  the  fact. 
Narration  changes  the  present  to  the  past;  the 
drama  changes  the  past  to  something  actual. 

Tragedy  is,  secondly,  the  imitation  of  a  series 
of  events,  of  an  action.  Not  only  the  emotions 
and  passional  states  of  tragic  persons,  but  the 
events  from  which  they  emanated,  and  which  de¬ 
termined  their  manifestation,  are  represented  by 
the  imitative  power  of  tragedy  ;  this  distinguishes 
it  from  lyrical  poetry,  which  imitates  certain 
emotive  states  of  the  soul,  but  not  acts.  An 
elegy,  a  song,  an  ode,  may  exhibit  to  our  senses, 
by  imitation,  the  actual  condition  of  the  poet’s 
feelings  as  controlled  or  determined  by  particular 
circumstances  (be  they  those  of  his  own  soul,  or 
ideal  conceptions);  so  far  they  are  comprehended 
in  the  category  of  tragic  poesy  ;  but  they  do  not 
completely  respond  to  the  conception  of  tragedy, 
since  they  are  limited  to  exhibitions  of  sentiment. 

Tragedy  is,  thirdly,  the  imitation  of  a  complete 
action.  A  single  event,  were  it  ever  so  tragic, 
does  not' constitute  tragedy.  Several  events  re¬ 
lated  to  each  other  as  cause  and  effect,  have  to 
belong  to  each  other  as  the  elements  of  a  logical 
unit,  if  truth — by  which  I  mean  the  accord  of  a 
represented  passional  state,  character  and  the  like, 
with  the  nature  of  our  soul,  upon  which  alone  our 
sympathy  is  based — is  to  be  recognized.  Our 
pity  will  not  be  excited,  unless  we  feel  that, 
under  similar  circumstances,  we  should  have  suf¬ 
fered  and  acted  in  the  same  manner.  It  is  there¬ 
fore  necessary  that  the  action  which  is  exhibited 
to  our  senses,  should  be  followed  up  in  its  com¬ 
pleteness,  and  that,  under  the  co-operation  of 
external  circumstances,  we  should  see  it  flow  by 
degrees  from  the  soul  of  its  author.  Thus  it  is 
that  the  curiosity  of  CEdipus  and  the  jealousy  of 
Othello  arise,  grow,  and  finally  reach  their  cul¬ 
minating  point  before  our  eyes.  Thus  alone  we 
can  fill  the  great  gap  which  is  found  to  exist  be¬ 
tween  the  peace  of  a  guiltless  soul  and  the  tor¬ 
ments  of  a  crime-oppressed  conscience,  between 
the  proud  safety  and  the  frightful  ruin  of  a  happy 
person,  in  short,  between  the  spectator’s  calm 
state  of  mind  at  the  commencement,  and  the 
violent  tumult  of  his  emotions  at  the  close  of  the 
performance. 


498 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


A  series  of  several  coherent  events  is  required 
to  excite  in  us  a  variation  of  emotions,  that  keeps 
the  attention  roused,  that  claims  the  exercise  of 
every  faculty  of  our  minds,  that  stimulates  the 
exhausted  desire  for  action,  and  inflames  it  to 
greater  energy  by  a  slow  and  gradual  gratification. 
Against  physical  sufferings  the  feelings  have  no 
redress  except  in  the  bosom  of  moral  nature.  In 
order  to  rouse  this  nature  to  action,  the  tragic 
artist  has  to  prolong  the  tortures  of  the  senses; 
but  he  should  likewise  afford  sensual  gratification, 
in  order  to  render  the  triumph  of  moral  nature  the 
more  difficult  and  glorious.  Either  of  these  ends 
can  only  be  accomplished  by  a  series  of  acts  that 
have  to  be  wisely  chosen  and  discreetly  combined 
for  such  a  purpose. 

Tragedy  is,  fourthly,  the  poetic  imitation  of  an 
action  worthy  of  our  pity,  and,  in  this  respect,  is 
the  opposite  of  history.  It  would  become  history, 
if  it  had  an  historic  object,  if  its  object  were  to 
teach  past  occurrences  and  to  inform  us  of  the 
manner  in  which  they  happened.  In  this  case,  it 
would  have  to  adhere  strictly  to  historic  truth, 
because  it  could  not  fulfill  its  object  without  a 
faithful  relation  of  actual  occurrences.  But  tra¬ 
gedy  has  a  poetic  object,  its  object  is  to  excite 
our  emotions  by  the  exhibition  of  an  action,  and 
to  afford  us  emotional  delight.  If  it  treats  a  sub¬ 
ject  in  conformity  to  the  end  it  proposes,  it  imitates 
with  perfect  freedom  ;  it  is  empowered  and  even 
obliged  to  render  historical  truth  subordinate  to 
the  laws  of  poesy,  and  to  treat  its  subject  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  its  own  wants.  However,  inasmuch 
as  it  can  only  attain  its  end,  which  is  to  excite  our 
emotions,  on  condition  that  it  should  harmonize 
with  the  laws  of  nature,  it  becomes  subject,  with¬ 
out  injury  to  its  historical  freedom,  to  the  rigid 
law  of  natural  truthfulness,  which  has  been  termed 
poetic  truth  in  opposition  to  historic.  This  shows 
how  a  strict  observance  of  historic  truth  may 
sometimes  injure  the  truth  of  poesy,  and  vice 
versa,  how  a  rude  violation  of  historic  truth  may. 
sometimes  be  of  great  advantage  to  the  poetical. 
The  tragic  poet  being,  like  every  other  poet,  sub¬ 
ject  only  to  the  law  of  poetic  truth,  the  most  con¬ 
scientious  adherence  to  history  can  never  absolve 
him  from  his  duty  as  a  poet,  can  never  serve  as 
an  excuse  for  the  violation  of  poetic  truth,  for  the 
absence  or  deficiency  of  interest  in  the  plot.  It 
would  be  entertaining  a  narrow  idea  of  tragic  art, 
or  of  poesy  generally,  if  we  would  summon  the 
tragic  poet  before  the  tribunal  of  history,  and 
would  expect  to  be  instructed  by  him  who,  by  his 
very  title,  obliges  himself  merely  to  move  and 
delight  his  readers’  hearts.  Even  if  the  poet,  out 
of  an  anxious  respect  for  history,  should  have  re¬ 
nounced  his  privilege  as  an  artist,  and  should  have 
conceded  to  history  a  silent  jurisdiction  over  his 
work,  art  justly  invites  him  before  its  tribunal, 
and,  unless  sanctioned  by  its  verdict,  the  Death 
of  Hermann,  Minona,  Fust  of  Stromberg,  would 
be  pronounced  mediocre  tragedies,  even  if  the 
costume,  and  the  character  of  the  people  and  age  ! 
had  been  imitated  ever  so  accurately. 

Tragedy  is,  fifthly,  the  imitation  of  an  action 
which  shows  us  men Jn  a  state  of  suffering.  The 
expression  “  men,”  is  not  gratuitous  in  this  defin¬ 
ition  ;  it  serves  to  accurately  define  the  limits  by 


which  tragedy  is  circumscribed  in  the  choice  of 
its  subjects.  Only  the  suffering  of  sensually-moral 
beings,  such  as  we  are,  can  awaken  our  pity. 
Beings  which  are  removed  from  the  sphere  of 
morality,  like  the  evil  demons  painted  by  popular 
superstition  or  the  imagination  of  poets ;  beings 
which  are  freed  from  all  sensual  shackles,  as  the 
pure  intelligences  appear  to  us  ;  men  who  have 
risen  above  these  shackles  to  a  greater  height 
than  is  consistent  with  human  weakness,  are  alike 
unfit  for  tragedy.  The  conception  of  suffering, 
and  suffering,  too,  in  which  we  are  to  take  part, 
implies  that  only  men  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
term  can  be  the  objects  thereof.  A  pure  intelli¬ 
gence  cannot  be  liable  to  suffering,  nor  can  a  man 
who  approximates  this  intelligence  in  an  unusual 
degree,  ever  excite  a  high  degree  of  pathos,  be¬ 
cause  he  finds  in  his  moral  nature  a  too  ready 
protection  against  the  sufferings  of  a  feeble  sen¬ 
sual  life.  An  absolutely  sensual  subject,  or  one 
who  approaches  to  it,  is  indeed  capable  of  the  most 
frightful  degree  of  suffering,  because  his  sensual 
susceptibility  is  overwhelmingly  active ;  but  not 
being  supported  by  any  moral  sentiment,  he  falls 
a  prey  to  pain,  and  from  a  state  of  suffering  which 
is  absolutely  helpless,  from  an  absolute  inaction 
of  the  reason,  we  turn  away  with  indignation  and 
loathing.  Justly,  therefore,  the  tragic  poet  ac¬ 
cords  the  preference  to  mixed  characters,  and  the 
ideal  of  his  hero  exists  at  an  equal  distance  be¬ 
tween  that  which  is  perfect  and  that  which  is  con¬ 
demn  able. 

Tragedy,  finally,  unites  all  these  attributes  for 
the  purpose  of  exciting  the  affection  of  pity. 
Some  of  the  tragic  poet’s  contrivances  might  be 
conveniently  employed  for  other  purposes,  moral, 
historical,  &c  ;  the  fact  of  his  proposing  to  him¬ 
self  this  and  no  other  end,  absolves  him  from  all 
demands  not  connected  with  it,  but  obliges  him  on 
the  other  hand,  to  conform  to  this  end  in  every 
particular  application  of  the  rules  that  have  been 
here  laid  down. 

The  final  purpose  to  which  all  the  rules  for  a 
particular  species  of  poetry  refer,  is  termed  its 
end  or  object ;  the  combination  of  the  means,  by 
which  a  species  of  poetry  attains  its  purpose,  is 
termed  its  form.  End  and  form  hold  most  exact 
relations  to  each  other.  The  form  is  determined 
by  the  end  as  necessarily  depending  upon  it,  and 
the  accomplishment  of  the  end  will  result  from  a 
happy  observance  of  the  form. 

Each  species  of  poetry  having  its  own  peculiar 
end,  it  must,  for  this  very  reason,  distinguish  itself 
from  all  other  species  by  its  peculiar  form,  for  this 
is  the  means  by  which  it  attains  its  end.  What 
it  achieves  in  preference  to  other  species  of  poetry, 
it  has  to  achieve  by  means  of  the  form  which  it 
exclusively  possesses.  The  end  of  tragedy  is  emo¬ 
tion  ;  its  form  :  imitation  of  an  action  leading  to 
suffering.  Several  species  of  poetry  may  have 
the  same  action  for  their  object,  as  tragedy. 
Several  species  of  poetry  may  aim  at  the  same 
I  end  as  tragedy,  emotion,  although  this  may  not  be 
their  chief  aim.  The  distinguishing  characteris¬ 
tic  of  tragedy  consists  in ‘the  relation  of  the  form  to 
the  end,  in  other  words,  in  the  manner  in  which  it 
treats  its  subject  with  reference  to  the  end,  and 
how  it  achieves  its  end  by  the  subject  of  the  play. 


ESTHETIC  AL. 


499 


Tf  the  end  of  tragedy  consists  in  exciting  pity, 
and  form  is  the  means  by  which  this  end  is  at¬ 
tained,  the  imitation  of  a  touching  action  must  be 
the  totality  of  the  conditions  in  which  the  affec¬ 
tion  of  pity  is  most  powerfully  roused.  The  form 
of  tragedy  is,  therefore,  most  favorable  to  the  pro¬ 
duction  of  this  affection. 

A  product  of  a  peculiar  species  of  poetry  is 
perfect,  where  the  peculiar  form  of  this  species 
has  been  best  improved  for  the  achievement  of  its 
end.  A  tragedy  is  perfect,  where  the  tragic  form, 
namely,  the  imitation  of  a  touching  action,  has 
been  best  improved  for  the  production  of  the  af¬ 
fection  of  pity.  A  tragedy  is  the  most  perfect, 
if  the  production  of  pity  is  less  the  result  of  the 
subject  employed,  than  that  of  the  best  manage¬ 
ment  of  the  form.  Such  a  tragedy  might  be  re¬ 
garded  as  the  ideal  of  tragic  art. 

Many  tragedies  which  are  otherwise  replete  with 
a  high  order  of  poetic  beauty,  are  dramatically 
faulty,  because  they  do  not  seek  to  attain  the  end 
of  tragedy  by  the  best  management  of  the  tragic 
form  ;  others  are  faulty,  because  the  tragic  form  is 
used  for  the  attainment  of  another  end  than  that 
of  tragedy.  Not  a  few  of  our  favorite  plays  touch 
us  on  account  of  the  subject,  and  we  are  suffi¬ 
ciently  awkward  or  generous  to  interpret  this  prop¬ 
erty  of  the  subject  as  a  merit  of  the  artist.  Other 
tragedies  fail  to  remind  us  of  the  artist’s  intention 
why  he  assembled  us  in  the  theatre  ;  contenting 
ourselves  with  being  amused  by  a  brilliant  display 
of  imagination  and  wit,  we  do  not  even  feel  that 
we  leave  the  house  with  unmoved  hearts.  Is 
venerable  art  (for  it  is  venerable,  if  it  appeals  to  the 
divine  portion  of  our  being)  to  plead  its  cause  by 
such  champions,  in  the  presence  of  such  critics  ? 
The  ready  contentment  of  the  public  is  encourag¬ 
ing  only  to  mediocrity,  but  insulting  and  discour¬ 
aging  to  genius. 


SCATTERED  THOUGHTS  ON  VARIOUS 
ESTHETIC  SUBJECTS* 

All  the  properties  of  things  which  may  impart 
to  these  an  aesthetic  value,  may  be  comprehended 
in  four  different  classes,  whose  objective  differ¬ 
ences  as  well  as  subjective  relations  may  create 
a  sensation  of  delight  in  our  passive  as  well  in 
our  active  faculties,  differing  both  in  strength 
as  well  as  in  worth ,  and  variously  useful  for  the 
purpose  of  the  fine  arts;  namely,  the  agreeable, 
the  good,  the  sublime,  and  the  beautiful.  Among 
these  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful  are  alone 
proper  to  art.  The  agreeable  is  not  worthy  of 
it,  the  good  is  not  its  end ;  for  the  end  of  art  is 
to  afford  delight,  and  the  good,  be  it  theoretical 
or  practical,  should  never  serve  as  a  means  to 
sensual  nature. 

The  agreeable  simply  amuses  the  senses,  thereby 
distinguishing  itself  from  the  good,  which  only 
pleases  the  reason.  The  agreeable  delights  by 
Its  material,  for  this  alone  can  affect  the  senses; 
whatever  is  form,  only  pleases  the  reason. 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  fifth  number  of 
the  new  Thalia  1793. 


The  beautiful,  it  is  true,  pleases  through  the 
medium  of  the  senses,  by  means  of  which  it  is  dis¬ 
tinguished  from  the  good  ;  but,  by  its  form,  it 
pleases  the  reason,  being  thereby  distinguished 
from  the  agreeable.  If,  may  be  said  that  the  good 
pleases  merely  by  a -form  which  is  in  accord  with 
reason,  the  beautiful  by  a  form  which  is  analo¬ 
gous  to  reason,  the  agreeable  pleases  without  any 
form.  The  good  is  thought,  the  beautiful  contem¬ 
plated,  the  agreeable  is  simply  felt.  The  good 
pleases  as  a  conception,  the  beautiful  as  a  percep¬ 
tion,  the  agreeable  in  the  sphere  of  material  sensa¬ 
tions. 

The  distance  between  the  good  and  the  agree¬ 
able  is  most  striking.  The  good  enlarges  the 
sphere  of  our  cognitions,  because  it  affords  and 
presupposes  an  idea  of  its  object ;  the  reason  of 
our  delight  is  contained  in  the  object,  though  the 
delight  itself  is  a  state  in  which  we  happen  to  be. 
The  agreeable,  on  the  contrary  produces  no  cog¬ 
nition  of  its  object,  nor  is  it  founded  upon  any. 
It  is  agreeable  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
it  is  felt ;  the  conception  of  the  agreeable  vanishes 
as  soon  as  we  imagine  the  affectibility  of  the 
senses  altered  or  entirely  done  away  with.  To  a 
chilly  man,  warm  air  is  agreeable ;  but  in  the  heat 
of  summer  this  same  man  will  prefer  a  cooling 
shade.  It  will  be  admitted  that  his  judgment 
was  correct  in  both  cases.  The  objective  is  en¬ 
tirely  independent  of  ourselves ;  what  to-day 
seems  to  us  true,  fit,  reasonable,  will  appear  so  to 
us  in  twenty  years,  provided  our  present  judg¬ 
ment  is  correct.  Our  judgment  concerning  the 
agreeable  varies  in  proportion  as  our  relation  to¬ 
ward  its  object  varies.  Hence  it  is  no  property 
of  the  object,  but  arises  from  the  relation  of  an 
object  to  our  senses;  for  the  state  of  the  senses  is 
a  necessary  condition  of  the  agreeable. 

The  good,  on  the  contrary,  is  so  already,  as 
soon  as  it  is  exhibited  and  felt.  The  property  by 
means  of  which  it  pleases,  exists  independently 
of  our  own  selfhood,  which  is  not  necessary  to  it, 
although  the  delight  which  the  good  affords  us, 
is  founded  upon  a  susceptibility  inherent  in  our 
nature.  It  may  be  said,  therefore,  that  the  agree¬ 
able  is,  because  it  is  felt ;  the  good,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  is  felt,  because  it  is. 

The  distance  between  the  beautiful  and  the 
agreeable  is  less  strikingly  perceived,  although  it 
is  considerable.  It  is  like  the  agreeable  in  this, 
that  it  has  to  be  continually  kept  before  the 
senses,  and  that  it  is  pleasing  only  as  a  phenome¬ 
non.  It  is,  moreover,  like  the  agreeable  in  this, 
that  it  neither  procures  nor  presupposes  a  cogni¬ 
tion  of  its  object.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  very 
different  from  the  agreeable,  because  it  pleases 
by  the  form  of  its  manifestation,  not  by  the  ma¬ 
terial  sensation.  It  affords  delight  to  a  rational 
being,  in  so  far  as  this  being  is  at  the  same  time 
sensual ;  but  it  affords  delight  to  the  sensual  being 
only  in  so  far  as  this  is  rational.  It  is  not  only 
pleasing  to  the  individual,  but  to  the  species,  and 
although  its  existence  assumes  a  concrete  form 
only  by  its  relation  to  sensual-rational  beings,  yet 
it  is  independent  of  all  empirical  determinations 
of  the  senses,  and  remains  unchanged  even  if  the 
private  character  of  human  beings  should  be  al¬ 
tered.  The  beautiful  has  in  common  with  the 


500 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


good,  that  by  which  it  differs  from  the  agreeable, 
and  differs  from  the  good  in  so  far  as  it  approxi- 
males  to  the  agreeable. 

By  good  we  mean  that  which  reason  considers 
conformable  to  its  theoretical  or  practical  laws. 
The  same  object,  however,  may  be  in  perfect  ac¬ 
cord  with  the  theoretical  reason,  and  yet  be  in 
the  highest  degree  contrary  to  the  practical.  We 
may  disapprove  of  the  object  of  an  undertaking, 
and  yet  admire  the  order  and  fitness  with  which 
it  is  carried  out.  We  may  despise  the  enjoy¬ 
ments  which  the  voluptuous  sensualist  makes  the 
object  of  his  life,  and  yet  we  may  praise  his  pru¬ 
dence  in  the  choice  of  means,  and  the  consistence 
of  his  principles.  That  which  pleases  us  by  its 
form  alone,  is  good,  and  the  goodness  is  absolute 
and  unconditional,  if  its  form  at  the  same  time 
constitutes  its  essence.  The  good,  likewise,  is  an 
object  of  sensation,  but  not  of  an  immediate  sen¬ 
sation,  like  the  agreeable,  nor  of  a  mixed  sensation 
like  the  beautiful.  It  does  not  excite  desire  like 
the  first,  nor  inclination,  like  the  second.  The 
pure  conception  of  good  can  only  inspire  respect. 

Having  established  the  difference  between  the 
agreeable,  the  good  and  the  beautiful,  it  is  evident 
that  an  object  may  be  ugly,  imperfect,  even 
morally  condemnable,  and  nevertheless  agreeable, 
pleasing  to  the  senses  ;  that  an  object  may  revolt 
the  senses,  and  yet  be  good,  pleasing  to  reason  ; 
that  an  object  by  its  essence  may  revolt  the  moral 
sense,  and  nevertheless  may  be  pleasing  to  the 
eye  and  appear  beautiful.  The  reason  is,  because 
in  all  these  different  conceptions  a  different  moral 
faculty  is  interested  in  a  different  way. 

But  these  categories  do  not  exhaust  the  clas- 
siticat'on  of  aesthetical  predicates  ;  for  there 
are  objects  which  are  ugly,  repulsive  to  the 
senses,  terrible,  unsatisfactory  to  the  understand¬ 
ing,  indifferent  with  regard  to  their  moral  worth, 
and  nevertheless,  pleasing  in  such  a  high  degree, 
that  we  would  willingly  sacrifice  the  pleasure  of 
the  senses  and  of  the  understanding  in  order  to 
procure  the  enjoyment  of  those  objects. 

Nothing  is  more  charming  in  nature  than  a 
beautiful  landscape  at  sunset,  in  the  twilight. 
The  rich  variety  and  the  soft  outlines  of  forms, 
the  infinitely-varying  play  of  the  light,  the  thin 
mist  in  which  the  distant  objects  are  enveloped, 
all  these  things  co-operate  to  delight  our  senses. 
The  gentle  murmur  of  a  waterfall,  the  warbling 
of  nightingales,  an  agreeable  music,  may  perhaps 
contribute  to  augment  our  pleasure.  We  seem  to 
melt  away  in  sweet  sensations  of  repose,  and  whilst 
our  senses  are  deliciously  moved  by  the  harmony  of 
hues,  of  forms  and  sounds,  the  mind  indulges  in  a 
rich  and  easy  flow  of  thoughts,  and  the  heart  is  en¬ 
chanted  by  a  flood  of  emotions. 

Suddenly  a  storm  breaks  loose,  darkening  the 
sky  and  the  landscape,  drowning  or  silencing  all 
other  sounds,  and  depriving  us  all  at  once  of  all 
these  delights.  Black  clouds  envelop  the  horizon, 
peals  of  thunder  stun  our  senses,  flashes  of  light¬ 
ning  rend  the  air,  eyes  and  ears  are  affected  by 
repulsive  horrors.  The  lightning  flashes  simply 
to  render  the  terrors  of  darkness  more  visible  ; 
we  see  it  strike  and  we  begin  to  dread  that  we 
too  miy  be  struck.  Nevertheless  it  may  occur 
to  us  that  we  have  rather  gained  than  lost  by  the 


exchange,  such  persons  excepted  in  whom  fear  de¬ 
stroys  all  freedom  of  judgment.  This  fearful 
spectacle  which  repels  our  senses  so  strongly,  at¬ 
tracts  us  in  one  respect,  and  we  contemplate  it 
with  a  sensation  which  cannot  be  exactly  called 
delight ,  but  which  is  frequently  preferred  to  it. 
This  spectacle  of  nature  is  sometimes  pernicious 
rather  than  good,  (at  any  rate  it  is  unnecessary  that 
we  should  think  of  the  usefulness  of  a  thunder¬ 
storm  in  order  to  take  pleasure  in  such  a  pheno¬ 
menon,)  it  is  repulsive  rather  than  attractive,  for 
darkness  depriving  us  of  all  the  images  which  the 
light  enables  us  to  behold,  it  can  never  please  us, 
and  the  sudden  atmospheric  concussion  by  the  thun¬ 
der,  and  the  sudden  atmospheric  illumination  by 
the  lightning,  are  contrary  to  a  necessary  condition 
of  all  beauty  which  excludes  every  sudden,  abrupt, 
and  violent  motion.  Moreover,  this  phenomenon 
is  rather  painful  than  acceptable  to  the  mere 
senses,  because  the  optic  and  the  auditory  nerves 
are  painfully  strained  and  as  violently  relaxed 
by  the  sudden  change  from  darkness  to  light, 
and  by  the  pealing  of  the  thunder.  In  spite 
of  all  these  reasons  to  the  contrary,  a  thunder¬ 
storm  is  something  very  attractive  to  one  who  is 
not  afraid  of  it. 

Again,  in  the  midst  of  a  green  and  smiling 
plain,  we  will  suppose  a  bare  and  wild  hill  that  de¬ 
prives  the  eye  of  a  portion  of  the  view.  Every 
one  will  desire  to  see  this  mound  removed  as 
something  which  disfigures  the  beauty  of  the 
landscape.  Now  let  us  suppose  this  hill  rising 
more  and  more  to  greater  and  still  greater 
heights,  without  the  rest  of  its  shape  being  al¬ 
tered  in  the  least,  so  that  the  same  relation  be¬ 
tween  its  breadth  and  height  is  preserved  upon 
a  larger  scale.  At  first  the  displeasure  which 
was  originally  experienced  at  the  sight  of  the 
mound,  will  increase,  because  its  increasing  size 
renders  it  still  more  perceptible,  more  disturbing. 
But  let  us  continue  to  increase  its  size,  until  it  has 
reached  double  the  height  of  a  steeple,  the  dis¬ 
pleasure  caused  by  the  hill  will  imperceptibly  van¬ 
ish,  making  room  for  an  entirely  different  sensation. 
After  it  has  risen  until  the  eye  is  no  longer  capa¬ 
ble  of  encompassing  its  size  within  the  field  of 
vision,  we  shall  admire  the  mountain  more  than 
the  beautiful  plain  around,  and  we  shall  be  loth 
to  exchange  the  impression  which  the  mountain 
makes  upon  us  for  another,  were  it  ever  so  beau¬ 
tiful.  Now  let  us  impart  to  this  mountain  in  our 
imagination  an  inclination  as  though  it  would 
tumble  down  at  any  moment,  the  former  sensation 
will  become  mingled  with  another  one  ;  a  feeling 
of  terror  will  arise  in  our  minds,  but  the  object 
itself  will  be  so  much  more  attractive.  But,  sup- 
|  pose  this  mountain  could  be  propped  up  by  an¬ 
other  mountain,  the  terror,  and  with  it  a  large 
portion  of  our  delight,  would  be  lost.  Suppose 
further  that  four  or  five  other  mountains,  each  of 
;  them  a  fourth  or  fifth  part  lower  than  its  predeces¬ 
sor,  were  ranged  on  a  line  with  this  mountain,  the 
first  feeling  which  its  size  awakened  in  us,  would 
be  materially  weakened  ;  a  similar  effect  would  be 

•i  ■ 

produced,  if  the  mountain  itself  were  cut  up  into 
ten  or  twelve  equal  parts,  or  if  it  were  encumbered 
with  artificial  embellishments.  All  the  changes 
that  we  had  caused  this  mountain  to  undergo  by 


J2STHKT1CAL. 


50  i 


Hi e  first  operation  was  to  increase  its  size  ;  this 
single  circumstance  was  sufficient  to  transform  an 
indifferent  mound  into  an  interesting  object  of 
contemplation.  By  the  second  operation  this  in¬ 
teresting  object  was  likewise  converted  into  an 
object  of  terror,  by  which  means  the  delight  which 
its  sight  had  afforded  us,  was  still  heightened. 
By  the  subsequent  operations  we  diminished 
the  terrific  character  of  the  object,  and  by  this 
proceeding  weakened  the  impression  of  delight. 
We  have  subjectively  diminished  the  idea  of  its 
size,  partly  by  dividing  the  attention  of  the  eye, 
and  partly  by  ranging  alongside  of  the  mountain 
smaller  mountains  which  might  be  used  by  the 
eye  as  means  of  measurement.  In  some  cases 
greatness  of  size  and  terror  may  constitute 
sources  of  delight. 

In  the  Grecian  mythology  there  is  no  more 
frightful,  and  at  the  same  time  no  more  repulsive 
figure  than  the  furies  or  Erinnyae  when  ascend¬ 
ing  from  Oi’cus  for  the  purpose  of  pursuing  a 
criminal.  Horribly  distorted  features,  emaciated 
bodies,  heads  encircled  with  serpents  in  the  place 
of  hair,  revolt  our  senses  as  much  as  they  offend 
our  taste.  But  if  these  monsters  are  imagined  as 
pursuing  Orestes,  the  murderer  of  his  mother ;  as 
brandishing  their  torches  and  chasing  him  un¬ 
remittingly  from  place  to  place,  until  indig¬ 
nant  justice  is  reconciled  and  they  disappear 
again  in  the  abyss  of  Hell,  we  dwell  upon  this 
spectacle  with  a  shudder  of  delight.  But  not 
only  the  anguish  with  which  a  criminal  is  tortured 
by  his  conscience,  and  which  the  furies  symbolize 
to  the  senses ;  even  his  unlawful  deeds,  the  very 
act  of  crime,  may  please  us  as  objects  of  tragic 
representation.  The  Medea  of  the  Greek  tragedy 
Clytemnestra,  who  murdered  her  husband;  Ores¬ 
tes,  who  killed  his  mother,  fill  our  minds  with  a 
delightful  thrill  of  horror.  Even  in  common  life, 
indifferent,  or  even  repulsive  and  offensive  objects 
begin  to  interest  us  as  soon  as  they  approximate 
to  the  monstrous  or  terrible.  A  common  and 
insignificant  man  begins  to  please  us  as  soon  as 
some  violent  passion,  which  does  not  enhance  his 
worth  in  the  least,  transforms  him  into  an  object 
of  fear  and  terror;  in  the  same  way  a  common, 
insignificant  object  becomes  a  source  of  delight 
as  soon  as  we  enlarge  its  dimensions  so  that  it 
threatens  to  pass  the  boundaries  of  our  powers  of 
comprehension.  An  ugly  man  becomes  still  more 
so  by  anger;  yet  he  may  interest  us  most  when 
ruled  by  this  passion,  provided  it  does  not  appear 
ridiculous,  but  assumes  a  terrible  expression. 
This  observation  is  even  true  in  regard  to  animals. 
An  ox  at  the  plow,  a  horse  harnessed  to  a  cart,  a 
clog,  are  common  objects  ;  but  if  we  excite  the  ox  to 
combat,  if  we  enrage  the  quiet  horse,  or  if  we  be¬ 
held  a  dog  in  rage,  these  animals  acquire  an  aesthetic 
value,  and  we  feel  disposed  to  look  upon  them 
with  feelings  of  interest  and  even  regard.  The 
disposition  to  passion,  which  is  common  to  all 
men  ;  the  power  of  sympathetic  feelings,  which 
in  nature  drives  us  to  sights  of  suffering,  of  terror, 
of  horror,  which  has  so  many  charms.for  us  in  art , 
which  invites  us  to  the  theatre,  which  excites  our 
interest  in  the  description  of  great  misfortunes  : 
all  this  shows  the  existence  of  a  fourth  source  of 


delight ,  which  neither  the  agreeable,  nor  the  beau¬ 
tiful,  nor  the  good  is  capable  of  affording. 

All  the  examples  that  we  have  cited  hitherto, 
lave,  in  common  with  each  other,  a  certain  ob¬ 
jectivity  in  the  sensations  which  they  excite 
in  us.  All  convey  the  conception  of  something 
“which  passes,  or  threatens  to  pass  our  sensual 
lowers  of  comprehension  or  resistance,”  without, 
lowever,  overwhelming  these  powers,  and  without 
crushing  in  us  the  desire  of  knowing  or  resisting. 
A  variety  is  set  before  us  which  our  perceptive 
powers  make  the  utmost  effort  to  reduce  to  unity. 
A  power  is  presented  to  us,  contrasted  with  which 
our  own  disappears,  which  we  are  nevertheless 
obliged  to  compare  with  it.  Either  it  is  an  object 
which  at  the  same  time  presents  itself  to,  and 
withdraws  itself  from,  our  perceptive  powers, 
and  which  excites  in  us  a  desire  to  realize  a  con¬ 
ception,  without  affording  us  the  hope  of  grati¬ 
fication  ;  or  it  is  an  object  that  seems  to  rise  in 
hostile  opposition  to  our  existence,  invites  us  to 
combat  and  causes  us  to  tremble  for  the  result. 
The  same  effect  upon  the  sentient  faculty  is  seen 
in  all  the  above-mentioned  cases.  All  excite  a 
restlessness  in  our  feelings,  and  arouse  their  ex¬ 
pectant  attention.  A  certain  earnestness,  which 
may  increase  to  solemnity,  takes  possession  of 
our  souls;  whilst  symptoms  of  anxiety  are  dis¬ 
tinctly  perceived  in  the  sensual  organs,  the  ueflect- 
ing  mind  contemplates  its  own  nature,  apparently 
resting  upon  an  enhanced  consciousness  of  its  in¬ 
dependent  power  and  dignity.  This  conscious¬ 
ness  must  necessarily  predominate,  if  the  great  or 
the  terrible  is  to  have  an  aesthetic  value  for  us. 
Inasmuch  as  the  mind  feels  inspired  and  elevated 
above  its  ordinary  level  by  such  conceptions,  we 
apply  to  them  the  designation  of  sublime,  although 
the  objects  themselves  may  not  be  possessed  of 
any  objective  sublimity,  and  it  may  be  more 
suitable  to  designate  them  as  elevating  or  exalt¬ 
ing. 

If  an  object  is  to  be  designated  as  sublime,  it 
has  to  be  opposed  to  our  sensual  faculties.  We 
can  imagine  two  different  relations  between  ob¬ 
jects  and  our  senses,  in  conformity  with  which 
there  must  exist  two  different  kinds  of  resistance. 
They  are  either  looked  upon  as  objects  of  which 
we  desire  to  acquire  a  knowledge,  or  else  as  a 
power  with  which  we  compare  our  own.  Accord¬ 
ing  to  this  distinction  there  are  two  kinds  ol  the 
sublime — the  sublime  of  knowledge  and  the  sub¬ 
lime  of  power. 

The  sensual  faculty  furnishes  no  other  contri¬ 
bution  to  knowledge  than  by  taking  cognizance 
of  the  existing  material,  and  ranging  its  various 
objects  in  space  and  time.  It  is  the  business  of 
the  understanding,  not  of  the  imagination,  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  and  to  assort  these  various  objects.  The 
understanding  alone  recognizes  variety,  the  imagi¬ 
nation  (as  a  sensual  faculty)  recognizes  only 
uniformity ,  and  it  is  simply  the  quantity,  not  the 
quality  of  uniform  things  which  can  establish 
differences  when  phenomena  are  perceived  as  facts 
of  the  senses.  If  the  sensual  powers  of  concep¬ 
tion  are  to  be  overwhelmed  by  an  object,  this  ob- 
ject  must  transgress  the  bounds  ot  imagination 
by  its  quantity.  Hence  the  sublime  of  knowledge 


502 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


depends  upon  number  or  quantity,  and  may,  there¬ 
fore  be  designated  as  mathematic.* 

OF  THE  2ESTHETIC  VALUATION  OF  QUANTITY. 

The  quantity  of  an  object  may  be  conceived  in 
four  totally  different  ways. 

The  steeple  which  I  see  in  front  of  me  is  a 
quantity. 

Jt  has  a  height  of  four  hundred  feet. 

It  has  a  height. 

It  is  a  high  (an  elevated)  object. 

Evidently,  each  of  these  four  judgments,  all  of 
which  refer  to  the  quantity  of  the  steeple,  ex¬ 
presses  a  different  idea.  In  the  first  two  judg¬ 
ments  the  steeple  is  regarded  as  a  quantity. 
(quantum)  ;  in  the  two  last  as  a  thing  of  large  size 
(magnum). 

Whatever  has  parts,  is  a  quantity.  Every  per¬ 
ception,  every  conception  of  the  understanding, 
has  quantity,  as  surely  as  the  latter  has  a  sphere, 
and  the  former  has  substance.  Quantity  gene¬ 
rally  cannot,  therefore,  be  understood,  if  objects 
are  said  to  be  of  different  sizes.  Here  we  mean  a 
quantity  such  as  appertains  to  an  object  exclu¬ 
sively,  not  simply  a  quantum ,  but  a  magnum. 

In  every  quantity  we  imagine  a  unity  resulting 
from  the  union  of  several  homogeneous  parts.  If 
one  quantity  differs  from  another,  the  difference 
must  consist  in  this,  that  in  the  one  quantity  a 
greater  number  of  parts  are  combined  together 
than  in  the  other,  or  in  this,  that  one  quantity  is 
part  of  another.  A  quantity  in  which  another 
quantity  is  contained  as  a  part,  constitutes  a 
magnum  with  reference  to  the  part. 

Examining  how  often  a  certain  definite  quantity 
is  contained  in  another,  is  to  measure  this  quan¬ 
tity  (if  it  is  fixed),  or  to  count  it  (if  it  is  not  fixed). 
It  depends,  therefore,  upon  the  unity  which  has 
been  adopted  as  a  measure,  whether  an  object  is 
to  be  regarded  as  a  magnum  ;  in  other  words,  all 
quantity  is  relative. 

Contrasted  with  its  unity  of  measure,  every 
quantity  is  a  magnum  ;  still  more  so  when  con¬ 
trasted  with  the  measuring  unity  of  the  former 
measure,  which  in  its  turn  becomes  a  magnum  to 
the  second  unity.  In  the  same  way  as  we  descend 
in  the  scale,  we  may  ascend.  Each  magnum  be¬ 
comes  small  as  soon  as  we  consider  it  as  con¬ 
tained  in  some  other  quantity;  where  is  the  limit, 
since  every  series  of  numbers  may  again  be  mul¬ 
tiplied  by  itself? 

By  measurement  we  may,  therefore,  arrive  at  a 
comparative,  but  never  at  an  absolute  quantity, 
which  is  no  longer  contained  in  any  other  quantity, 
and  contains  all  other  quantities  within  itself. 
What  should  prevent  the  same  process  of  the  un¬ 
derstanding'  which  had  yielded  such  a  quantity, 
from  doubling  it?  For  the  understanding  pro¬ 
ceeds  by  successive  series,  and,  guided  by  num¬ 
bers,  is  capable  of  continuing  its  synthesis  without 
end.  As  long  as  we  are  still  able  to  determine  the 
size  of  an  object,  it  is  not  as  yet  a  quantity  in  an 
absolute  sense,  and,  by  comparison,  may  be 
made  to  appear  very  small.  According  to  these 
statements,  there  can  only  be  one  absolute  quan- 

*  See  Kant’s  Critique  of  the  Alsthetic  Judgment. 


tity  in  nature,  a  quantity  per  exceu.entiam, 
namely,  the  endless  whole  of  nature  for  which 
there  exists  no  adequate  perception,  and  whose 
synthesis  cannot  be  achieved  in  time.  Since  the 
empire  of  numbers  can  never  be  exhausted,  the 
understanding  would  have  to  complete  its  syn¬ 
thesis.  The  understanding  itself  would  have  to 
fix  upon  some  unity  as  the  highest  limit  of  meas¬ 
ure,  and  simply  declare  great  any  thing  exceeding 
this  limit. 

This  takes  place  if  I  say  of  the  steeple  in  front 
of  me  that  it  is  high,  without  determining  its 
height.  Here  I  do  not  measure  by  comparison, 
yet  I  cannot  ascribe  absolute  height  to  the  steeple, 
since  nothing  prevents  me  from  increasing  this 
height  in  my  imagination.  The  mere  sight  of 
the  steeple  would  have  to  constitute  an  extreme 
measure,  and  I  should  have  to  be  able  to  imagine 
that  the  expression :  this  steeple  is  high,  would 
imply  the  extreme  limit  of  height  for  every 
other  steeple.  Hence  height  is  an  ingredient 
of  the  idea  of  steeple,  and  is  simply  a  measure 
peculiar  to  the  species. 

A  certain  maximum  of  size  is  prescribed  for 
every  thing,  depending  upon  the  species  (if  it  is  a 
work  of  nature),  or  (if  it  is  the  work  of  man’s  own 
free  will)  determined  by  the  limits  of  the  efficient 
cause,  and  by  the  end  for  which  the  thing  is  de¬ 
signed.  In  the  perception  of  objects  we  resort  to 
this  mode  of  measurement  with  more  or  less  con¬ 
sciousness  ;  but  our  sensations  differ  according  as 
the  measure  which  we  use  as  a  standard  of  unity, 
is  more  or  less  accidental  or  necessary.  If  an  ob¬ 
ject  exceeds  our  conception  of  its  species,  it  may 
excite  in  us  a  feeling  of  wonderment.  We  are 
surprised,  our  experience  expands  ;  but  in  so  far  as 
we  do  not  feel  interested  in  the  object  itself,  wre 
shall  experience  no  other  sensation  than  that  of 
surpassed  expectation.  We  have  abstracted  that 
measure  from  a  series  of  observations,  but  there 
is  no  reason  why  it  should  always  occur.  But  if 
a  product  of  man’s  free  agency  exceeds  our  con¬ 
ception  of  the  limits  of  the  efficient  cause,  we 
shall  feel  a  certain  degree  of  admiration.  In  an 
experience  of  this  kind  we  are  not  only  surprised 
by  the  fact  that  our  expectations  have  been  sur¬ 
passed,  but  by  the  sensation  that  barriers  have 
been  removed.  Yonder,  our  attention  wras  simply 
arrested  by  the  product  which  of  itself  was  indif¬ 
ferent  ;  here,  the  attention  is  attracted  by  the  pro¬ 
ducing  force  which  is  of  a  moral  character  or  be¬ 
longs,  at  least,  to  a  moral  being,  and,  for  this  rea¬ 
son,  must  be  an  object  of  interest  to  us.  This  in¬ 
terest  will  rise  in  proportion  as  the  force  which 
constituted  the  active  principle  or  agent,  was 
more  noble  or  more  important,  and  it  was  more 
difficult  to  overleap  the  barrier  which  has  been 
removed.  A  horse  of  an  unusual  size  may  afford 
us  an  agreeable  surprise,  but  we  shall  be  still  more 
surprised  at  the  skillful  and  vigorous  rider  who 
controls  its  movements.  If  we  see  him  leap  with 
this  horse  over  a  wide  and  aeep  ditch,  we  are  as¬ 
tonished  ;  and  if,  moreover,  we  see  him  dash 
against  the  .enemy,  our  astonishment  is  united 
with  respect,  and  finally  increases  to  admiration. 
In  the  latter  case  we  treat  his  action  as  a  dyna¬ 
mic  quantity  to  which  we  apply  our  conception 
of  human  bravery  as  a  measure,  and  the  questioa 


2ESTHET1CAL. 


503 


f . 


now  is,  how  we  should  feel  under  similar  circum¬ 
stances,  and  what  we  consider  as  the  extreme 
limit  of  courage. 

It  is  quite  different,  if  our  quantitative  concep¬ 
tion  of  the  end  is  exceeded.  Here  we  do  not 
adopt  an  empirical  and  accidental,  but  a  rational 
and  necessary  standard  of  measurement  which 
cannot  be  exceeded  without  destroying  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  the  object.  The  size  of  a  dwelling-house 
depends  exclusively  upon  its  purpose ;  the  size  of 
a  steeple  can  only  be  determined  by  the  limits  of 
architecture.  If  I  find  the  house  too  large  for 
its  object,  I  dislike’  it.  On  the  contrary,  if  the 
steeple  exceeds  my  idea  of  the  height  of  steeples, 
this  excess  will  delight  me  all  the  more.  Why? 
Because  the  former  is  a  contradiction,  the  latter, 
on  the  contrary,  an  unexpected  accord  with  what 
I  am  looking  for.  I  am  perfectly  willing  that 
limits  should  recede,  but  not  that  the  end  should 
be  missed. 

When  predicating  of  an  object  that  it  is  large, 
without  stating  how  large  it  is,  I  do  not  attribute 
to  it  absolute  size,  to  which  no  measure  is  ade¬ 
quate  :  I  merely  do  not  express  the  measure  to 
which  I  subject  the  size,  in  the  supposition  that 
size  is  a  necessary  ingredient  of  the  general  idea. 

I  do  not  determine  its  size  wholly,  with  reference 
to  all  imaginable  things,  but  partially,  with  refer¬ 
ence  to  a  certain  class  of  things,  hence  objectively 
and  logically,  since  T  enunciate  a  relation  and  pro¬ 
ceed  in  accordance  with  a  rational  conception. 

This  conception  may  be  empirical,  hence  acci¬ 
dental,  in  which  case  my  judgment  can  only  have 
subjective  validity.  I  make  perhaps  the  size  of 
certain  varieties  the  size  of  the  species  ;  I  regard 
perhaps  as  an  objective  limit  what  is  only  the 
limit  of  my  own  subjective  powers  ;  I  have  perhaps 
based  my  judgment  upon  my  own  private  notion  of 
the  use  and  object  of  a  thing.  With  reference  to 
the  object  itself,  my  valuation  of  quantity  may  be 
altogether  subjective,  although,  as  far  as  the  form 
is  concerned,  it  is  objective,  in  other  words,  a 
real  determination  of  proportionate  quantity. 
The  European  looks  upon  the  Patagonian  as  a 
giant,  and  his  judgment  is  regarded  as  valid  by 
those  whose  size  suggested  to  him  the  measure  of 
human  height ;  in  Patagonia,  on  the  contrary,  his 
judgment  would  not  be  admitted.  Nowhere  the 
influence  of  subjective  reasons  upon  the  judgments 
of  men  is  more  perceptible  than  in  their  valuation 
of  quantities,  in  the  sphere  of  material  as  well  as 
immaterial  things.  We  may  suppose  that  every 
man  is  endowed  with  a  certain  measure  of  power 
and  virtue  which  serves  him  as  a  guide  in  measur¬ 
ing  the  value  of  moral  things.  A  miser  may  re¬ 
gard  a  dime  as  a  great  proof  of  his  liberality, 
whereas  a  generous  man  would  regard  a  threefold 
larger  amount  as  too  insignificant.  A  common 
man  deems  himself  very  honest  simply  because 
he  does  not  cheat,  another  of  more  delicate  per¬ 
ceptions  frequently  hesitates  to  appropriate  a  law¬ 
ful  profit. 

Although  in  all  such  cases  the  measure  is  sub¬ 
jective,  yet  the  measurement  itself  is  objective  ; 
for  we  have  but  to  generalize  the  measure,  and 
the  determination  of  the  quantity  will  be  univer¬ 
sally  the  same.  This  result  is  actually  obtained 
with  the  objective  measures  in  universal  use,  al¬ 


though  all  have  a  subjective  origin  and  are  sug¬ 
gested  by  the  human  body. 

All  comparative  valuation  of  quantity,  whether 
ideal  or  material,  whether  determining  the  quan¬ 
tity  totally  or  partially,  leads  only  to  relative, 
never  to  absolute  quantities;  for,  even  if  an  object 
actually  exceeds  the  measure  which  we  regard  as 
the  highest  and  extremest,  we  may  still  inquire, 
liow  many  times  this  measure  is  exceeded.  Com¬ 
pared  to  its  species  the  object  is  indeed  a  magnum, 
but  not  the  greatest  possible  magnum,  and  the 
boundary  being  once  passed,  the  progression  may 
be  endlessly  continued.  But  we  are  looking  for 
the  absolute  quantity,  which  alone  contains  within 
itself  the  ground  of  a  preference,  since  all  com¬ 
parative  quantities,  as  such,  are  alike.  Since 
nothing  can  compel  the  understanding  to  stop  its 
office,  the  imagination  will  have  to  limit  its  ex¬ 
ercise.  In  other  words,  the  valuation  of  quantity 
must  cease  to  be  logical,  it  has  to  be  performed 
aesthetically. 

In  estimating  a  quantity  logically,  I  refer  it  to 
my  powers  of  cognition  ;  in  estimating  it  aestheti¬ 
cally  I  consider  it  with  reference  to  my  sentient 
faculty.  In  the  former  case  my  experience  is  con¬ 
fined  to  something  of  the  subject,  in  the  latter 
case  my  experience  is  confined  to  myself,  originat¬ 
ing  in  the  quantity  placed  before  me.  Yonder,  I 
perceive  something  outside  of  myself;  here,  some¬ 
thing  within  me.  Hence  I  no  longer  measure,  pro¬ 
perly  speaking,  I  no  longer  estimate  a  quantity, 
but  I  look  upon  myself  for  the  time  being  as 
a  quantity,  and  moreover  as  an  endless  quan¬ 
tity.  An  object  which  transforms  me  to  myself 
into  an  endless  quantity,  is  designated  as  sublime. 

The  sublime  of  quantity  is,  therefore,  no  ob¬ 
jective  quality  of  the  thing  to  which  it  is  ascribed  ; 
it  is  simply  the  effect  of  our  own  individuality 
superinduced  by  that  object.  On  the  one  hand  it 
results  from  the  consciously-perceived  inability  of 
the  imagination,  to  attain  in  the  determination  of 
quantity  the  totality  postulated  by  the  reason, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  from  the  consciously- 
perceived  ability  of  the  reason,  to  set  up  such  a  pos¬ 
tulate.  Upon  the  former  circumstance,  the  repel¬ 
ling,  and  upon  the  latter  the  attracting  power  of 
the  great  and  the  sensually-infinite  are  founded. 

Although  the  sublime  is  a  phenomenon  which 
is  only  generated  within  our  own  individuality, 
yet  the  reason  why  these  and  no  other  objects  de¬ 
termine  us  to  make  this  use  ot  them,  must  be 
contained  in  the  objects  themselves.  And  since, 
in  making  up  our  judgment,  we  attribute  the 
predicate  of  sublime  to  the  object  (by  which  act 
we  show  that  we  do  not  carry  out  this  combina¬ 
tion  voluntarily,  but  in  the  name  of  a  law  which 
we  desire  to  see  recognized  and  obeyed  by  every 
body),  there  must  exist  in  our  personality  a  neces¬ 
sary  reason  why  we  make  this  and  no  other  use 
of  a  certain  class  of  objects. 

Hence  there  are  internal  as  well  as  external 
necessary  conditions  of  the  mathematieally-sub- 
litne.  Among  the  former  we  class  a  certain  de¬ 
finite  relation  between  the  reason  and  the  imagina¬ 
tion  ;  among  the  latter,  a  definite  relation  of  the 
object  before  us  to  our  aesthetic  valuation  of  quan- 
tity. 

If  the  great  is  to  move  us,  both  the  imagination 


504 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  the  reason  have  to  manifest  themselves  with 
a  certain  decree  of  force.  Of  the  imagination,  we 
demand  that  it  should  strain  all  its  powers  of 
comprehension  to  define  the  idea  of  the  absolute, 
which  the  reason  is  unremittingly  insisting  upon. 
If  the  imagination  is  inactive  or  indolent,  or  if 
the  mind  is  tending  to  intellectual  perceptions 
rather  than  to  intuitive  cognitions,  the  sublimest 
object  will  remain  a  purely  logical  thing,  which 
is  not  even  brought  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
.esthetic  judgment.  This  is  the  reason  why  men 
of  extraordinary  analytical  powers  rarely  show 
much  susceptibility  for  the  aesthetically  great. 
Either  their  imagination  is  not  sufficiently  active 
to  engage  in  the  conception  of  the  absolute  of 
reason,  or  else  their  understanding  is  too  busy  to 
appropriate  this  subject  to  itself ,  and  to  transfer  it 
from  the  sphere  of  intuition  to  its  own  discursive 
domain. 

Without  a  certain  power  of  imagination  a  great 
object  cannot  become  aesthetic  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
without  a  certain  force  of  reason,  the  aesthetic  ob¬ 
ject  cannot  become  sublime.  The  idea  of  the 
absolute  requires  a  more  than  common  develop¬ 
ment  of  the  higher  rational  faculty,  a  certain  rich¬ 
ness  of  ideas,  and  a  more  intimate  acquaintance 
on  the  part  of  man  with  his  nobler  self.  He 
whose  reason  is  not  yet  developed,  will  not  know 
how  to  make  a  super-sensual  use  of  sensual  great¬ 
ness.  Reason  will  not  interfere  in  this  business, 
which  will  be  left  exclusively  to  the  imagination  or 
the  understanding.  When  left  to  itself,  imagina¬ 
tion  will  hesitate  to  enter  upon  a  process  of  com¬ 
bination  which  is  painful  to  it.  Hence  it  contents 
itself  with  a  simple  apprehension  of  the  object, 
nor  does  it  dream  of  generalizing  its  conceptions. 
Hence  the  stupid  insensibility  with  which  the 
savage  resides  in  the  bosom  of  the  sublimest  na¬ 
ture,  and  surrounded  by  the  symbols  of  the  infinite, 
without  being  roused  by  this  greatness  from  his 
animal  slumber,  without  even  suspecting  in  the 
remotest  degree  the  great  Spirit  of  Nature,  who 
reveals  himself  by  this  immensity  of  the  sensual 
to  every  feeling  soul. 

What  the  rude  savage  stares  at  wTith  a  stupid 
insensibility,  the  enervated  sensualist  flies  from  as 
from  an  object  of  horror  which  makes  him  con¬ 
scious  of  his  weakness  instead  of  his  power.  His 
narrow  heart  feels  painfully  strained  by  great  con¬ 
ceptions.  His  imagination  may  be  sufficiently 
excitable  to  attempt  a  conception  of  the  sensually- 
immense,  but  his  reason  is  not  sufficiently  inde¬ 
pendent  to  achieve  this  undertaking  with  success. 
He  attempts  to  reach  the  top  of  the  eminence, 
but  he  falls  down  exhausted  after  having  finished 
half  his  journey.  He  struggles  against  the  ter¬ 
rible  genius,  but  only  with  terrestrial,  not  with 
immortal  arms.  Conscious  of  his  weakness,  he 
prefers  withdrawing  from  a  spectacle  which  strikes 
him  down,  and  seeks  aid  of  the  great  comforter  of 
all  weak-minded  mortals,  the  rule  of  the  law.  If 
he  is  himself  unable  to  elevate  himself  to  the 
greatness  of  nature,  nature  has  to  descend  to  his 
own  small  powers  of  conception.  She  has  to  ex¬ 
change  her  bold  forms  for  artificial  ones  which 
are  strange  to  her,  but  necessary  to  his  effeminate 
senses.  She  has  to  subject  her  will  to  his  iron 
yoke,  and  has  to  accommodate  herself  to  the 


fetters  of  mathematical  regularity.  In  this  way 
we  arrive  at  a  taste  like  the  old  French  taste  in 
laying  out  gardens,  which  has  almost  completely 
given  way  before  the  English  taste,  without  true 
taste  having  gained  thereby  in  a  perceptible  de¬ 
gree.  For  the  character  of  nature  is  no  less  mere 
variety  than  uniformity.  Her  sedate  and  calm 
earnestness  is  incompatible  with  the  sudden  and 
frivolous  transitions  with  which  the  modern  taste 
in  the  laying  out  of  squares  and  gardens  causes 
her  to  leap  from  one  figure  to  another.  In  sub¬ 
mitting  to  changes,  she  does  not  divest  herself  of 
her  harmonious  unity  ;  she  hides  her  fullness  with  a 
modest  simplicity,  and  even  while  luxuriating  in 
her  freedom,  we  see  her  remain  faithful  to  the  law 
of  constancy  and  regularity.* 

Among  the  objective  conditions  of  the  mathe- 
matically-sublime,  the  first  is,  that  the  object  to 
which  this  attribute  is  to  be  ascribed,  is  to  consti¬ 
tute  a  unit ;  and  the  second,  that  it  is  to  render 
the  highest  sensual  standard  of  measure  with 
which  we  are  in  the  habit  of  measuring  all  quanti¬ 
ties,  useless  to  us.  Without  the  former,  the  im¬ 
agination  would  not  be  invited  to  attempt  to  ex¬ 
press  the  object  in  its  totality  ;  without  the  second, 
it  would  not  be  possible  for  the  imagination  to  fail 
in  this  attempt. 

The  horizon  surpasses  every  quantity  that  can 
possibly  appear  before  us,  for  all  space  must  be 
circumscribed  by  it.  Nevertheless  it  sometimes 
happens  that  a  single  mountain,  which  rises  on  the 
distant  horizon,  is  capable  of  communicating  to 
us  a  stronger  impression  of  the  sublime  than  the 
whole  horizon,  which  not  only  comprehends  this 
quantity,  but  thousands  of  others.  This  is  ow¬ 
ing  to  the  horizon  not  seeming  to  us  like  one 
object,  and  not  requiring  us  to  regard  it  as  a  united 
whole  in  forming  a  conception  of  it.  But  if  we 
remove  from  the  horizon  every  object  which  ex¬ 
cites  our  particular  attention  ;  if  we  imagine  our¬ 
selves  transferred  to  a  large  and  continuous  plain, 
or  to  the  ocean,  the  horizon  itself  becomes  an 
object,  which  will  then  seem  the  most  sublime 
that  the  eye  has  ever  beheld.  The  circular  figure 
of  the  horizon  contributes  a  great  deal  to  this  im¬ 
pression,  because  it  is  conceived  without  an  effort, 
and  the  imagination  has  so  much  less  difficulty  to 
attempt  the  completion  of  the  impression. 

The  aesthetic  impression  of  quantity  seems  to 
depend  upon  the  imagination  making  a  fruitless 
attempt  to  conceive  the  totality  of  a  given  object, 
a  failure  which  can  only  occur  if  the  highest 
quantitative  measure  of  which  the  imagination 
is  capable  of  forming  at  one  and  the  same  mo¬ 
ment,  a  clear  conception,  and  which  she  increases 
by  adding  it  to  itself  as  many  times  as  the  un¬ 
derstanding  is  capable  of  associating  these  suc¬ 
cessive  additions,  is  still  too  small  for  the  object. 
This  seems  to  justify  the  inference  that  objects  of 
the  same  size  must  make  an  equally  sublime  im- 

*  The  modern  art  of  gardening  and  dramatic  poetry 
have  had  pretty  nearly  the  same  fate,  among  the  same 
nations.  We  discover  the  same  tyranny  of  rule  in  French 
gardens  as  well  as  in  French  tragedies  ;  the  same  check¬ 
ered  and  wild  absence  of  rule  in  English  parks  and  in 
Shakespeare  ;  and  as  regards  German  taste,  ha  ving  always 
received  its  law  from  abroad,  it  had  likewise  in  these 
points,  to  balance  to  and  fro  between  those  two  extremes. 


ESTHETIC  AL. 


505 


prcssion,  and  that  the  smaller  object  will  be  less 
capable  of  producing1  it,  which  is  contrary  to  expe¬ 
rience.  For  experience  has  shown  that  the  part 
sometimes  seems  more  elevated  than  the  whole, 
the  mountain  or  steeple  more  elevated  than  the 
ski.es,  the  rock  more  elevated  than  the  ocean, 
whose  waves  lave  its  sides.  But  here  wre  should 
call  to  our  minds  the  above-mentioned  condition 
that  the  aesthetic  impression  can  only  take  place, 
if  the  imagination  encompasses  the  totality  of  the 
object.  If  it  omits  this  operation  with  the  larger, 
but  executes  it  toward  the  smaller  object,  it  may 
be  aesthetically  moved  by  the  latter,  and  withal 
remain  insensible  toward  the  former.  But  if  the 
imagination  conceives  the  larger  object  as  a  quan¬ 
tity,  it  likewise  conceives  it  as  a  unity,  in  which 
case  the  larger  object  must  necessarily  make 
an  impression  that  is  proportionally  so  much 
stronger,  the  more  it  surpasses  the  second  body  in 
size. 

All  physical  quantities  exist  either  in  space 
(extensive  quantities)  or  in  time,  (numerical  quan¬ 
tities).  Although  every  extensive  quantity  is  at 
the  same  time  a  numerical  quantity  (since  we 
have  to  conceive  in  time  what  exists  in  space), 
a  numerical  quantity  becomes  a  sublime  object 
only  when  changed  into  a  quantity  of  space. 
The  distance  of  Sirius  from  the  earth  is  indeed 
an  enormous  quantity  in  time,  and  the  attempt  to 
comprehend  it  fully  overpowers  my  imagination  ; 
but  I  never  undertake  to  have  a  perception  of 
this  numerical  quantity,  but  get  along  by  means 
of  numbers,  and  the  impression  of  sublimity  comes 
to  me  only,  if  I  recollect  that  the  greatest  exten¬ 
sive  quantity  which  I  am  able  to  comprehend  as  a 
unit,  a  mountain,  for  instance,  is  still  much  too 
small  and  useless  a  measure  for  such  a  distance. 
The  measure  for  such  a  distance  is,  therefore,  de¬ 
rived  from  extensive  quantities,  and  it  depends 
upon  the  measure  whether  an  object  is  to  appear 
great  to  us. 

The  great  in  space  may  occur  in  length  or 
height  (to  which  depths  belong  likewise,  for  depth 
is  nothing  but  a  height  beneath  us,  as  height  may 
be  designated  as  a  depth  above  us  ;  hence  the 
Latin  poets  do  not  hesitate  to  apply  the  term 
profundus  to  heights : 

Ni  faceret,  maria  ac  terras  coelumque  profundum 

Quippe  ferant  rapidi  secum.) 

Heights  appear  more  sublime  than  equally  great 
lengths,  the  reason  of  which  resides  in  a  measure  in 
the  dynamically-sublime  being  allied  to  the  sight  of 
the  former.  A  simple  length,  were  its  end  ever 
so  far  beyond  our  visual  power,  has  nothing  terrible, 
but  a  height  may  inspire  us  with  terror,  because 
we  may  tumble  to  the  ground.  For  the  same 
reason  a  depth  is  still  more  sublime  than  a 
height,  because  the  idea  of  terrible  is  immediately 
associated  with  it.  If  a  great  height  is  to  seem 
terrible  to  us,  we  have  first  to  imagine  ourselves 
on  the  top,  and  thus  convert  it  into  a  depth. 
This  experiment  may  be  readily  instituted,  if  we 
contemplate  the  clouded  azure  of  the  sky  in  the 
water  of  a  well,  or  in  some  other  dark  water, 
where  its  endless  depth  will  afford  a  much  more 
awful  sight  than  its  height.  The  same  effect  is 


obtained  in  a  still  higher  degree,  if  we  look  at  the 
sky  backward,  by  which  means  we  likewise  con¬ 
vert  it  into  a  depth,  and  our  imagination  is  irre¬ 
sistibly  compelled  to  view  it  in  its  totality,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  the  only  object  that  strikes  our  eye. 
Heights  and  depths  make  a  stronger  impression 
upon  us  for  this  reason  that  the  valuation  of  their 
quantity  is  not  weakened  by  comparison.  A 
length  may  always  be  measured  by  the  horizon, 
on  which  account  the  impression  it  makes,  must 
be  weakened,  for  the  sky  extends  as  far  as  any 
length.  The  highest  mountain,  it  is  true,  is 
small  if  contrasted  with  the  height  of  the  sky  ;  but 
this  fact  is  taught  only  by  the  understanding,  not 
by  the  eye,  and  it  is  not  the  sky  whose  height 
makes  the  mountains  low,  but  it  is  the  mountains 
whose  extent  shows  the  height  of  the  sky. 

It  is  therefore  not  only  optically  correct,  but 
symbolically  true  that  the  Atlas  supports  the  sky. 
As  the  sky  seems  to  rest  upon  the  Atlas,  so  our 
conception  of  the  height  of  the  sky  reposes  upon 
the  height  of  the  Atlas.  Figuratively  the  moun¬ 
tain  really  supports  the  sky,  for  our  senses  ima¬ 
gine  that  it  is  supported  by  the  mountain.  With¬ 
out  the  mountain  the  sky  would  fall,  by  which  we 
mean  that  optically  it  would  come  down  from  its 
height,  and  sink  to  a  lower  altitude. 


ON  THE  ESTHETIC  EDUCATION  OF  MAN, 

IN  A  SERIES  OF  LETTERS.* 
LETTER  I. 

You  will  then  grant  me  the  privilege  of  laying 
before  you  the  results  of  my  inquiries  into  the 
beautiful  and  art ,  in  a  series  of  letters.  I  feel 
most  deeply  the  weight,  but  likewise  the  charm 
and  dignity  of  this  undertaking.  I  shall  discuss 
a  subject  which  is  immediately  connected  with  the 
best  part  of  our  happiness,  and  which  is  not  very 
remotely  connected  with  the  moral  nobleness  of 
human  nature.  I  shall  plead  the  cause  of  beauty 
before  a  heart  which  experiences  and  exercises 
its  whole  power,  and  which,  in  a  disquisition  where 
it  is  frequently  just  as  necessary  to  depend  upon 
feelings  as  upon  principles,  will  take  upon  itself 
the  most  difficult  portion  of  my  labor. 

What  I  intended  to  request  of  you  as  a  favor,  your 
generosity  imposes  upon  me  as  a  duty,  and  you 
leave  me  the  appearance  of  merit  where  I  simply 
yield  to  my  inclination.  The  freedom  with  which  you 
request  me  to  treat  my  subject,  so  far  from  affect¬ 
ing  me  as  a  restraint,  on  the  contrary  is  needful  to 
my  spirit.  Little  versed  in  the  use  of  dogmatic 
forms,  I  shall  not  run  the  risk  of  sinning  against 
good  taste  by  abusing  them.  My  ideas,  which  I 
have  drawn  from  the  monotonous  intercourse  with 
myself  rather  than  from  a  rich  experience  of  the 
world,  or  acquired  by  reading,  will  not  deny  their 
origin,  will  be  found  guilty  of  any  other  fault 
rather  than  of  sectarianism,  and  will  fall  rather  by 

*  These  letters  were  addressed  to  the  late  Duke  of 
Ilolstein-Augustenburg,  and  were  first  published  in  the 
Iloren,  1795. 


506 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


their  own  weakness  than  to  maintaiu  themselves 
by  authority  and  foreign  aid. 

I  will  not  conceal  that  it  is  chiefly  Kantian 
principles  upon  which  the  subsequent  assertions 
will  rest ;  but  you  will  have  to  accuse  my  want  of 
ability,  not  those  principles,  if,  in  the  course  of 
my  disquisitions,  you  should  be  reminded  of  any 
particular  philosophical  school.  Your  freedom 
of  mind  shall  be  inviolable  to  me.  Your  own 
sentiment  will  furnish  the  facts  upon  which  I 
shall  build  ;  your  own  liberal  mode  of  thinking 
will  dictate  the  laws  by  which  I  shall  shape  my 
course. 

Only  philosophers  disagree  concerning  the  ideas 
which  prevail  in  the  practical  portion  of  Kant’s 
system,  but  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  show  that 
men  have  always  agreed  upon  them.  Disembarrass 
these  ideas  of  their  technical  form,  and  they  will 
appear  as  the  ancient  verdicts  of  common  sense 
and  as  facts  of  the  moral  instinct  which  wise  na¬ 
ture  appointed  as  the  guardians  of  man  until  his 
intelligence  fits  him  for  a  life  of  independence. 
But  this  technical  form  which  truth  manifests  to 
the  understanding,  is  concealed  byherfrom  the 
feelings;  for  alas  !  the  understanding  has  first  to 
destroy  the  object  of  the  inner  sense,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  appropriate  this  object  to  itself.  Like 
the  chemist,  so  the  philosopher  discovers  union 
only  by  dissolution,  and  the  work  of  voluntary 
nature  by  the  tortures  of  art.  In  order  to.  grasp 
the  evanescent  phenomenon,  he  has  to  chain 
it  by  rules,  analyse  its  fair  forms  by  definitions, 
and  preserve  its  living  spirit  in  a  skeleton  of 
words.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  if  the  natural  senti¬ 
ment  does  not  see  itself  reflected  by  such  an 
image,  and  if,  in  the  report  of  an  analytical  philo¬ 
sopher,  truth  looks  like  a  paradox  ? 

Grant  me  your  forbearance,  if  the  following 
disquisitions  should  remove  their  object  from  the 
senses  in  order  to  bring  it  nearer  to  the  under¬ 
standing.  What  is  true  of  moral  phenomena, 
must  be  true  in  a  much  higher  degree  of  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  beauty.  Its  whole  magic  depends 
upon  mystery,  and  its  very  being  dissolves  as  the 
elements  of  its  nature  are  disintegrated. 


LETTER  II. 

But  may  I  not  possibly  make  a  better  use  of 
the  freedom  you  have  vouchsafed  me  than  to  en¬ 
gage  your  attention  in  the  domain  of  the  fine 
arts?  Is  it  not  inopportune  to  arrange  a  code  for 
the  aesthetic  world,  since  the  affairs  of  the  moral 
world  are  so  much  more  important  and  interesting 
to  us,  and  since  the  philosophical  spirit  of  investi¬ 
gation  is  so  earnestly  invited  by  the  age  to  occupy 
itself  with  the  most  perfect  of  all  the  works  of 
art,  the  construction  of  a  true  system  of  political 
freedom  ? 

I  should  be  unwilling  to  have  lived  in,  and 
worked  for,  another  century.  We  are  citizens  of 
the  age  as  well  as  citizens  of  the  state  ;  and  if  it  is 
deemed  improper,  or  even  illegitimate  to  exclude 
one’s  self  from  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
social  circle  to  which  we  belong,  why  should  it  be 
less  one’s  duty,  in  the  choice  of  one’s  sphere  of  I 


activity,  to  accord  a  voice  to  the  wants  and  taste 
of  the  age  ? 

This  voice  does  not  seern  favorable  to  art,  not 
at  least  to  the  art  to  which  my  inquiries  will  be 
exclusively  directed.  The  course  of  events  has 
imparted  to  the  genius  of  the  age  a  direction 
that  threatens  to  remove  it  further  and  fur¬ 
ther  from  the  ideal  art.  This  art  should  leave 
reality,  and  with  becoming  boldness  elevate  itself 
above  want  ;  for  art  is  a  daughter  of  liberty,  who 
will  receive  rules  from  the  necessities  of  mind, 
but  not  from  the  need  of  matter.  But  at  present, 
want  seems  to  rule  and  to  bend  this  sunken  hu¬ 
manity  beneath  its  tyrannical  yoke.  Utilitarian¬ 
ism  is  the  idol  of  the  age  to  which  all  the  powers 
of  man  are  to  do  homage.  In  this  coarse  balance 
the  spiritual  merit  of  art  cannot  be  weighed,  and, 
deprived  of  all  encouragement,  it  disappears  from 
the  noisy  mart  of  the  world.  Even  the  philo¬ 
sophical  spirit  of  investigation  robs  the  imagina¬ 
tion  of  one  province  after  another,  and  the  limits 
of  art  become  narrower  in  proportion  as  science 
enlarges  her  boundaries. 

The  eye  of  the  philosopher  as  well  as  that  of 
the  man  of  the  world  are  anxiously  riveted  to  the 
theatre  where  the  great  destiny  of  humanity  is 
now,  as  is  supposed,  under  discussion.  Would  we 
not  betray  a  censurable  indifference  to  the  well¬ 
being  of  society,  if  we  were  to  exclude  ourselves 
from  this  discussion  ?  As  closely  as  this  great 
dispute'  must  interest  by  its  nature  as  well  as  by 
its  consequences  every  body  who  calls  himself  a 
man,  so  it  must  interest  every  independent 
thinker  by  the  manner  in  which  the  great  strug¬ 
gle  is  conducted.  It  appears  that  a  question 
which  in  former  times  was  answered  by  the 
blind  right  of  the  stronger,  has  now  been  sum¬ 
moned  before  the  tribunal  of  pure  reason  ;  any  one 
who  is  capable  of  judging  society  from  its  centre, 
and  of  identifying  his  individual  selfhood  with 
the  nation,  may  regard  himself  as  a  judge  before 
this  tribunal  of  reason,  at  the  -same  time  as  his 
character  as  man  and  citizen  of  the  world 
makes  him  a  party  to  the  dispute,  and  involves 
him  more  or  l6ss  remotely  in  the  final  result. 
It  is  not  simply  his  own  business  that  is  to  be 
decided  in  this  great  trial  ;  the  decision  is  to  be 
conformable  to  laws  which  his  character  as  a 
rational  spirit  authorizes  and  enables  him  to  dic¬ 
tate. 

How  attractive  it  would  be  for  me  to  investi¬ 
gate  such  a  subject  with  one  who  is  as  intelligent 
a  thinker  as  he  is  a  liberal  citizen  of  the  world, 
and  to  rely  for  the  ultimate  decision  upon  a  heart 
which  devotes  itself  with  a  beautiful  enthusiasm  to 
the  welfare  of  humanity!  How  agreeably  sur¬ 
prising  to  arrive  with  your  unprejudiced  mind  at 
the  same  result  in  the  world  of  ideas  in  spite  of 
the  distance  which  separates  our  respective  stand¬ 
points,  and  which  the  circumstances  of  our  re¬ 
spective  positions  render  necessary  !  If  I  resist 
this  temptation,  and  place  beauty  before  :iberty, 
I  fancy  that  I  may  not  only  excuse  this  course 
with  my  inclination,  but  justify  it  upon  the  score 
of  principle.  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  show  that 
this  subject  is  less  remote  from  the  wants  than 
from  the  taste  of  the  age  ;  nay,  that  the  solution 
of  yonder  political  problem  can  only  be  aceom- 


JESTHETTCAL. 


507 


plished  by  the  suggestions  of  aesthetic  beauty,  for1 
ir  is  through  beauty  that  we  are  led  to  freedom. 
But  this  argument  cannot  be  conducted  without 
first  calling  up  the  principles  which  guide  reason 
generally  in  the  enactment  of  political  laws. 


LETTER  III. 

Nature  does  not  pursue  a  different  course  to¬ 
ward  man  from  what  she  pursues  toward  her  other 
creatures ;  she  acts  for  him,  as  long  as  he  is 
unable  to  act  for  himself  as  an  independent 
intelligence.  But  what  makes  him  a  man  is  pre¬ 
cisely  that  he  does  not  stand  still,  where  nature 
placed  him,  and  that  he  possesses  the  faculty  of 
retracing  the  steps  which  she  had  anticipated  with 
him,  of  converting  the  work  of  nature  into  a 
work  of  his  free  choice,  and  elevating  the  physical 
necessity  to  the  rank  of  a  moral  law. 

He  awakens  from  his  sensual  slumber,  feels  that 
he  is  a  man,  looks  around  himself  and  sees  himself 
in  the  midst  of — a  state.  The  force  of  necessity  led 
him  to  the  state  even  before  he  was  permitted  to 
select  this  condition  by  an  act  of  freedom.  But  as 
a  moral  personality  he  cannot  be  satisfied  with  a 
political  state  dictated  by  necessity,  having  arisen 
from  his  natural  condition  and  framed  only  with 
reference  to  it ;  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  for  him,  if 
he  could  be  !  By  the  same  right  which  makes  him  a 
man,  he  abandons  the  rule  of  a  blind  necessity,  as  he 
does  in  so  many  other  respects  in  perfect  freedom, 
extinguishing,  for  instance,  by  morality,  and  enno¬ 
bling  by  beauty,  the  common  character  which  the 
imperious  necessities  of  instinct  have  impressed 
upon  the  sexual  love.  Thus  it  is  that  in  the 
years  of  maturity  he  makes  up  for  the  deficiencies 
of  childhood ;  that  he  fashions  for  himself  an 
ideal  state  of  nature  which  is  not  indicated  by  ex¬ 
perience,  but  pointed  out  as  a  necessity  of  the  rea¬ 
son  ;  proposes  to  himself  a  purpose  in  this  ideal 
state  of  which  he  was  not  conscious  in  the  state  of 
nature,  and  a  choice  of  which  he  was  incapable 
at  that  early  period,  and  now  proceeds  as  if  he 
commenced  anew,  exchanging  with  intelligence 
and  freedom  a  state  of  independence  for  a  state 
based  upon  a  compact.  However  artfully  and 
firmly  a  blind  despotism  may  have  founded  its 
work  ;  however  arrogantly  it  may  maintain,  with 
whatever  halo  of  veneration  it  may  surround  the 
work,  he  is  entitled,  in  executing  this  operation,  to 
regard  this  work  as  non-existing  ;  for  the  work  of 
blind  forces  does  not  possess  any  authority  to  which 
freedom  need  bow,  and  all  things  must  accommo¬ 
date  themselves  to  the  high  end  which  reason  has 
proposed  in  shaping  man’s  personality.  In  this  way 
the  attempt  of  a  people  that  has  reached  the  age 
of  manhood,  to  transform  its  state- of  natural  into 
one  of  moral  government,  is  accounted  for  and 
justified. 

This  state  of  natural  government  (as  any  politi¬ 
cal  society  may  be  designated  whose  organization 
is  originally  derived  from  force§,  not  from  laws) 
is  indeed  contrary  to  the  moral  man  who  is  to  be 
governed  by  the  forms  of  legality ;  but  it  is  suffi¬ 
cient  to  the  physical  man  who  imposes  laws  upon 
himself  for  the  very  purpose  of  getting  rid  of  the 


government  of  rude  force.  It  now  so  happens 
that  the  physical  man  is  a  reality,  the  moral  man 
a  problem.  Hence  if  reason  abolishes  a  natural 
political  state  as  it  necessarily  must  do,  if  it 
wishes  to  substitute  its  own  in  the  place  of  the 
former,  it  risks  the  physical  and  actual  man  in  ex¬ 
change  for  the  problematically-moral  ;  it  risks  the 
existence  of  society,  in  order  to  attain  a  merely  pos¬ 
sible  (although  morally  necessary)  ideal  of  a  social 
state.  It  takes  from  man  something  which  he 
possesses  in  reality,  and  in  exchange  proposes  to 
him  something  that  he  should  and  might  possess  ; 
and  if  reason  had  expected  too  much  of  him,  it  would 
even  have  deprived  him  of  the  means  of  gratify¬ 
ing  his  animal  wants  which  are,  however,  the  con¬ 
dition  of  his  humanity,  promising  him  in  exchange 
a  humanity  that  is  still  wanting  to  him  and  may 
remain  wanting  to  him  without  his  existence  being 
endangered  or  damaged.  Before  he  should  have 
had  time  to  attach  himself  to  the  law  by  virtue 
of  his  will,  reason  would  have  removed  the  ladder 
of  nature  from  beneath  his  feet. 

The  great  difficulty  is  that  the  physical  society 
cannot  cease  for  one  moment  in  time ,  whilst  the 
moral  society  is  taking  shape  in  the  idea,  and  that 
man’s  existence  should  not  be  endangered  for  the 
sake  of  his  dignity.  If  the  watch-maker  wishes 
to  repair  a  watch,  he  lets  the  watch  run  down ; 
but  the  living  clock-work  of  the  state  has  to  be 
repaired  whilst  the  clock  is  striking,  and  here  it 
behooves  us  to  exchange  the  wheel  while  perform¬ 
ing  its  revolutions.  Hence  a  support  has  to  be 
sought  for  the  continuance  of  society,  rendering  it 
independent  of  the  state  of  natural  government 
which  we  desire  to  remove. 

This  support  is  not  found  in  man’s  natural  char¬ 
acter,  an  egotistical  and  violent  power  which  aims 
at  the  destruction  rather  than  the  preservation  of 
human  society.  Nor  is  this  support  to  be  found 
in  man’s  moral  character  that  has  yet  to  be  formed 
and  which,  being  free,  and  never  becoming  manifest, 
cannot  be  acted  upon  by  the  legislator,  nor  can  be 
safely  depended  upon.  It  would,  therefore,  seem 
necessary  to  separate  arbitrary  power  from  the 
physical  character,  and  freedom  from  the  moral ; 
to  cause  the  former  to  agree  with  laws,  and  to 
make  the  latter  dependent  upon  impressions ;  to 
remove  the  former  a  little  further  from  matter,  and 
to  approximate  the  latter  to  it  a  little  more ;  by  this 
means  we  should  realize  a  third  character  which 
would  be  in  relations  of  affinity  with  each  of  these 
two,  which  would  effect  a  transition  from  the  gov¬ 
ernment  of  brute  force  to  that  of  laws,  and  which, 
without  hindering  the  development  of  the  moral 
character,  would  on  the  contrary,  serve  as  a  ma¬ 
terial  pledge  of  an  invisible  morality. 


LETTER  IY. 

Thus  much  is  certain  :  only  the  preponderance 
of  such  a  character  can  render  a  revolution  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  moral  principles,  uninjurious,  and 
only  such  a  character  can  guarantee  its  stabil¬ 
ity.  In  organizing  a  moral  political  government, 
the  moral  law  is  depended  upon  as  an  active 
power,  and  the  freedom  of  the  will  is  considered 


508 


MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 


an  active  principle  in  the  sphere  of  causes,  where 
all  things  are  rigidly  and  perpetually  united.  But 
we  know  that  the  determinations  of  the  human 
will  always  remain  accidental,  and  that  only  in 
the  Supreme  Being  the  physical  necessity  coincides 
with  the  moral.  If  the  moral  conduct  of  man  is  to 
be  relied  upon  like  other  natural  results,  it  must  be 
like  a  natural  state,  and  man  must  be  instinctively 
impelled  to  such  a.  conduct  as  may  result  from  a 
moral  character.  Man’s  will  is  perfectly  free  be¬ 
tween  duty  and  inclination,  no  physical  necessity 
should  interfere  with  this  royal  privilege  of  his 
personality.  If,  therefore,  he  is  to  retain  the  free¬ 
dom  of  choice,  and  nevertheless  become  a  reliable 
link  in  the  chain  of  causes,  the  effects  of  these 
two  impelling  forces  have  to  be  characterized  by 
the  same  phenomena  and,  in  spite  of  all  differences 
of  form,  the  substantial  objects  of  his  will  have  to 
remain  the  same,  and  his  instincts  have  to  agree 
with  his  reason  sufficiently  to  become  the  basis  of 
a  universal  system  of  laws. 

It  may  be  said  that  every  individual  man,  by  his 
constitution  and  destiny,  incloses  an  ideal  man 
within  himself,  to  agree  with  whose  immutable 
unity  throughout  all  changes  of  state,  is  the  great 
problem  of  his  existence.*  This  pure  man  who 
is  manifest  more  or  less  distinctly  in  every  indi¬ 
vidual,  is  represented  by  the  state,  the  objective, 
and  so  to  say  canonical  form  in  which  the  great 
multiplicity  of  individual  characters  seeks  to  be¬ 
come  united.  We  may  imagine  two  different  ways 
how  the  actual  man  may  coalesce  with  the  ideal, . 
hence  as  manynvays  how  the  state  may  maintain 
its  power  over  the  individual,  either  by  the  ideal 
man  suppressing  the  empirical  or  actual,  or  by  the 
state  wiping  out  its  individuals  ;  or  secondly,  by 
the  individual  becoming  the  state,  and  the  actual 
man  elevating  himself  to  the  ideal. 

This  difference  is  not,  it  is  true,  regarded  by 
the  determination  of  a  purely  external  morality; 
for  reason  is  satisfied,  provided  its  law  is  acknow-. 
ledged  unconditionally  ;  but  in  a  complete  ap¬ 
preciation  of  character,  where  not  only  the  form 
but  the  essence  has  to  be  considered,  and  where 
the  living  sentiment  is  likewise  permitted  an  ex¬ 
pression,  the  internal  nature  will  be  regarded  so 
much  more  fully.  Reason  requires  unity,  but  na¬ 
ture  variety,  and  both  these  legislating  powers 
revolve  around  man.  The  law  of  reason  is  en¬ 
graved  upon  his  soul  by  an  incorruptible  con¬ 
sciousness,  that  of  nature  by  an  inextinguishable 
sentiment.  Hence  we  infer  an  imperfect  cultiva¬ 
tion,  where  the  moral  character  can  only  be  main¬ 
tained  by  sacrificing  the  natural  ;  and  a  political 
organization  which  can  only  realize  unity  by  de¬ 
stroying  variety,  must  still  appear  very  imperfect. 
The  state  should  not  only  honor  the  objective  and 
generic,  but  likewise  the  subjective  and  specific 
character  of  its  individuals,  it  should  not  de¬ 
populate  the  empire  of  phenomenal  manifestations 
by  expanding  that  of  morality. 

If  the  mechanic  works  upon  the  shapeless  mass 
in  order  to  impress  upon  it  the  form  of  his  ends, 

*  See  the  recently  published  work:  Lectures  on  the 
Destiny  of  The  Savant,  where  this  proposition  is  lucidly 
discussed,  and  in  a  manner  which  has  never  been  at¬ 
tempted  heretofore. 


he  does  not  hesitate  to  use  violent  means  ;  for  the 
natural  object  upon  which  he  works,  is  not  of 
itself  deserving  of  respect,  nor  does  he  care  for 
the  whole  for  the  sake  of  its  parts,  but  for  the 
parts  for  the  sake  of  the  whole.  If  the  artist 
begins  his  work,  he  hesitates  as  little  as  the  me¬ 
chanic  to  do  violence  to  the  mass,  but  he  manages 
not  to  show  it.  He  respects  no  more  than  the 
mechanic,  the  material  which  he  seeks  to  mould  ; 
but  he  will  endeavor  to  deceive  the  eye  by  seeming 
to  yield  to  the  material  and  to  respect  the  freedom 
of  its  form.  This  is  quite  different  in  education 
and  politics,  where  man  is  both  the  material  and 
the  task.  Here  the  object  is  made  subordinate  to 
the  material,  and  it  is  only  because  the  whole  is 
beneficial  to  the  parts,  that  the  parts  should  ac¬ 
commodate  themselves  to  the  whole.  With  a 
different  respect  from  that  which  the  artist  shows 
to  his  material,  the  political  artist  should  approach 
his  own,  whose  individuality  and  personality  he 
should  not  only  spare  subjectively  and  for  the 
sake  of  producing  an  illusory  effect  in  the  sphere 
of  sense,  but  objectively  and  for  the  sake  of  pre¬ 
serving  the.  internal  essence. 

But  for  the  very  reason  that  the  state  should  be 
an  organization,  developing  itself  by  its  own  in¬ 
herent  vitality  and  for  its  own  ends,  it  can  become 
a  perfect  reality  only  in  so  far  as  the  parts  are 
adequately  fitted  by  education  for  the  ideal  of  this 
social  state.  Since  the  state  represents  the  pure 
and  objective  morality  in  the  breasts  of  its  citizens, 
it  will  have  to  observe  the  same  relation  toward 
them  which  they  have  realized  toward  each  other; 
it  will  only  be  able  to  honor  their  subjective  hu¬ 
manity  in  so  far  as  they  manifest  it  objectively  by 
their  acts.  If  the  internal  man  is  agreed  with 
himself,  he  will  maintain  his  individuality  even 

V 

under  the  most  centralizing  rule,  and  the  state 
will  simply  be  the  interpreter  of  his  better  in¬ 
stincts,  the  more  positive  formula  of  his  own  in¬ 
ternal  law.  On  the  contrary,  if  the  subjective 
man  among  a  people  is  still  so  entirely  opposed  to 
the  objective  manifestation  that  this  objective  life 
can  only  triumph  by  sacrificing  the  former,  the 
state  likewise  will  oppose  the  citizen  with  the 
severity  of  the  law,  and  will  have  to  crush  this 
hostile  individuality  for  the  sake  of  preserving  its 
own  constitution. 

Man  may  be  opposed  to  himself  in  a  twofold 
manner:  as  a  savage,  when  his  feelings  rule  over 
his  principles ;  or  as  a  barbarian,  when  his  prin¬ 
ciples  destroy  his  feelings.  The  savage  despises 
art,  and  worships  nature  as  his  absolute  master; 
the  barbarian  scorns  and  dishonors  nature,  but, 
more  contemptible  than  the  savage,  he  frequently 
continues  to  be  the  slave  of  his  own  slave.  The 
cultivated  man  makes  nature  his  friend,  and  honors 
freedom  whilst  simply  bridling  its  excesses. 

By  subjecting  the  political  body  to  the  unity  of 
its  moral  government,  reason  should  not  violate 
the  rights  of  individuals.  If  individual  nature 
seeks  to  maintain  its  law  under  the  moral  govern¬ 
ment  of  society,  it  should  do  so  without  impairing 
the  unity  of  the  public  will ;  the  triumphant  form 
is  equally  far  from  uniformity  and  confusion. 
Hence  a  nation  which  claims  the  right  of  ex¬ 
changing  a  government  founded  upon  natural  ne- 


ESTHETIC  A  L. 


509 


cessity,  for  a  government  founded  upon  liberty, 
will  have  to  exhibit  fullness  and  integrity  of  char¬ 
acter. 


LETTER  V. 

Do  the  present  age  and  the  present  events  mani¬ 
fest  to  us  this  character?  Let  me  direct  my  at¬ 
tention  at  once  to  the  most  prominent  object  in 
this  vast  picture. 

It  is  true,  the  authority  of  opinion  is  prostrate, 
tyranny  is  unmasked,  and,  although  still  armed, 
yet  it  no  longer  commands  respect ;  man  has  been 
roused  from  his  long  slumber  of  indolence  and 
delusion,  and  an  emphatic  majority  demands  to 
be  reinstated  into  its  imprescriptible  rights.  But 
they  are  not  simply  demanded  ;  everywhere  man  is 
rising  up  in  arms  for  the  purpose  of  snatching  by 
force  what,  in  his  opinion,  he  had  been  wrongfully 
deprived  of.  The  edifice  of  force  is  shaking,  its 
decaying  foundations  give  way,  and  a  physical 
possibility  seems  to  have  arisen,  to  install  law 
upon  the  throne,  to  see  man  honored  as  the  high¬ 
est  end  of  all  government,  and  true  liberty  ac¬ 
cepted  as  the  foundation  of  political  union.  Vain 
hope!  the  moral  possibility  is  wanting,  and  the 
liberality  of  the  moment  is  weakened  by  the  de¬ 
ficient  susceptibility  of  the  race. 

Man  is  reflected  by  his  deeds,  and  how  does  man 
show  himself  in  the  drama  of  this  epoch?  Here 
an  exuberance  of  wild  force,  yonder  the  symptoms 
of  weariness  and  exhaustion  :  the  extremes  of 
human  decay,  both  occurring  in  the  same  age. 

Among  the  lower  classes,  who  are  by  far  the 
most  numerous,  we  discover  rude  and  lawless  in¬ 
stincts  let  loose  after  the  dissolution  of  the  public 
order,  and  rushing  with  insatiable  fury  into  the 
whirlpool  of  animal  gratifications.  Admitting 
that  the  objective  man  has  had  cause  to  complain 
of  the  state,  yet  the  subjective  man  should  honor  its 
provisions.  Can  the  state  be  blamed  for  having 
lost  sight  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  as  long 
as  human  existence  had  yet  to  be  cared  for?  for 
having  divided  by  force,  and  bound  together  by 
violence,  where  free  and  liberal  combinations  were 
as  yet  impossible  ?  The  dissolution  of  the  state  is 
its  own  justification.  The  bonds  of  society  being 
loosened,  man  instead  of  elevating  himself  to  a 
beautiful  and  ethereal  order,  relapses  into  a  life  of 
brutish  nature. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  civilized  classes  evince 
a  relaxation  and  depravity  of  character  which  is 
the  more  revolting  the  more  it  seems  the  result  of 
culture.  I  do  not  recollect  what  ancient  or 
modern  philosopher  has  said  that  that  which  is  most 
noble  in  man,  becomes  most  detestable  by  its  dis¬ 
solution  ;  but  such  a  remark  will  likewise  be  found 
applicable  to  moral  things.  The  son  of  nature, 
in  his  excess  becomes  a  raving  madman ;  the 
pupil  of  art  a  worthless  villain.  The  enlighten¬ 
ment  to  which  the  civilized  classes  lay  claim,  not 
without  reason,  upon  the  whole  has  ennobled 
their  sentiments  so  little  that  it  enables  them  on 
the  contrary,  to  corroborate  their  depraved  ways 
by  maxims.  We  deny  nature  in  her  legitimate 
sphere  in  order  to  experience  her  tyranny  in 


moral  things,  and  receive  our  maxims  from  her 
while  we  oppose  her  impressions.  The  affected 
propriety  of  our  manners  refuses  nature  the  first 
pardonable  voice,  in  order  to  yield  to  her  the  last 
decisive  voice  in  our  materialistic  moral  treatises. 
In  the  very  bosom  of  the  most  elaborately  refined 
social  life,  egotism  has  founded  its  system,  and  with¬ 
out  winning  a  social  heart,  we  experience  all  the 
contagious  aspirations  and  urgent  wants  of  so¬ 
ciety.  Our  free  judgment  wre  subject  to  its 
despotic  sway,  our  feelings  to  its  strange  customs, 
our  will  to  its  seductive  allurements;  and  yet  we 
oppose  its  sacred  rights  by  arbitrary  rules.  A 
proud  self-sufficiency  contracts  the  heart  of  the 
man  of  the  world,  which  yet  so  frequently  beats 
full  of  sympathy  in  the  rude  son  of  nature,  and, 
as  in  a  burning  city,  every  one  seeks  to  save  his 
property  from  the  universal  destruction.  It  is 
only  by  completely  abjuring  sensibility  that  we 
seek  to  protect  ourselves  from  its  aberrations,  and 
the  ridicule  which  so  frequently  proves  a  useful 
chastisement  to  the  unreasoning  enthusiast,  assails 
with  equal  bitterness  the  noblest  sentiments.  So 
far  from  contributing  to  our  independence,  civili¬ 
zation  creates  for  us  a  new  want  with  every  new 
power  which  it  develops  in  us  ;  the  physical  bonds 
become  more  and  more  tightly  drawn,  so  that  the 
fear  of  losing,  stifles  even  the  fiery  instinct  of  im¬ 
provement,  and  the  maxim  of  passive  obedience 
is  considered  the  highest  wisdom  of  life.  Thus 
we  see  the  spirit  of  the  age  vibrate  between  per¬ 
versity  and  brutality,  between  a  degenerated  and 
an  uncultivated  nature,  between  superstition  and 
moral  skepticism,  and  it  is  only  the  equilibrating 
power  of  evil  which  sometimes  restrains  the 
movement. 


LETTER  YI. 

Does  this  picture  wrong  the  present  age  ?  I  do 
not  expect  this  objection  ;  I  am  afraid  rather  of 
having  proved  too  much  by  my  statements.  You 
may  say  to  me  that  this  picture  indeed  resembles 
the  present  humanity,  but  that  it  applies  to  all  na¬ 
tions  who  are  progressing  in  civilization,  because 
all,  indiscriminately,  have  to  leave  the  ways  of  na¬ 
ture  in  consequence  of  sophistical  reasonings,  in 
order  to  be  led  back  to  nature  by  the  light  of  true 
reason. 

But  a  closer  examination  of  the  character  of 
the  present  age  will  show  an  astonishing  contrast 
between  the  present  race  and  the  humanity  of 
former  ages,  especially  in  Greece.  The  glory  of 
cultivation  and  refinement  which  rightfully  be¬ 
longs  to  us  in  comparison  with  a  simple  state  of 
nature,  cannot  be  claimed  by  us  against  the  Gre¬ 
cian  nature  which  allied  itself  to  all  the  charms 
of  art,  and  to  all  the  dignity  of  wisdom  without 
being  sacrificed  by  this  refinement  as  ours  has 
been.  The  Greeks  shame  us  not  only  by  a  sim¬ 
plicity  which  is  foreign  to  our  age,  they  are  at  the 
same  time  our  rivals,  even  our  models  in  the  same 
advantages  by  which  we  manage  to  console  our¬ 
selves  for  the  unnatural  character  of  our  manners. 
Endowed  with  the  love  of  form  and  with  a  full¬ 
ness  of  strength,  philosophers  as  well  as  artists, 


510 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tender  as  well  as  energetic,  we  see  them  combine 
the  youth  of  imagination  and  the  manliness  of 
reason  in  a  splendid  manifestation  of  humanity. 

At  that  time,  in  that  period  of  a  beautiful 
awakening  of  the  mental  powers,  rigidly  distinct 
spheres  had  not  yet  been  assigned  to  the  senses 
and  the  mind ;  there  was  no  antagonism  between 
them,  rendering  such  rigid  and  hostile  lines  of 
demarkation  necessary.  Poesy  had  not  yet  been 
adulterated  by  wit,  and  philosophy  had  avoided 
sophistical  absurdities.  Either  might  have  per¬ 
formed  the  office  of  the  other,  because  truth  was 
honored  by  both.  In  its  highest  flights,  reason 
never  lost  sight  of  the  senses,  which  it  never  mu¬ 
tilated  even  by  the  finest  and  deepest  disquisi¬ 
tions.  Their  reason  indeed  analyzed  human  na¬ 
ture  and  displayed  it  grandly  and  sublimely  in  a 
whole  circle  of  divinities  ;  but  this  nature  was 
never  torn  to  pieces,  it  was  only  presented  in  dif¬ 
ferent  combinations,  for  the  whole  of  humanity 
was  present  in  each  individual  god.  How  differ¬ 
ent  in  the  present  age  !  With  us  likewise,  the 
image  of  the  species  is  presented  in  a  grander 
form  in  the  individual,  but  only  fragmentarily,  not 
differently  combined,  obliging  us  to  look  around 
from  individual  to  individual,  in  order  to  collect 
all  the  elements  of  the  species.  It  may  almost  be 
asserted  that  among  us  the  mental  powers  are 
separated  in  life  as  the  metaphysician  isolates 
them  in  theory ;  we  see  not  only  single  subjects, 
but  whole  classes  of  men  develop  only  one  portion 
of  their  faculties,  of  the  balance  we  only  see  a 
vestige,  here  and  there,  like  stunted  growths. 

I  am  not  disposed  to  overlook  the  advantages 
which  the  present  race,  considered  as  a  unit  and 
weighed  in  the  balance  of  the  understanding,  pos¬ 
sesses  over  the  best  nations  of  antiquity ;  but  it 
has  to  enter  upon  the  struggle  with  closed  ranks, 
and  the  whole  has  to  be  contrasted  with  the 
whole.  What  modern  individual,  as  an  isolated 
being,  would  dare  cope  with  the  individual  Athen¬ 
ian  for  the  prize  of  humanity  ? 

Whence  this  inferiority  of  individuals  in  spite  of 
the  superiority  of  the  species  ?  Why  was  the  in¬ 
dividual  Greek  fit  to  represent  his  age?  Why 
cannot  the  modern  individual  claim  the  same  privi¬ 
lege  ?  Because  the  former  received  his  culture 
from  all-combining  nature,  the  latter  receives  it 
from  the  all-analyzing  understanding. 

It  is  civilization  itself  which  has  inflicted  this 
wound  upon  the  present  race.  As  soon  as  a  more 
rigid  separation  of  conditions  and  occupations 
had  been  rendered  necessary  by  an  enlarged  expe¬ 
rience  and  a  more  positive  and  determinate  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  thinking  understanding  on  the  one, 
and  a  more  complicated  machinery  of  the  politi¬ 
cal  organization  on  the  other  side,  the  internal 
unity  of  human  nature  was  torn,  and  a  pernicious 
struggle  disunited  her  harmonious  forces.  Hence¬ 
forth  intuition  and  speculation  assumed  hostile  po¬ 
sitions  in  their  respective  spheres  whose  bound¬ 
aries  they  now  began  to  watch  with  jealous  eyes. 
But  the  sphere  to  which  we  limit  our  activity,  is 
inclined  to  lord  it  over  us  as  a  master  who  seeks 
to  accomplish  the  suppression  of  all  the  other 
faculties.  Whilst  a  luxuriant  imagination  is  here 
devastating  the  laborious  creations  of  the  under¬ 
standing,  there  the  spirit  of  abstraction  extin¬ 


guishes  the  fire  that  should  have  warmed  the  heart 
and  kindled  the  fancy. 

The  derangement  initiated  in  the  inner  man  by 
art  and  erudition,  was  completed  and  spread 
throughout  society  by  the  new  genius  of  govern¬ 
ment.  It  could  not  be  expected  that  the  simple 
organization  of  the  first  republics  should  survive 
the  simplicity  of  the  ancient  customs  and  con¬ 
ditions  ;  but  instead  of  elevating  itself  to  a  higher 
animal  existence,  it  descended  to  a  vulgar  and 
coarse  mechanism.  The  multifarious  nature  of 
the  Greek  republics,  where  every  individual  en¬ 
joyed  an  independent  existence,  and,  if  necessary, 
was  able  to  act  like  a  unit,  now  was  replaced  by 
ingenious  contrivances,  where  a  mechanical  life  is 
produced  in  the  whole  by  its  disintegration  into  an 
infinite  number  of  inanimate  parts.  State  and 
church,  laws  and  customs,  now  were  violently  torn 
asunder;  enjoyment  was  separated  from  labor,  the 
means  from  the  end,  effort  from  reward.  Chained 
to  the  whole  as  a  single  little  fragment,  man  now 
confines  himself  to  a  fragmentary  development; 
listening  only  to  the  monotonous  noise  of  the 
wheel  which  he  is  perpetually  revolving,  he  never 
developes  the  harmony  of  his  being,  and  instead 
of  impressing  upon  his  nature  the  image  of  hu¬ 
manity,  he  contents  himself  with  exhibiting  in  his 
person  the  imprint  of  his  business  or  science.  But 
even  the  scanty  and  fragmentary  share  which 
still  binds  the  single  members  to  the  whole,  is  not 
dependent  upon  forms  of  their  own  creation,  (for 
how  could  such  an  artificial  and  light-dreading 
machinery  be  confided  to  their  freedom  ?)  but  is 
prescribed  with  scrupulous  severity  by  set  rules  by 
which  their  free  intelligence  is  chained.  The  dead 
letter  replaces  the  living  spirit,  and  a  practiced 
memory  is  a  surer  guide  than  genius  and  emotion. 

If  public  opinion  measures  man  by  his  office  ; 
if  in  one  citizen  it  honors  memory,  in  the  other  a 
systematic  understanding,  in  a  third  a  mechanical 
talent ;  if,  indifferent  to  character,  it  insists  in  one 
man  upon  knowledge,  and  if,  in  another,  it  excuses 
the  greatest  darkness  of  the  understanding  on  ac¬ 
count  of  his  spirit  of  order  and  his  lawful  deport¬ 
ment  ;  if  it  is  at  the  same  time  desirous  of  seeing 
these  isolated  talents  developed  to  a  degree  of 
intensity  corresponding  with  the  absence  of  exten¬ 
sive  unfolding  of  the  individual ;  can  we  wonder 
if  the  other  faculties  of  the  mind  are  neglected  in 
order  to  devote  all  honor  and  care  to  the  one  that 
produces  honor  and  reward  ?  We  know  indeed, 
that  a  vigorous  genius  does  not  bound  his  activity 
by  the  limits  of  his  business  ;  but  in  the  portion 
which  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  person  of  mediocre 
talent,  he  consumes  the  whole  of  the  scanty  sum 
of  his  power,  and  it  requires  more  than  ordinary 
capacity  to  reserve  some  time  for  favorite  pursuits 
without  damaging  one’s  business.  Nor  is  it  always 
a  favorable  recommendation  in  the  eyes  of  the 
government,  if  a  man’s  powers  exceed  the  neces¬ 
sities  of  his  office.  Government  is  so  anxious  to 
enjoy  the  exclusive  possession  of  its  servants  that 
it  would  rather  share  them  with  Venus  Cytherea 
than  with  Venus  Urania. 

In  this  way  the  individual  reality  of  life  is  grad¬ 
ually  extirpated  in  order  that  the  abstract  whole 
should  enjoy  a  scanty  existence  ;  and  the  state, 
remains  a  stranger  to  its  citizens  because  their 


■2ESTHETICAL. 


511 


feelings  never  meet  its  demands.  Compelled  to 
secure  an  intelligent  comprehension  of  the  variety 
of  its  citizens  by  classifying  them,  and  to  be  con¬ 
tent  with  a  second-hand  knowledge  of  humanity 
through  representative  forms,  the  governing  por¬ 
tion  finally  loses  sight  of  it  altogether,  comparing 
it  with  a  simple  product  of  the  understanding; 
and  the  governed  must  necessarily  receive  with  a 
spirit  of  cold  indifference  the  laws  that  are  so  little 
designed  for  him.  Tired  of  preserving  the  bond 
which  the  state  takes  so  little  care  to  lighten,  so¬ 
ciety  becomes  dissolved  into  a  sort  of  natural 
moral  state,  (which  has  become  the  fate  of  most 
European  nations),  where  the  public  authority 
simply  constitutes  an  additional  party  which  is 
hated  and  deceived  by  those  who  render  its  ex¬ 
istence  necessary,  and  is  respected  only  by  him 
who  can  do  without  it. 

In  presence  of  this  double  power  which  weighed 
upon  humanity  from  within  and  without,  could  it 
have  taken  another  direction  from  that  which  it 
really  did  take  ?  Whilst  the  speculative  mind  was 
seeking  inalienable  possessions  in  the  world  of 
ideas,  it  had  to  become  a  stranger  in  the  world  of 
sense,  and  had  to  lose  the  substance  while  inves¬ 
tigating  the  form.  The  spirit  of  business,  circum¬ 
scribed  within  a  narrow  circle  of  objects,  and  in 
this  circle  held  by  the  additional  restraints  of 
formulas,  had  to  see  the  boundless  horizon  removed 
from  its  sight,  and  had  to  become  impoverished 
through  this  dogmatic  limitation  of  its  sphere  of 
action.  As  the  former  is  tempted  to  mould  the 
actual  by  the  ideal,  and  to  elevate  the  subjective 
conditions  of  his  individual  powers  of  comprehen¬ 
sion  to  the  character  of  constitutive  laws  for  the 
existence  of  all  things,  so  the  latter  rushed  into 
the  opposite  extreme  of  measuring  the  value  of  all 
experience  by  the  special  fragment  of  his  own, 
and  to  adapt  the  rules  of  his  business  indiscrimi¬ 
nately  to  every  other.  The  one  had  to  fall  a  prey 
to  an  emntv  subtiltv  of  analvsis,  the  other  to  a 
pedantic  narrowness  of  mind ;  the  one  was  placed 
too  far  above  details,  the  other  too  low  for  the 
whole.  The  disadvantages  of  this  direction  of  the 
mind  were  not  confined  to  mere  knowledge  and 
productive  labor ;  they  likewise  affected  the  emo¬ 
tions  and  human  actions.  We  know  that  moral 
sensibility,  for  its  intensity,  depends  upon  the  viv¬ 
idness,  and  for  its  extent  upon  the  richness  of  the 
imagination.  A  preponderance  of  the  analytical 
tendency  must  necessarily  deprive  the  imagination 
of  its  fire  and  energy,  and  a  more  limited  sphere 
of  objects  must  necessarily  limit  its  wealth.  For 
this  reason  the  abstract  thinker  has  very  frequently 
a  cold  heart,  because  he  analyses  the  impressions 
which  touch  the  soul  only  in  their  totality  ;  the 
man  of  business  frequently  has  a  narrow  heart, 
because  his  imagination,  locked  up  in  the  monoto¬ 
nous  circle  of  his  calling,  is  unable  to  expand  and 
identify  itself  with  modes  of  thought  and  compre¬ 
hension  peculiar  to  others. 

It  seemed  natural  to  my  purpose  to  unvail  the 
pernicious  direction  of  the  character  of  the  age, 
and  the  sources  of  this  bias,  but  not  to  show  the 
advantages  which  nature  offers  by  way  of  com¬ 
pensation.  I  admit  that  however  little  delight 
individuals  may  derive  from  this  disintegration  of 
their  being,  the  species  could  not  have  progressed 


in  any  other  way.  The  Grecian  humanity  was 
undoubtedly  a  maximum  which  neither  could  re¬ 
main  at  this  point,  nor  go  beyond  it  ;  it  could  not 
remain,  because  the  understanding  must  inevitably 
be  compelled,  by  the  quantity  of  material  which  it 
had  already  accumulated,  to  separate  itself  from 
intuition  and  emotion,  and  to  aim  at  clearness  of 
knowledge ;  nor  could  it  ascend  higher,  because 
only  a  certain  degree  of  clearness  can  co-exist 
with  a  certain  degree  of  fullness  and  warmth. 
The  Greeks  had  reached  this  degree,  and,  if  they 
desired  to  progress  to  a  higher  cultivation,  they 
had,  like  ourselves,  to  abandon  the  totality  of  the 
being,  and  pursue  the  investigation  of  truth  upon 
separate  roads. 

There  was  no  other  way  of  developing  the  va¬ 
rious  faculties  of  man,  than  by  opposing  them  to 
each  other.  This  antagonism  of  forces  is  the 
great  instrument  of  culture,  but  only  the  instru¬ 
ment  ;  for  while  the  antagonism  lasts  we  are  only 
traveling  toward  culture.  Single  forces  in  man, 
by  isolating  themselves,  and  arrogating  to  them¬ 
selves  an  exclusive  right  to  legislate,  come  into 
conflict  with  the  truth  of  things,  obliging  the 
public  mind  which  generally  skims  over  the  sur¬ 
face  of  phenomena,  to  penetrate  into  the  essence 
of  objects.  Whilst  the  pure  understanding  usurps 
its  authority  in  the  world  of  sense,  and  the  em¬ 
pirical  mind  is  employed  in  subjecting  the  former 
to  the  conditions  of  experience,  both  these  facul¬ 
ties  develop  themselves  to  the  highest  degree  of 
maturity,  exhausting  the  whole  extent  of  their 
ranges  of  power.  Whilst  on  one  side,  the  imagina¬ 
tion  boldly  dares  to  disintegrate  universal  order,  on 
the  other  side  it  compels  reason  to  ascend  to  the 
supreme  sources  of  knowledge,  and  to  call  the  law 
of  necessity  in  aid  against  it. 

One-sidedness  in  the  exercise  of  its  powers  leads 
the  individual  inevitably  to  error,  but  the  species 
to  truth.  By  intensifying  the  whole  energy  of  the 
mind  in  one  focus,  and  concentrating  our  whole 
being  in  one  power,  we  add  wings  to  this  power, 
as  it  were,  and  we  lead  it  by  artifical  means  far 
beyond  the  limits  which  nature  seems  to  have  fixed 
for  it.  As  it  is  certain  that  all  human  individuals 
together  would  not  have  been  able  to  discover  a 
satellite  of  Jupiter  which  the  telescope  has  ena¬ 
bled  the  astronomer  to  behold  ;  so  it  is  equally  cer¬ 
tain  that  the  human  mind  would  never  have  under¬ 
taken  an  analysis  of  the  infinite  or  a  criticism  of 
the  pure  reason,  if  in  a  few  subjects  reason  had  not 
individualized  itself  for  such  a  purpose  ;  if  it  had  not 
cut  itself  loose  from  all  matter,  and  by  means  of 
the  most  persevering  abstraction  had  not  launched 
its  sight  into  the  infinite.  But  will  such  a  mind, 
etherealized  by  the  pure  understanding  and  the  pure 
intuition,  be  capable  of  exchanging  the  rigid  bond 
of  logic  for  the  free  rhythm  of  poesy,  and  of  grasp¬ 
ing  the  individuality  of  things  with  a  liberal, 
unbiassed  sense?  Here  nature  assigns  limits 
even  to  the  universal  genius  which  he  is  unable  to 
transgress,  and  truth  will  continue  to  make  mar¬ 
tyrs  as  long  as  philosophy  shall  have  to  make  it 
its  principal  business  to  contrive  measures  against 
error. 

However  much  society  may  gain  by  this  sepa¬ 
rate  development  of  human  powers,  it  is  unde- 
I  niable  that  the  individuals  who  are  subjected  to 


512 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


this  course,  lose  by  this  curse  of  universal  des¬ 
tiny.  Athletic  bodies  may  be  formed  by  gymnas¬ 
tic  exercises,  but  beauty  is  the  result  of  the  free 
and  uniform  play  of  the  limbs.  For  the  same 
reason,  the  straining  of  single  mental  powers  may 
produce  extraordinary  men,  but  happy  and  perfect 
men  can  only  be  realized  through  the  harmonious 
evolution  of  the  mind.  What  relation  do  we  hold 
to  the  past  and  to  the  future  ages,  if  the  cultiva¬ 
tion  of  human  nature  requires  such  a  sacrifice  ? 
We  would  have  been  the  servants  of  humanity, 
we  would  have  been  their  slaves  for  a  few  thou¬ 
sand  years,  and  would  have  impressed  upon  our 
mutilated  natures  the  shameful  traces  of  this  bond¬ 
age  to  enable  our  descendants  to  attend  to  their 
moral  health,  and  to  foster  the  unimpeded  unfold¬ 
ing  of  their  humanity ! 

Can  it  be  man’s  destiny  to  neglect  himself  by 
attending  to  any  one  end  ?  Can  it  be  true  that 
nature  should  have  the  power  of  robbing  us  by 
her  own  ends  of  a  perfection,  which  reason  im¬ 
poses  upon  us  by  her  ends  ?  It  cannot,  therefore, 
be  true,  that  the  cultivation  of  a  single  power  ne¬ 
cessitates  the  sacrifice  of  their  totality  ;  or,  even 
if  nature’s  law  tended  ever  so  much  in  this  direc¬ 
tion,  it  must  be  given  unto  us  to  restore  by  a 
higher  art  the  integrity  of  our  forces  which  the 
mechanism  of  the  actual  has  destroyed. 


LETTER  YII. 

May  this  result  be  expected  of  the  state?  This 
cannot  be ;  for  the  present  organization  of  the 
state  having  caused  the  evil,  the  state,  such  as 
reason  imagines  it  to  itself,  would  have  to  be 
founded  upon  the  better  humanity  which  it  is  ex¬ 
pected  to  bring  forth.  Thus  my  previous  mode 
of  reasoning  brings  me  back  to  the  point 
whence  I  started.  The  present  age  so  far  from 
exhibiting  to  us  a  humanity  such  as  is  indispen¬ 
sable  to  a  reform  of  the  political  and  social  state, 
on  the  contrary  exhibits  its  exact  opposite.  If 
the  maxims  which  I  have  laid  down  are  correct, 
and  if  experience  corroborates  my  picture  of  the 
present  age,  we  shall  have  to  condemn  as  prema¬ 
ture  every  attempt  at  revolution,  and  shall  have 
to  reject  as  chimerical  every  hope  founded  upon 
it,  until  the  disintegration  of  man’s  internal  na¬ 
ture  shall  have  been  arrested,  and  his  nature  shall 
have  been  sufficiently  developed  in  its  complete¬ 
ness  to  enable  it  to  become  the  artist  of  reform 
and  to  guarantee  the  reality  of  the  political  crea¬ 
tion  of  reason. 

In  her  physical  arrangement  nature  shows  us 
the  road  which  we  should  pursue  in  moral  things. 
Not  until  the  struggle  of  elementary  forces  in  the 
lower  organizations  is  ended,  nature  enters  upon 
the  noble  work  of  fashioning  the  physical  man. 
In  the  same  way  the  conflict  of  moral  elements, 
of  blind  instincts  has  first  to  be  settled,  and  all 
coarse  antagonism  must  have  ceased,  before  it 
wall  be  safe  to  favor  the  development  of  indivi¬ 
dual  variety.  On  the  other  hand,  the  independence 
of  his  character  must  be  secured,  and  the  submis¬ 
sion  to  heterogeneous  and  despotic  forms  must 
have  given  way  before  a  proper  degree  of  freedom, 


before  the  variety  of  his  powers  can  be  made  sub¬ 
ordinate  to  the  unity  of  an  ideal.  Where  the 
natural  man  is  still  using  his  power  in  such  a  law¬ 
less  manner,  his  freedom  ought  scarcely  to  be 
shown  him  ;  where  the  citizen  still  makes  such  a 
scanty  use  of  his  liberty,  it  should  not  be  cur¬ 
tailed  or  withdrawn  from  him.  The  gift  of  liberal 
principles  becomes  treason  against  the  state,  if  it 
is  allied  to  a  still  fermenting  power,  and  goes  to 
strengthen  the  excessive  vehemence  of  natural  pas¬ 
sions  ;  the  law  of  unity  becomes  tyranny  against 
individuals,  if  it  is  imposed  upon  a  prevailing 
weakness  and  physical  want,  thus  extinguishing 
the  last  glimmer  of  independence  and  individual¬ 
ity.  Hence  the  character  of  the  age  will  first 
have  to  raise  itself  from  its  deep  degradation  ;  in 
one  case  it  will  have  to  free  itself  from  the  blind 
power  of  nature,  and  in  the  other,  return  to  her 
simplicity,  truth  and  fullness,  a  problem  which  it 
will  require  more  than  one  century  to  solve.  In 
the  mean  while,  single  individuals  may  succeed  in 
realizing  this  high  destiny  in  themselves  ;  but  the 
whole  will  not  be  mended  thereby,  and  the  incon¬ 
sistencies  in  our  conduct  will  bear  testimony  against 
the  unity  of  our  maxims.  In  other  continents  hu¬ 
manity  may  be  honored  in  the  negro,  whilst  in  Eu¬ 
rope  it  is  dishonored  in  the  philosopher.  The  old 
maxims  will  remain,  but  they  will  be  clothed  in 
the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  philosophy  will  author¬ 
ize  a  despotism  which  used  to  be  the  privilege  of 
the  church.  Frightened  by  liberty,  which  in  its  first 
experiments  always  announces  itself  as  an  enemy, 
the  nations  in  one  part  of  the  world  will  hasten 
into  the  arms  of  a  convenient  despotism,  and,  in 
another,  driven  to  despair  by  an  unyielding  dog¬ 
matism,  they  will  plunge  into  the  wild  lawlessness 
of  a  state  of  nature.  Usurpation  will  justify 
itself  by  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  insurrec¬ 
tion  by  its  dignity,  until  blind  force,  this  great  ruler 
of  all  human  interests,  will  step  between  and  will 
decide  the  pretended  struggle  of  principles  as  a 
common  row  of  the  mob. 


LETTER  VIII. 

Is  then  philosophy,  dispirited  and  hopeless,  to 
withdraw  from  this  domain  ?  Whilst  the  rule  of 
forms  is  enlarging  in  this  other  direction,  is  this 
most  important  of  all  goods  to  be  abandoned  to 
shapeless  chance  ?  Is  the  conflict  of  blind  forces 
to  last  forever  in  the  political  world,  and  is  the 
social  law  never  to  triumph  over  hostile  ego¬ 
tism  ? 

By  no  means  !  Reason  indeed  will  not  directly 
enter  upon  the  combat  with  this  brute  force  which 
resists  her  weapons,  and  no  more  than  the  son  of 
Saturnus  in  the  Iliad  she  will  descend  as  an  active 
champion  to  the  gloomy  battle-field.  But  from 
among  the  combatants  she  will  select  the  one  who 
is  most  worthy,  she  will  furnish  him  with  divine 
arms  as  Zeus  did  his  grandson,  and  will  accom¬ 
plish  the  great  decision  by  his  triumphant  strength. 

Reason  has  done  what  she  ought,  by  discovering 
and  promulgating  the  law  ;  it  has  to  be  executed 
by  the  courageous  will  and  the  living  sentiment. 
If  truth  is  to  conquer  in  the  struggle  with  blind 


JESTHETICAL. 


forces,  it  must  itself  first  become  a  force ,  and 
must  appoint  an  instinctive  impulse  as  its 
agent  in  the  world  of  phenomena;  for  these  in¬ 
stinctive  impulses  are  the  only  moving  forces  in 
the  sentient  world.  If  so  far  it  has  furnished  so 
little  evidence  of  its  triumphant  power,  this  is  not 
the  fault  of  the  understanding  which  did  not 
know  how  to  unvail  it,  but  the  fault  of  the  heart 
which  remained  closed  against  it,  and  of  the  im¬ 
pulse  which  did  not  execute  its  behests. 

Why,  in  spite  of  all  the  light  which  philosophy 
and  experience  have  kindled,  are  prejudice  and 
intellectual  darkness  still  so  universal  ?  The  age  is 
enlightened,  by  which  we  mean  that  a  sufficient 
amount  of  knowledge  has  been  discovered  and 
given  to  the  world,  to  rectify  at  least  our  practical 
maxims.  The  spirit  of  free  inquiry  has  dispelled 
the  delusions  which  had  been  blocking  up  the  ave¬ 
nue  to  truth  for  so  many  years,  and  has  under¬ 
mined  the  ground  upon  which  fanaticism  and  de¬ 
ception  had  erected  their  throne.  Reason  has 
been  purified  of  the  illusions  of  the  senses,  and 
of  all  deceitful  sophistry,  and  philosophy  itself, 
which  had  led  us  away  from  nature,  now  is  calling 
us  back  to  her  bosom  ;  why  then  do  we  still  con¬ 
tinue  in  the  meshes  of  barbarism? 

If  the  difficulty  is  not  inherent  in  the  things 
themselves,  the  obstacle  must  inhere  in  the  minds 
of  men,  resisting  the  reception  of  truth  if  it 
should  shine  ever  so  brightly,  or  should  have  be¬ 
got  the  most  intensely-felt  convictions.-  An 
ancient  philosopher  has  experienced  this  obstacle, 
and  has  enunciated  it  in  the  deep-meaning  and 
mysterious  formula  :  Sapere  Aude. 

Dare  to  be  wise.  An  energetic  courage  is  re- 
quired  to  combat  the  obstacles  with  which  the 
light  is  opposed  by  the  indolence  of  matter  as 
well  as  by  the  cowardice  of  the  heart.  Not  with¬ 
out  a  deep  significance  the  ancient  myth  causes 
the  goddess  of  wisdom  to  start  in  arms  out  of 
Jupiter’s  head;  for  her  office  is  warlike.  Even 
when  first  born,  wisdom  has  to  enter  upon  the 
struggle  with  the  senses,  which  do  not  wish  to  be 
disturbed  from  their  slumber.  Most  men  are  too 
much  exhausted  by  the  struggle  against  neces¬ 
sity,  to  prepare  for  the  much  more  fatiguing  com¬ 
bat  against  error.  Satisfied  if  he  himself  is  spared 
the  trouble  of  thinking,  man  willingly  confides  to 
others  the  guardianship  of  his  ideas,  and,  if  higher 
wants  should  be  felt  by  his  soul,  he  believingly 
seizes  the  formulas  which  the  state  and  the  church 
keep  all  ready  for  such  an  emergency.  If  these 
unfortunates  deserve  our  pity,  our  just  contempt 
should  be  awarded  to  others  whom  a  brighter  lot 
frees  from  the  tyranny  of  want,  but  whom  their 
own  free  choice  bends  beneath  its  yoke.  The 
twilight  of  obscure  notions,  which  admits  of  more 
intensity  of  feeling,  and  allows  the  phantasy  to 
revel  in  forms  of  its  own  creation,  is  preferred  by 
these  to  the  rays  of  truth  which  dispel  the  agree¬ 
able  phantoms  of  their  reveries.  Upon  these  de¬ 
lusions  which  the  hostile  light  of  knowledge  will 
dispel,  they  have  founded  the  whole  structure  of 
their  happiness ;  how  can  they  be  expected  to 
purchase  at  so  high  a  price  a  truth  whose  first 
occupation  consists  in  taking  from  them  every 
thing  that  is  of  value  to  them  ?  They  would  have 

to  be  wise  in  order  to  love  wisdom  :  this  truth  was  1 
Vol.  XI.— 33 


513 

felt  already  by  him  who  first  gave  a  name  to  phi¬ 
losophy. 

Not  enough  that  all  enlightenment  of  the  un¬ 
derstanding  deserves  our  respect  only  in  so  far  as 
the  character  is  benefited  by  it ;  it  proceeds,  so  to 
say,  from  the  character  as  its  starting-point,  inas¬ 
much  as  the  road  to  the  brain  has  to  be  opened 
by  the  heart.  The  cultivation  of  the  emotive 
faculties  may  therefore  be  regarded  as  the  more 
urgent  want  of  the  age,  not  only  because  this 
cultivation  will  render  the  mental  enlightenment 
more  available  lor  the  purposes  of  practical  life, 
but  because  itself  will  stimulate  the  desire  of 
multiplying  the  rays  of  light. 


LETTER  IX. 

But  are  we  not  here  moving  in  a  circle  ?  Is 
theory  to  lead  to  practice,  and  is  practice  never¬ 
theless  to  be  the  condition  of  theory?  All  poli¬ 
tical  reform  should  emanate  from  improvement 
of  character;  but  how  can  the  character  become 
improved  amid  the  influences  of  a  barbarous  form 
of  government?  In  order  to  effect  this  purpose, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  search  for  an  instrument 
which  is  not  furnished  by  the  state,  and  to  open 
springs  whose  purity  cannot  be  tainted  by  poli¬ 
tical  corruption. 

I  have  now  arrived  at  the  point  to  which  all 
the  arguments  which  I  have  advanced  hitherto, 
have  tended.  This  instrument  are  the  fine  arts, 
these  springs  are  disclosed  by  their  immortal 
models. 

Art,  like  science,  is  absolved  from  all  arbitrary 
conventional  rules.  The  political  legislator  may 
close  her  domain,  but  he  cannot  rule  in  it.  '  He 
may  banish  the  friend  of  truth,  but  he  cannot 
proscribe  truth  ;  he  may  degrade  the  artist,  but 
he  cannot  adulterate  art.  Nothing,  indeed,  is 
more  common  than  to  see  science  and  art  doing 
homage  to  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  to  see  criti¬ 
cism  giving  the  law  to  industry.  Where  the 
character  becomes  harsh  and  rigid,  we  see  science 
guard  her  boundaries  with  stern  severity,  and  art 
plod  along  in  the  heavy  bonds  of  rule  ;  where  the 
character  becomes  lax  and  yielding,  science  will 
endeavor  to  please,  and  art  will  strive  to  amuse. 
For  centuries,  philosophers,  as  well  as  artists,  are 
engaged  in  letting  truth  and  beauty  down  into 
the  depths  of  a  vulgar  humanity;  the  former  per¬ 
ish  in  this  abyss  ;  but,  buoyed  up  by  an  inherent 
and  indestructible  vital  power,  the  latter  rise  again 
in  triumph. 

The  artist  is  indeed  the  son  of  his  age,  but 
alas  !  if  he  is  at  the  same  time  its  pupil,  or 
even  more,  its  favorite.  Let  some  benevolent 
deity  snatch  the  infant  from  the  mother’s  breast, 
feed  it  with  the  milk  of  a  better  age,  and  then  let 
him  mature  under  a  distant  Grecian  sky.  Arrived 
at  the  age  of  manhood,  let  him,  a  stranger,  return 
to  his  own  age,  not  to  bring  joy  by  his  appear¬ 
ance,  but  fearful,  like  Agamemnon’s  son,  to  purify 
it.  As  to  the  material,  he  may  borrow  it  of  the 
present,  but  as  to  the  form,  it  will  have  to  be  sug¬ 
gested  by  a  nobler  age,  or  will  have  to  come  from 
beyond  all  time,  from  the  absolute  and  unchange- 


514 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


able  unity  of  bis  being.  It  is  from  the  pure 
ether  of  his  godlike  nature  that  the  spring  of 
beauty  runs  down  untainted  by  the  corruption  of 
the  age  or  race  which  is  immersed  below  in  turbid 
floods.  The  material  may  be  dishonored  or  en¬ 
nobled  by  caprice,  but  the  chaste  form  is  not 
subject  to  its  fitful  changes.  The  Roman  of  the 
first  centuries  had  already  bent  his  knees  before 
the  emperors,  when  statues  were  still  standing 
erect  ;  temples  remained  sacred  to  the  eye,  when 
the  gods  had  already  become  objects  of  derision  ; 
the  infamies  of  Nero  and  Commodus  were  put  to 
the  blush  by  the  noble  style  of  the  edifice  which 
concealed  them  from  the  public  eye.  Humanity 
has  lost  its  dignity,  but  art  has  saved  it  and  pre¬ 
served  it  in  significant  stones  ;  truth  continues  to 
live  in  fiction,  and  the  image  will  lead  to  the  res¬ 
toration  of  its  prototype.  As  a  noble  art  has 
survived  nature,  so  it  will  precede  nature  in  en¬ 
thusiasm  as  a  forming  and  life-quickening  power. 
Before  truth  sends  its  triumphant  light  into  the 
depths  of  the  heart,  poesy  catches  the  rays,  and 
the  summits  of  humanity  shine  with  brightness, 
when  a  damp  night  is  still  resting  upon  the  valleys. 

How  does  the  artist  guard  against  the  corrup¬ 
tions  of  the  age,  which  surround  him  on  all  sides  ? 
By  despising  its  judgment.  Let  him  look  up¬ 
ward,  to  his  dignity  and  the  law,  not  downward 
after  fortune  and  want.  Equally  free  from  the 
vain  officiousness  which  is  anxious  to  impress  its 
mark  upon  the  fleeting  moment,  and  from  the  im¬ 
patient  enthusiasm  which  measures  the  scanty 
proportions  of  the  age  by  the  dimensions  of  the 
absolute,  let  him  leave  the  sphere  of  the  actual  to 
the  understanding,  which  is  at  home  in  this  range 
of  interests  ;  let  him  endeavor  to  produce  the 
ideal  by  uniting  the  possible  with  the  necessary. 
Let  him  stamp  it  upon  fiction  and  truth,  upon  the 
plays  of  his  fancy  and  upon  his  most  serious  acts, 
upon  every  form  of  sense  and  spirit,  and  let  him 
launch  it  silently  upon  the  boundless  age. 

Not  every  one  in  whose  soul  this  ideal  is  glow¬ 
ing,  is  endowed  with  the  creative  repose  and  the 
patient  purpose  required  to  impress  it  upon  the 
silent  stone,  or  to  pour  it  forth  in  sober  language, 
and  to  confide  it  to  the  faithful  hands  of  time. 
Too  impetuous  to  avail  itself  of  this  calm  means, 
the  divine  instinct  of  form  rushes  at  once  upon 
the  present  and  upon  living  interests,  and  sets 
about  reforming  the  shapeless  substance  of  the 
moral  world.  Urgently  the  misfortune  of  the  race 
appeals  to  the  feeling  man,  still  more  urgently  its 
degradation  ;  his  enthusiasm  becomes  enkindled, 
and  in  vigorous  souls  the  glowing  desire  rushes 
*  J r' ward  to  action.  But  has  he  examined  whether 
th-.se  disorders  in  the  moral  world  offend  his 
reason,  or  whether  they  do  not  rather  hurt  his 
self-love?  If  he  is  not  yet  sure  of  it,  he  may 
know  it  by  the  zeal  with  which  he  insists  upon 
positive  and  hurried  effects.  The  pure  moral  in¬ 
stinct  is  directed  toward  the  absolute;  it  knows 
no  time,  and  the  future  seems  near  as  the  present 
from  which  it  has  to  emanate.  Before  absolute 
reason  the  mere  progression  toward  the  end  is 
equivalent  to  its  realization,  and  the  journey  is 
ended  as  soon  as  it  is  commenced. 

Give  —  this  will  be  my  advice  to  the  young 
friend  of  truth  and  beauty,  who  inquires  of  me 


how  he  is  to  gratify  the  nobler  instincts  in  hifl 
breast  in  spite  of  the  resistance  of  the  age — 
give  to  the  world  upon  which  thou  actest,  the  direc¬ 
tion  to  goodness,  and  the  calm  rhythm  of  time 
will  bring  about  the  fulfillment.  This  direction  is 
given  if  thou  elevatest  the  minds  of  the  age  by 
thy  teachings  to  the  necessary  and  eternal,  and 
if,  by  thy  deeds  or  by  the  productions  of  thy  art 
thou  transformest  the  necessarv  and  eternal  into 
objects  of  their  instinctive  impulses.  The  edifice 
of  delusion  and  arbitrary  power  will  fall,  it  must 
fall,  yea,  it  has  fallen,  as  soon  as  thou  art  certain 
that  it  is  inclining,  but  it  must  incline  in  the  inter¬ 
nal,  not  in  the  external  man.  In  the  modest 
quiet  of  thy  mind  bring  forth  the  victorious 
truth,  bring  it  forth  out  of  thy  own  depths  in 
forms  of  beauty,  let  not  the  mind  alone  do 
homage  to  it,  but  let  its  manifestation  charm  the 
senses.  And  lest  the  actual  should  force  upon 
thee  the  model  which  thou  art  to  create  for  it,  do 
not  familiarize  thyself  with  the  dubious  company 
of  the  world,  until  thou  art  assured  of  an  ideal 
retinue  in  thy  own  heart.  Live  with  thy  century ; 
but  be  not  its  creature  ;  give  to  thy  cotemporaries 
what  they  require,  not  what  they  praise.  With¬ 
out  being  an  accomplice  of  their  guilt,  share  their 
penalties  with  a  nobler  resignation,  and  with  a 
free  will  bend  beneath  the  yoke  which  they  are 
equally  unwilling  to  do  without  or  to  bear.  Prove 
to  them  by  the  persevering  courage  w’ith  which 
thou  submittest  to  their  sufferings,  that  it  is  not 
from  cowardice  that  thou  acceptest  thy  share  of 
their  sufferings.  Imagine  them  to  thee  as  they 
should  be,  if  thou  wishest  to  act  upon  them,  but 
imagine  them  as  they  are,  if  thou  art  tempted  to 
act  for  them.  Seek  their  approbation  by  their 
moral  worth,  and  weigh  their  happiness  by  their 
moral  degradation  ;  thus  thy  own  nobleness  will 
rouse  theirs,  and  their  want  of  moral  worth  will 
not  destroy  thy  purpose.  The  earnestness  of  thy 
principles  will  frighten  them  awray  from  thee,  but 
they  will  still  bear  thee  in  playful  forms;  their 
taste  is  chaster  than  their  hearts,  and  it  is  by 
the  former  that  the  shy  fugitive  must  be  held 
captive.  Their  maxims  may  be  assailed  in  vain, 
their  acts  may  be  condemned  in  vain,  but  their  idle¬ 
ness  may  prove  a  fair  subject  for  thy  creative  hand. 
Chase  lawlessness,  frivolity,  brutality  from  their 
amusements,  imperceptibly  thou  wilt  banish  it  from 
their  acts,  and  finally  from  their  feelings  and  sen¬ 
timents.  Wherever  thou  meetest  them,  surround 
them  with  noble,  with  great  and  spiritual  forms, 
place  the  symbols  of  moral  excellence  all  around 
them,  until  appearance  shall  conquer  reality,  and 
nature  shall  take  the  place  of  art. 


LETTER  X. 

You  agree  with  me,  and  have  become  convinced 
by  my  former  letters,  that  man  may  swerve  from 
his  destiny  by  two  different  roads,  that  our  age  is 
really  walking  upon  these  two  paths  of  error,  and 
that  it  has  fallen  a  prey  to  brutality  as  well  as  to 
laxity  and  perverseness.  From  this  twofold  aber¬ 
ration  it  is  to  be  brought  back  by  beauty.  But 
how  is  beauty  to  meet  two  opposite  defects  at 
once,  how  is  it  to  unite  in  itself  two  contradictory 


iESTHETICAL. 


515 


attributes?  Can  it  chain  the  nature  of  the  savage, 
and  emancipate  that  of  the  barbarian?  Can  it, 
at  the  same  time,  strain  and  relax  the  mind,  and 
if  it  cannot  do  both,  how  can  such  a  great  effect 
as  the  culture  of  humanity  reasonably  .  be  ex¬ 
pected  from  it  ? 

We  have  indeed  heard  ad  nauseam  the  assertion 
that  the  cultivated  sense  of  beauty  refines  the 
morals,  and  that  no  new  argument  is  required  to 
prove  this.  Daily  experience  is  referred  to,  ac¬ 
cording  to  which  a  cultivated  taste  is  generally 
combined  with  clearness  of  the  understanding,  im¬ 
pressibility  and  quickness  of  feeling,  liberality  and 
even  dignity  of  conduct,  whereas  the  contrary 
is  generally  found  associated  with  an  absence 
of  taste.  Those  who  hold  this  doctrine,  point 
with  a  great  degree  of  assurance  to  the  example 
of  the.  most  civilized  nations  of  antiquity,  among 
whom  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  had  likewise 
reached  its  highest  development;  and  to  the  op¬ 
posite  example  of  the  wild  or  barbarous  nations 
upon  which  their  insensibilty  for  the  beautiful  en¬ 
tails  a  rude  or  at  least  austere  character.  Never¬ 
theless  thinking  men  sometimes  take  it  into  their 
heads  either  to  deny  the  fact  or  to  doubt  the 
legitimacy  of  the  conclusions  drawn  from  such 
premises.  They  do  not  think  quite  so  badly  of 
the  wildness  of  which  uncivilized  tribes  are  ac¬ 
cused,  nor  so  advantageously  of  the  refinement 
which  is  extolled  among  the  civilized.  Even 
among  the  ancients,  philosophers  existed  who  con¬ 
sidered  refinement  any  thing  else  but  a  blessing, 
and  who  felt  disposed  to  keep  the  fine  arts  out  of 
the  republic. 

I  do  not  speak  of  those  who  scorn  the  graces 
because  these  divinities  never  favored  them. 
Those  who  know  of  no  better  standard  for  mea¬ 
suring  worth  than  the  labor  of  acquisition  and  the 
actual  gain,  how  could  they  be  expected  to 
properly  appreciate  the  silent  influence  of  taste 
upon  the  internal  as  well  as  the  external  man,  and 
not  to  overlook  the  essential  advantages  of  cul¬ 
ture  on  account  of  its  accidental  disadvantages? 
A  man  without  taste  despises  the  gracefulness  of 
style  as  an  attempt  at  bribery,  the  refinement  of 
conversation  as  dissimulation,  all  delicacy  and 
elevation  of  conduct  as  extravagant  affectation. 
He  cannot  bear  the  thought  that  the  favorite  of 
the  graces  should  enliven  every  social  circle,  that 
in  business  he  should  bend  every  mind  to  his  will, 
that  as  an  author  he  should  mould,  perhaps,  the 
character  of  his  age,  whereas  himself,  the  victim 
of  industry,  is  unable,  in  spite  of  his  knowledge, 
to  command  the  least  attention,  or  to  effect  the 
least  change.  Since  he  is  unable  to  learn  of  the 
genial  artist  the  secret  of  being  agreeable,  all 
that  is  left  for  him  to  do,  is  to  lament  the  per¬ 
verseness  of  human  nature,  which  worships  the 
appearance  rather  than  the  substance. 

But  there  are  respectable  voices  that  declare 
against  the  effect  of  beauty,  and  present  them¬ 
selves  in  the  arena  with  the  terrible  arms  of  ex¬ 
perience.  “  It  is  undeniable,”  they  say,  “  th^t  the 
charms  of  beauty  may  effect  praiseworthy  results 
in  good  hands  ;  but  this  does  not  show  that,  in 
bad  hands,  beauty  may  become  injurious,  and 
that  its  soul-fettering  power  may  be  made  sub¬ 
servient  to  error  and  wrong.  For  the  very  rea¬ 


son  that  taste  attends  principally  to  the  form, 
not  to  the  essence,  it  finally  presses  the  mind 
into  the  dangerous  direction  of  neglecting  all 
reality,  and  of  sacrificing  morality  and  truth  to  a 
charming  exterior.  All  substantial  differences 
disappear,  and  the  form  of  the  manifestation  alone 
determines  the  value  of  things.  “How  many 
men  of  talent,”  they  continue,  “are  not  diverted 
by  the  seductive  power  of  the  beautiful  from 
every  serious  and  laborious  business,  or  are,  at 
any  rate,  beguiled  into  treating  it  with  superficial 
carelessness  1  How  many  feeble  minds  become 
dissatisfied  with  the  organization  of  society  for 
no  better  reason  than  because  the  fancy  of  poets 
was  pleased  to  imagine  a  world  where  every  thing 
is  different,  where  no  conventionalism  fetters 
opinions,  where  nature  is  not  suppressed  by  art. 
What  a  dangerous  system  of  dialectics  the  pas¬ 
sions  have  learned,  ever  since  they  have  been  dis¬ 
played  in  the  pictures  of  our  poets  in  the  most 
brilliant  hues,  and  generally  conquer  when  strug¬ 
gling  against  laws  and  duties  !  What  has  society 
gained,  if  beauty  now  dictates  laws  to  social  inter¬ 
course,  which  formerly  depended  upon  truth,  and 
if  the  external  impression  decides  the  respect 
which  should  only  be  confined  to  merit?  It  is 
true,  we  now  behold  every  virtue  flourishing  that 
appears  beautiful  to  the  eye,  and  is  valued  by 
society,  but  in  return  we  see  every  vice  and  every 
excess,  which  are  compatible  with  a  fair  exterior, 
worshiped  by  the  sensual  crowd.”  It  seems  in¬ 
deed  strange  and  calculated  to  excite  our  reflec¬ 
tion  that  during  every  period  of  history,  when  the 
arts  flourish  and  taste  rules,  we  find  humanity 
sunk  to  a  lower  level,  nor  can  a  single  example  be 
shown,  where  a  higher  degree  and  the  universal 
spread  of  aesthetic  culture  among  a  people  have 
gone  hand  in  hand  with  political  freedom  and 
civil  virtue,  or  where  beautiful  manners  have  been 
allied  to  good  morals,  or  a  polished  deportment 
to  ingenuity  and  truth. 

Whilst  Athens  and  Sparta  maintained  their  in¬ 
dependence,  and  the  form  of  government  was 
based  upon  respect  for  the  laws,  taste  was  not  yet 
matured,  art  was  still  in  its  infancy,  and  beauty 
was  far  from  governing  the  minds.  Poesy  had 
indeed  achieved  a  sublime  flight,  but  only  with  the 
wings  of  genius,  of  which  we  know  that  it  is  most 
nearly  allied  to  a  wild  state  of  nature,  and  that  it 
is  a  light  which  loves  to  glimmer  in  darkness,  and 
which  bears  testimony  against,  rather  than  in  favor 
of  the  taste  of  the  age.  When  the  golden  age  of 
the  fine  arts  was  inaugurated  under  Pericles  and 
Alexander,  and  the  reign  of  taste  became  more 
universal,  the  power  and  liberty  of  Greece  had 
vanished,  eloquence  adulterated  truth,  wisdom 
gave  offense  in  the  mouth  of  Socrates,  and  the 
virtue  of  Phocion  became  an  object  of  envy  and 
persecution.  We  know  that  the  Romans  had  to 
exhaust  their  strength  by  civil  wars  and,  debauched 
by  oriental  effeminacy,  had  first  to  bend  beneath 
the  yoke  of  a  dynasty,  before  Grecian  art  was  en¬ 
abled  to  triumph  over  Roman  sternness.  Among 
the  Arabs  culture  did  not  dawn  until  the  energy 
of  their  warlike  spirit  had  become  relaxed  under 
the  sceptre  of  the  Abbasidse.  In  modern  Italy 
the  fine  arts  did  not  begin  to  flourish  until  the  splen¬ 
did  alliance  of  the  Lombards  had  been  dissolved, 


516 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Florence  had  submitted  to  the  Medici,  and  the 
spirit  of  independence  which  pervaded  these  cour¬ 
ageous  cities,  had  yielded  to  an  inglorious  sub¬ 
mission.  It  seems  superfluous  to  call  up  the 
example  of  modern  nations  whose  refinement  in¬ 
creased  in  the  same  proportion  as  their  indepen¬ 
dence  became  less.  Whithersoever  we  turn  our 
eyes  in  past  history,  we  find  that  taste  and  liberty 
flee  from  each  other,  and  that  beauty  founds  its 
sway  upon  the  ruin  of  heroic  virtues. 

And  yet  this  very  energy  of  character  at  whose 
expense  aesthetic  culture  is  generally  purchased, 
is  the  most  efficient  impulse  to  all  that  is  great 
and  excellent  in  man,  the  absence  of  which  can¬ 
not  be  replaced  by  any  other  advantage,  were  it 
ever  so  striking.  If  we  judge  of  the  influence  of 
beauty  by  what  the  past  teaches  us  in  this  respect, 
we  obtain  very  little  encouragement  to  foster  the 
development  of  sentiments  which  are  so  hostile  to 
man’s  true  culture;  and  we  had  rather  do  without 
the  relaxing  power  of  beauty,  even  at  the  risk  of 
plunging  into  harshness  and  brutishness,  than  to 
see  our  manhood  wrecked  on  the  cliffs  of  refine¬ 
ment.  But  experience  may  not  be  the  proper 
tribunal  before  which  such  a  question  as  this  can 
be  discussed  :  and  before  we  attach  any  import¬ 
ance  to  the  testimony  of  this  witness,  we  shall 
first  have  to  inquire  whether  the  beauty  in  favor 
of  which  we  are  arguing,  is  the  same  as  that 
against  which  history  seems  to  pronounce  her 
verdict.  This  seems  to  imply  an  idea  of  beauty 
which  does  not  originate  in  experience,  inasmuch 
as  this  other  idea  of  beauty  is  intended  to  ascertain 
whether  that  which  experience  has  designated  as 
beautiful,  really  deserves  this  appellation. 

This  pure  conception  of  beauty  could  not  be 
derived  from  actual  facts ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
would  have  to  rectify  our  judgment  concerning 
each  single  case ;  we  should  have  to  arrive  at  it 
by  abstract  reasoning,  and  would  have  to  infer  it 
as  a  possible  thing  from  the  constitution  of  our 
sensually-rational  nature  ;  in  one  word ,  we  should 
have  to  show  that  beauty  inheres  in  humanity  as 
a  necessary  element  of  its  nature.  Henceforth 
we  have  to  elevate  ourselves  to  the  pure  idea  of 
humanity,  and,  inasmuch  as  experience  exhibits 
to  our  view  only  isolated  conditions  of  single  in¬ 
dividuals,  but  never  humanity,  we  have  to  infer 
the  absolute  and  the  permanent  from  these  indi¬ 
vidual  and  changeable  manifestations,  and  by  re¬ 
moving  all  accidental  limitations,  have  to  obtain 
a  knowledge  of  the  necessary  conditions  of  our 
existence.  This  transcendental  method  will  lead 
us  for  a  time  away  from  the  familiar  sphere  of  phe¬ 
nomena,  and  from  the  living  presence  of  things, 
and  we  shall  have  to  dwell  fora  while  in  the  sterile 
domain  of  ideas  ;  but  we  should  recollect  that  we 
are  aiming  at  a  solid  basis  of  knowledge  which 
nothing  can  shake,  and  that  he  who  dares  not  as¬ 
cend  beyond  the  actual,  will  never  conquer  truth. 


LETTER  XI. 

By  soaring  to  the  highest  region  of  thought,  the 
abstract  understanding  finally  arrives  at  two  ideas 
beyond  which  it  cannot  ga  and  which  bound  its 


power.  It  distinguishes  in  man  that  which  re¬ 
mains  unchanged,  and  that  which  is  continually 
changing;  the  permanent  it  designates  as  hi3 
personality ,  the  changing  as  his  state. 

Personality  and  state — self  and  its  destiny — - 
which  we  represent  to  ourselves  as  one  and  the 
same  in  the  absolute,  are  ever  two  in  the  finite 
creature.  In  spite  of  all  permanence  on  the  part 
of  the  personality,  the  state  keeps  changing;  in 
spite  of  all  changes  of  state,  the  personality  re¬ 
mains  ever  the  same.  From  repose  we  pass  to 
action,  from  emotions  to  indifference,  from  agree¬ 
ment  to  contradiction  ;  but  we  remain  the  same, 
and  that  which  immediately  proceeds  from  us, 
likewise  remains.  In  the  absolute  being  alone, 
not  only  the  personality  but  all  its  determinations 
remain,  because  they  emanate  from  this  person¬ 
ality.  Whatever  the  Deity  is,  he  is  because  he  is  : 
hence  he  is  all  things  forever,  because  he  is  for¬ 
ever. 

Inasmuch  as  personality  and  state  differ  in 
man  as  a  finite  being,  the  state  can  no  more  be 
founded  upon  the  personality  than  the  personality 
can  be  founded  upon  the  state.  If  the  latter 
could  be,  the  personality  would  have  to  be  change¬ 
able  ;  if  the  former  could  be,  the  state  would  have 
to  be  permanent;  in  either  case,  either  the  person¬ 
ality  or  the  state  would  have  to  cease.  It  is  not 
because  we  think,  will,  feel,  that  we  are;  it  is  not 
because  wTe  are  that  we  think,  will,  feel.  We  are, 
because  we  are  ;  we  feel,  think,  and  will,  because 
there  is  something  outside  of  us. 

The  personality,  therefore,  has  to  be  its  own 
reason  of  existence,  for  the  permanent  cannot 
proceed  from  the  changeable;  here  we  have  the 
idea  of  the  absolute,  self-founded  state  of  being, 
namely,  f  reedom.  The  condition  of  being  must 
have  a  reason  of  existence  ;  not  being  the  off¬ 
spring  of  personality,  not  being  absolute,  it  must 
be  a  consequence  ;  thus  we  have,  secondly,  the  con¬ 
dition  of  all  dependent  states  of  being,  time.  Time 
is  the  condition  of  all  existence,  is  an  identical  pro¬ 
position,  for  it  means  no  more  than  this:  Conse¬ 
quence  is  the  condition  of  result. 

A  personality  which  manifests  itself  in  the  per¬ 
petually-persevering  ego,  cannot  exist  or  begin  in 
time,  since  time,  on  the  contrary,  has  to  commence 
in  the  personality/change  has  to  be  founded  upon 
a  something  permanent.  If  change  is  to  be,  some¬ 
thing  has  to  change,  hence  this  something  itself 
cannot  be  the  change.  When  we  say,  the  flower 
blossoms  and  hides  away,  we  make  the  flower  the 
permanent  object  in  this  change,  endowing  it.  as  it 
were,  with  personality,  in  which  two  conditions 
become  manifest.  We  cannot  object  that  man 
commences  to  be  before  he  is  ;  for  man  is  not  a 
personality  in  an  absolute  sense,  but  a  personality 
existing  in  a  definite  condition.  All  existence 
originates  in  time,  hence  man,  as  a  phenomenon, 
must  have  a  beginning,  although  the  pure  intelli¬ 
gence  in  him  is  eternal.  Without  time  he  could 
never  be  a  determinate  being ;  his  personality 
would  exist  as  a  germ  or  capacity,  but  not  as  an 
actual  being.  It  is  only  through  the  resulting 
effects  of  its  internal  activitie-s  that  the  self-exist¬ 
ing  personality  becomes  a  phenomenon  unto  itself. 

The  substance  of  activity,  or  the  reality  which 
the  Supreme  Intelligence  finds  in  Himself,  man 


JSSTHETICAL. 


517 


first  has  to  receive  ;  he  receives  it  in  space,  where 
it  seems  to  exist  outside  of  him  ;  and  in  time, 
where  it  manifests  itself  to  him  as  a  system  of 
changes.  This  substance  which  is  ever  changing 
in  him,  is  accompanied  by  his  never-changing  self¬ 
hood,  upon  which  his  rational  nature  has  im¬ 
pressed  the  law  of  remaining  the  same  in  spite  of 
change,  of  reducing  all  sensations  to  a  unity  of 
cognition,  and  making  each  of  his  phenomenal 
manifestations  a  law  for  all  time.  It  is  only  by 
changing  that  man  exists  ;  it  is  only  by  remaining 
unchangeable  that  he  exists.  Man,  as  imagined 
in  his  completeness,  would  be  the  permanent  unity 
remaining  ever  the  same  in  the  ocean  of  change. 

Although  an  infinite  being,  a  deity,  cannot 
commence  to  he,  yet  we  have  to  assign  the  appella¬ 
tion  of  divine  to  a  tendency  which  is  endlessly  to 
realize  the  veriest  sign  of  godhead,  absolute 
manifestation  of  power  (reality  of  the  absolutely 
possible),  and  absolute  unity  of  manifestation 
(necessity  of  the  absolutely  real).  It  is  unde¬ 
niable  that  the  human  personality  is  endowed 
with  a  capacity  for  the  divine  ;  the  way  to  the 
divine — if  the  term  way  may  be  applied  to  a  path 
which  never  leads  to  the  end  of  the  journey — is  dis¬ 
closed  to  him  through  the  senses. 

His  personality,  if  considered  in  itself,  and  in¬ 
dependently  of  all  material  substance,  is  simply 
the  capacity  for  a  possibility  of  infinite  manifesta¬ 
tion  ;  as  long  as  he  has  neither  perceptions  nor 
sensations,  man  is  nothing  else  than  form  and 
empty  capacity.  His  senses,  considered  in  them¬ 
selves  and  separately  from  all  independent  action 
of  the  mind,  can  simply  make  him  who,  without 
the  mind,  is  a  mere  being  of  form,  a  thing  of 
matter,  but  cannot  unite  matter  with  him.  As 
long  as  he  simply  experiences  sensations,  desires, 
and  merely  acts  from  desire,  he  is  nothing  but 
world,  cosmic  force,  the  shapeless  material  of  time. 
His  senses  indeed  make  his  capacity  an  active 
agent,  but  it  is  only  through  his  personality  that 
his  activity  becomes  his  own.  In  order  not  to  be 
a  mere  cosmic  force,  he  has  to  impart  form  to 
matter :  in  order  not  to  be  mere  form,  he  has  to 
impart  reality  to  the  capacity  with  which  he  is 
endowed.  He  realizes  the  form  if  he  creates  time, 
opposes  change  to  the  permanent,  and  the  variety 
of  universal  nature  to  the  perpetual  unity  of  his 
being ;  he  shapes  matter,  if  he  again  abrogates 
tim3,  maintains  perpetuity  in  change,  and  subjects 
the  variety  of  universal  nature  to  the  unity  of  his 
personality. 

Tw:  opposite  problems  result  from  these  po- 
Eilioat  which  it  is  man’s  duty  to  solve  ;  they  con¬ 
stitute  the  two  fundamental  laws  of  the  sensually- 
rational  nature.  The  first  problem  is  absolute 
reality  ;  he  is  to  substantiate  that  which  is  mere 
form,  he  is  to  manifest  all  his  capacities  in  the 
sphere  of  phenomena ;  the  second  problem  is 
absolute  form ;  he  is  to  overcome  the  merely 
changing  matter,  and  is  to  subject  all  his  pheno¬ 
menal  manifestations  to  a  principle  of  unity  ;  in 
other  words  :  he  is  to  externalize  his  inner  nature, 
and  is  to  impart  shape  and  order  to  the  external 
phenomena.  Either  of  these  two  problems,  by 
its  highest  fulfillment,  leads  to  the  idea  of  god¬ 
head  from  which  I  have  started. 


LETTER  XII. 

Two  opposite  forces  in  us,  which  we  may  call 
impulses,  because  they  impel  us  to  realize  their 
object,  urge  us  onward  to  the  fulfillment  of  the 
double  problem  of  realizing  the  necessary  within  us, 
and  of  subjecting  the  reality  outside  of  us,  to  the 
law  of  necessity.  The  first  of  these  impulses, 
which  I  call  sensual,  emanates  from  man’s  physi¬ 
cal  nature,  and  seeks  to  make  him  a  thing  of  time 
and  matter,  not  to  give  matter  to  him,  for  this  al¬ 
ready  presupposes  freedom  of  action  on  the  part 
of  the  personality  that  receives  matter  and  dis¬ 
tinguishes  it  from  the  permanent  identity.  By 
matter,  in  this  sense,  we  understand  change  or 
reality  fulfilled  in  time  ;  hence  this  impulse  ren¬ 
ders  it  necessary  that  there  should  be  changes, 
that  time  should  depend  upon  substance.  This 
condition  of  change  in  time  is  termed  sensation, 
through  which  alone  the  physical  existence  mani¬ 
fests  itself. 

Whatever  exists  in  time  being  successive,  the 
fact  of  something  existing  excludes  for  the  time 
being  every  thing  else.  If  we  produce  a  sound 
upon  an  instrument,  this  sound,  among  all  possible 
sounds,  is  the  only  real  one  ;  whilst  man  is  experi¬ 
encing  a  present  sensation,  the  whole  endless  pos¬ 
sibility  of  his  volitions  is  limited  to  this  one  con¬ 
dition  of  his  existence.  Where  this  impulse  is 
exclusively  active,  the  highest  limitation  must 
necessarily  exist ;  man,  in  this  condition,  is  no¬ 
thing  but  a  numerical  unit,  a  moment  of  time  rea¬ 
lized  in  act ;  or  rather,  not  he  is,  for  his  person¬ 
ality  is  abrogated  as  long  as  he  is  ruled  by  sensa¬ 
tion,  and  time  carries  him  along.* 

As  far  as  the  boundaries  of  man’s  finiteness  reach, 
the  domain  of  this  impulse  extends,  and  inasmuch  as 
all  form  adheres  to  matter,  and  the  absolute  is  only 
seen  through  finiteness,  it  is  indeed  by  the  sensual 
impulse  that  the  phenomenal  manifestation  of  hu¬ 
manity  is  ultimately  bounded.  But  although  the 
sensual  impulse  alone  awakens  and  unfolds  the 
capacities  of  human  nature,  yet  it  is  the  sensual 
impulse  alone  that  makes  the  fullness  of  develop¬ 
ment  impossible.  With  indissoluble  bonds  it 
binds  the  aspiring  spirit  to  the  world  of  sense, 
and  recalls  within  the  limits  of  the  actual  the  ab¬ 
stract  understanding  from  its  rovings  through  the 
infinite.  Thought  may  indeed  escape  for  a  time 
from  the  power  of  the  senses,  and  a  firm  will  may 
triumphantly  oppose  their  demands  ;  but  soon  a 

*  This  state  of  absence  of  self,  or  self  ruled  bj7  sensa¬ 
tion  is  adequately  expressed  by  the  formula:  to  be  be¬ 
side  one  8  self,  which  means,  to  be  outside  of  one’s  self. 
Although  this  phrase  is  only  employed,  where  the  sensa¬ 
tion  becomes  a  passional  state,  and  this  state  is  more  per¬ 
ceptible  by  its  continuance,  yet  any  one  is  beside  him¬ 
self  who  merely  experiences  a  sensation.  To  return  out 
of  this  state  to  a  state  of  conscious  calmness  and  self-, 
possession,  is  expressed  with  equal  correctness  by  the 
phrase  :  to  go  into  one's  self,  that  is  lo  say,  to  return  to  one’s 
personality,  to  restore  it.  Of  a  person  who  is  in  a  state 
of  syncope,  we  do  not  say:  he  is  beside  himself,  but; 
he  is  unconscious ;  that  is,  his  personality  has  lost  him, 
whereas  the  former  is  lost  to  his  personality.  Hence  ho 
who  is  coming  out  of  a  state  of  syncope,  is  said  to  hove 
come  to,  to  have  become  conscious,  which  may  coexist 
with  the  other  condition  of  being  beside  one’s  seif. 


513 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


suppressed  nature  will  reclaim  her  rights,  and  will 
urge  upon  us  the  reality  of  existence,  the  substan¬ 
tiality  of  knowledge,  and  the  necessity  of  action 
for  definite  ends  and  purposes. 

The  second  of  these  impulses,  which  may  be 
termed  the  impulse  of  form ,  emanates  from  man’s 
absolute  existence,  or  from  his  rational  nature;  it 
tends  to  set  him  free,  to  harmonize  his  various  phe¬ 
nomenal  determinations,  and  to  preserve  his  per¬ 
sonal  identity  in  spite  of  all  changes.  Inasmuch 
as  the  human  personality,  in  its  capacity  of  absolute 
and  indivisible  unity,  can  never  be  in  contradiction 
with  itself,  inasmuch  as  we  are  we  to  all  eternity, 
the  impulse  which  urges  the  maintenance  of 
the  personality,  can  never  demand  any  thing  ex¬ 
cept  that  which  it  is  obliged  to  demand  to  all 
eternity ;  its  present  decisions  are  perpetual,  its 
present  commands  are  forever.  Hence  it  en¬ 
compasses  the  whole  succession  of  time,  in  other 
words  :  it  abrogates  time  and  change  ;  it  demands 
that  the  real  should  be  necessary  and  eternal, 
and  that  the  necessary  and  eternal  should  be  real  ; 
in  other  words  :  it  insists  upon  truth  and  right. 

If  the  former  impulse  only  sets  up  cases ,  the 
latter  enacts  laws ,  laws  for  every  judgment  in  the 
matter  of  cognitions,  laws  for  every  volition  in  the 
matter  of  actions.  Whether  we  apperceive  an 
object,  whether  we  impart  objective  validity  to  a 
condition  of  our  personality ;  or  whether  we  act 
from  the  suggestions  of  knowledge,  whether  deter¬ 
mination  to  action  depends  upon  some  objective 
motive — in  either  case  we  remove  this  condition 
from  the  jurisdiction  of  time,  and  make  it  a  reality 
for  all  men  and  ages,  wTe  impart  to  it  universality 
and  necessity.  The  sensation  can  simply  say, — 
This  is  true  for  such  and  such  a  personality,  and 
in  this  or  that  moment  of  time ,  and  another  mo¬ 
ment,  another  personality  may  come  along,  abro¬ 
gating  the  statement  emanating  from  the  present 
sensation.  But  if  the  thought  once  says  :  this  is, 
it  decides  forever,  and  the  validity  of  this  state¬ 
ment  is  guaranteed  by  the  personality  which  bids 
defiance  to  all  change.  Inclination  can  simply 
say  :  this  is  good  for  thy  individuality  and  for 
thy  present  want;  but  thy  individuality  and  thy 
present  want  will  be  carried  along  by  change,  and 
that  which  is  now  an  object  of  thy  ardent  desires, 
may  some  time  or  other  become  an  object  of 
thy  aversion.  But  if  the  moral  sense  says:  this 
shall  be,  it  decides  forever;  if  thou  admittest 
truth,  because  it  is  truth,  and  if  thou  practicest 
justice,  because  it  is  justice,  thou  hast  made  a 
single  case  the  law  for  all  cases,  thou  hast  im¬ 
pressed  upon  one  moment  of  thy  life  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  eternity. 

Where  the  impulse  of  form  rules,  and  absolute 
objectivity  is  the  law  of  the  mind,  there  our  being 
reaches  the  highest  expansion,  there  all  barriers 
.disappear;  there  man,  from  a  numerical  unit 
to  which  the  scanty  limits  of  the  sensual  had  re¬ 
duced  him,  becomes  an  ideal  unity,  encompassing 
the  whole  range  of  phenomena.  During  this 
operation  we  are  no  longer  in  time,  but  time  is  in 
us,  with  its  endless  succession  of  phenomena. 
We  cease  to  be  individuals,  we  become  species  ; 
the  judgment  of  all  minds  is  spoken  through  our 
own;  the  choice  of  all  hearts  is  represented  by 
our  act. 


LETTER  XIII. 

At  first  sight  nothing  seems  more  opposed 
than  the  tendencies  of  these  two  impulses,  one  of 
them  urging  change,  the  other  unchangeableness. 
Nevertheless  it  is  these  two  impulses  which  ex¬ 
haust  the  idea  of  humanity  ;  a  third  fundamental 
impulse  which  might  mediate  between  the  two,  is 
absolutely  inconceivable.  How  then  shall  we  re¬ 
store  the  unity  of  human  nature  which  seems  to 
be  completely  annulled  by  this  original  and  radi¬ 
cal  opposition  ? 

It  is  true,  their  tendencies  are  contradictory,  but 
not  in  the  same  object,  and  substances  which 
do  not  hit  each  other,  cannot  strike  against  each 
other.  The  sensual  impulse  indeed  demands 
changes,  but  it  does  not  demand  that  these 
changes  extend  to  the  personality  and  its  domain,  it 
does  not  require  a  change  of  principles.  The  im¬ 
pulse  of  form  urges  unity  and  permanence,  but  it 
does  not  require  the  state  to  become  fixed  like 
the  personality,  the  sensation  to  remain  per¬ 
petually  the  same.  Hence  these  two  impulses 
are  not  opposed  to  each  other  naturally,  and  if 
they  appear  so,  they  have  become  so  by  a  volun¬ 
tary  transgression  of  natural  boundaries,  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  misapprehending  each  other’s  destiny 
and  confounding  their  spheres  of  action.*  It  is 
the  problem  of  culture  to  watch  these  two  im¬ 
pulses  and  to  secure  the  respective  boundaries  of 
each  ;  hence  culture  owes  to  both  equal  justice, 
and  should  not  only  maintain  the  rational  impulse 
against  the  sensual,  but  this  latter  against  the 

*  If  we  maintain  the  doctrine  of  an  original,  necessary 
antagonism  between  the  two  impulses,  the  unity  of  hu¬ 
man  nature  can  only  be  preserved  by  an  absolute  subjec¬ 
tion  of  the  sensual  to  the  rational.  But  this  must  result 
in  uniformity,  it  cannot  lead  to  harmony,  and  man  will 
continue  forever  divided.  There  must  indeed  be  subjec¬ 
tion,  but  it  should  be  mutual  ;  for  although  limits  can 
never  found  the  absolute,  although  the  freedom  of  will 
can  never  depend  upon  time,  it  is  equally  certain  that 
the  absolute  of  itself  can  never  determine  limits,  that  a 
condition  in  time  can  never  depend  upon  the  free  per¬ 
sonality.  Both  these  principles  are  subordinate  to,  and 
co-ordinate  with  each  other,  in  other  words:  they  are  re¬ 
ciprocally  related,  no  form  without  matter,  no  matter 
without  form.  (This  idea  of  reciprocal  action  and  the 
whole  importance  of  the  subject  is  lucidly  shown  in 
Fichte’s  Principles  of  the  Sciences.  Leipsic,  1794.)  We 
know  nothing  of  the  nature  of  an  ideal  personality,  but 
we  do  know  that  it  cannot  manifest  itself  in  time  with¬ 
out  matter;  in  the  world  of  ideas  matter  will  have  to 
effect  determinations  under  the  form,  and  outside  of,  and 
independently  of  the  form.  As  necessary  as  it  is  that 
the  senses  should  not  decide  for  reason,  as  necessary  it  is 
on  the  other  hand,  that  reason  should  not  arrogate  tc 
itself  arbitrary  determinations  in  the  domain  of  sensa¬ 
tions.  By  the  very  fact  that  a  special  domain  is  assigned 
to  each  of  them,  they  are  given  to  understand  that  they 
must  not  interfere  with  each  other;  a  transgression  of 
their  respective  boundaries  could  only  result  in  mutual 
injury. 

In  a  system  of  transcendental  philosophy,  where  it  is 
all  important  to  separate  the  form  from  the  substance 
and  the  necessary  from  the  accidental,  we  are  inclined  to 
look  upon  matter  as  an  obstacle,  and  to  represent  the 
senses  that  happen  to  be  in  the  way  in  this  peculiar  busi¬ 
ness,  as  nccesarily  antagonistic  to  reason.  Such  a  view 
is  not  by  any  means  founded  in  the  spirit  of  Kant’s  sys¬ 
tem,  but  might  be  supposed  to  exist  by  those  who  study 
it  with  a  careless  and  literal  superficiality. 


AESTHETIC  AL. 


619 


former.  The  business  of  culture  is  therefore 
twofold,  first,  to  guard  the  senses  against  the  en¬ 
croachments  of  the  free  personality,  and  secondly : 
to  guard  the  personality  against  the  power  of 
sensation.  The  former  result  is  reached  by  the 
cultivation  of  the  sentiment,  and  the  latter  by  the 
cultivation  of  the  rational  faculty. 

Inasmuch  as  nature  is  an  expanse  in  time  and 
change,  the  perfection  of  the  faculty  which  binds 
man  to  the  world,  must  consist  in  the  greatest 
possible  changeableness  and  extensiveness.  In¬ 
asmuch  as  personality  is  the  permanent  in  change, 
the  perfection  of  the  power  which  is  to  be  opposed 
to  this  change,  will  consist  in  the  greatest  possible 
independence  and  intensiveness.  The  more  va¬ 
rious  and  the  quicker  the  susceptibility,  the  more 
numerous  the  points  of  contact  between  it  and 
external  nature:  the  more  of  this  nature  will  be 
grasped  by  man,  the  more  numerous  the  capaci¬ 
ties  which  he  will  develop;  the  more  power  and 
depth  are  acquired  by  the  personality,  the  more 
freedom  by  the  reason  :  the  larger  a  portion  of 
nature  will  be  comprehended  by  man,  the  more 
form  he  will  create  outside  of  himself.  His  cul¬ 
ture  will  therefore  consist,  first :  in  procuring  for 
the  appercipient  faculties  the  largest  number  of 
points  of  contact  with  nature,  and  to  render  the 
sensations  as  passive  as  possible,  and  secondly: 
to  make  the  will  as  independent  as  possible  of  the 
senses,  and  to  secure  the  highest  possible  activity 
of  reason.  Where  these  two  capacities  are  united, 
man  will  combine  the  highest  independence  and 
freedom  with  the  highest  fullness  of  existence  ; 
and,  instead  of  being  absorbed  by  the  world,  he 
will  absorb  it  with  all  the  fullness  of  its  pheno¬ 
mena,  and  will  subject  it  to  the  unity  of  his 
reason. 

By  subverting  this  relation,  man  may  miss  his 
destiny  in  a  twofold  manner.  He  may  transfer  to 
the  passive  sphere  the  intensity  which  belongs  to 
the  active,  he  may  make  the  impulse  of  form  sub¬ 
ordinate  to  the  impulse  of  sense,  and  may  make 
the  senses  the  rulers  of  the  will.  He  may  trans¬ 
fer  the  extensiveness  which  the  senses  should 
claim,  to  the  active  sphere,  may  cultivate  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  form  at  the  expense  of  the  impulse  of 
sense,  and  may  sacrifice  the  sphere  of  desires  to 
that  of  the  will.  In  the  former  case  he  will  never 
be  himself ;  in  the  second  case  he  will  never 
change ;  hence  he  will  be  neither,  a  mere  cipher.* 

*  The  evil  influence  of  an  overpowering  sensuality 
upon  our  thoughts  and  acts  strikes  every  body;  but  not 
every  body  is  as  readily  struck  by  the  equally  frequent 
and  injurious  influence  of  an  overpowering  rationality 
upon  our  knowledge  and  conduct;  I  beg  leave  to  pick 
out  from  among  a  large  number  of  the  cases  that  belong 
to  this  category,  two  only,  which  will  expose  to  the  light 
of  day  the  injury  done  by  the  intellect  and  will,  if  they 
overpower  sensation  and  instinctive  perception. 

One  of  the  chief  causes  why  our  natural  sciences  make 
such  slow  progress,  is  evidently  the  very  common  and 
almost  irresistible  propensity  to  teleological  propositions, 
by  which,  if  they  are  uttered  in  the  form  of  assertions, 
the  wl'l-power  is  substituted  for  the  sentient-perceptive 
sphsT-},  Nature  may  impress  our  organs  ever  so  em¬ 
phatically  and  variously;  her  variety  is  lost  to  us,  be¬ 
cause  we  seek  nothing  in  these  natural  forms  except  our 
own  d  priori  interpretations ;  because  we  do  not  permit 
the  natural  varieties  to  come  to  ua  in  perfect  freedom,  but 
we  force  our  thoughts  and  definitions  upon  them.  If, 


If  the  sensual  impulse  determines  the  will,  if 
the  senses  legislate,  if  the  personality  is  stifled  by 
nature,  the  latter  ceases  to  be  the  object  of  our 
attention,  for  she  has  become  the  ruling  power. 
As  soon  as  man  becomes  mere  material  substance, 
he  is  no  longer,  and  he  ceases  to  be  a  substantial 
personality.  As  his  personality  disappears,  so 
his  state  likewise  ceases,  for  both  are  reciprocal 
conditions,  change  implying  the  permanent  iden 
tity  of  a  personality,  and  the  finite  reality  imply¬ 
ing  an  infinite.  If  the  impulse  of  form  determines 
the  senses,  if  the  intellect  rules  the  sensations,  if 

after  this,  one  thinker  makes  his  appearance  in  the 
course  of  centuries,  approaching  nature  with  calm, 
chaste,  and  open  senses,  and  meeting  a  multitude  of 
phenomena  which  our  own  prejudiced  eyes  had  over¬ 
looked,  we  are  astonished  that  nothing  was  seen  in 
broad  daylight  by  so  many  eyes.  This  premature  striving 
after  harmony,  before  even  the  single  sounds  of  which  it 
is  to  be  composed,  have  been  collected;  this  violent 
usurpation  of  the  thinking  faculty  in  a  domain  where  it 
has  no  business  to  exercise  absolute  dominion,  is  the 
reason  why  the  labors  of  so  many  thinking  heads  are 
fruitless  for  the  good  of  science,  so  that  it  is  hard  to  de¬ 
cide  whether  the  enlargement  of  our  sphere  of  knowledge 
has  been  damaged  more  by  a  sensuality  that  opposes  all 
form,  or  by  the  reason  that  generalizes  without  a  suffi¬ 
cient  number  of  data. 

It  is  equally  difficult  to  determine  whether  our  practi¬ 
cal  philanthropy  is  disturbed  and  cooled  more  by  the  ve¬ 
hemence  of  our  desires,  or  by  the  rigidity  of  our  maxims, 
more  by  the  egotism  of  our  senses  or  by  the  egotism  of 
our  reason.  In  order  that  we  may  become  sympathetic, 
helping,  and  active  men,  feeling  and  character  have  to 
combine,  in  the  same  way  as  ingenuity  and  energy  of  the 
understanding  have  to  combine  in  order  to  enable  us 
to  gather  experience.  How  can  we  be  equitable,  kind, 
and  humane  toward  others,  even  if  our  maxims  are  ever 
so  praiseworthy,  if  we  have  not  the  capacity  of  identify¬ 
ing  ourselves  truly  and  fully  with  foreign  natures,  foreign 
situations  and  sentiments?  By  the  education  which  we 
receive,  as  well  as  by  that  which  we  give  to  ourselves, 
this  power  is'  suppressed  in  the  same  measure  as  the 
power  of  our  desires  is  sought  to  be  broken,  and  the  cha¬ 
racter  is  sought  to  be  fortified  by  principles.  Because  it 
is  difficult  to  remain  true  to  one’s  principles  without 
blunting  one’s  sensibility,  we  seize  the  more  convenient 
remedy  of  securing  the  character  by  blunting  the  sensa¬ 
tions;  for  it  is  much  easier  to  be  left  alone  by  a  disarmed 
antagonist  than  to  control  a  courageous  and  able  enemy. 
This  operation  is  equivalent  to  what  is  termed  forming  a 
man,  if  we  understand  this  expression  in  its  best  sense, 
when  it  signifies  cultivation  of  the  internal,  not  simply 
the  external  man.  A  man  thus  formed  will  not  lapse 
into  a  rude  state  of  nature,  nor  will  he  appear  rude;  at 
the  same  time,  however,  he  will  be  surrounded  as  with  a 
cuirass  against  all  the  natural  sensations  by  a  whole 
series  of  maxims,  and  humanity  will  be  unable  to  reach 
him  either  from,  within  or  from  without. 

It  is  abusing  the  ideal  of  perfection  in  a  pernicious 
manner,  if  we  set  it  up  in  all  its  rigidity  as  a  standard 
by  which  we  judge  other  persons,  or  in  cases  where  we 
are  called  upon  to  act  in  their  behalf.  The  former  will 
lead  to  a  fanatical  enthusiasm,  the  latter  to  hardness  and 
insensibility.  The  performance  of  social  duties  becomes 
indeed  quite  easy  if  we  substitute  for  the  actual  man  who 
is  in  need  of  our  assistance,  the  ideal  man  who  might 
possibly  help  himself.  Severity  toward  one’s  self,  asso¬ 
ciated  with  gentleness  toward  others,  constitutes  the 
truly  excellent  character.  But  in  most  cases  the  man 
who  is  yielding  toward  others,  will  prove  yielding  toward 
himself,  and  the  man  who  is  rigid  toward  himself,  will  be 
so  toward  others  :  to  be  yielding  toward  one’s  self,  and 
severe  toward  others,  constitutes  the  most  contemptible 
character. 


520 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  personality  becomes  substituted  for  nature, 
the  former  ceases  to  become  a  self-existing 
power  and  subject  the  moment  it  takes  the  place 
of  the  object,  since  henceforth  the  personality 
would  desire  to  manifest  itself  by  change,  and  ab¬ 
solute  reality  would  require  limits*  to  its  mani¬ 
festation.  As  soon  as  man  becomes  mere  form, 
he  has  no  form,  and  the  state  being  suppressed, 
the  personality  is  likewise  stifled.  In  one  word  : 
only  in  so  far  as  man  is  self-existing,  there  is  a 
reality  for  him  outside  of  him,  and  he  is  suscepti¬ 
ble  to  its  impressions ;  only  in  so  far  as  he  is  sus¬ 
ceptible  to  impressions,  a  reality  is  within  him,  he 
is  a  thinking  power. 

Both  impulses  require  to  be  limited,  and,  in  so 
far  as  they  are  powers,  they  require  relaxation  ; 
the  former,  lest  it  should  undertake  to  lay  down 
the  law  ;  the  latter,  lest  it  should  interfere  with 
the  province  of  the  sensations.  The  relaxation 
of  the  sensual  impulse  should  not  result  from 
physical  inability  or  blunted  sensations,  for  these 
deserve  contempt ;  it  should  be  an  act  of  the  free 
will,  of  the  independent  personality,  moderating 
the  sensual  power  by  its  moral  intensity,  and,  by 
controlling  the  impressions,  taking  from  their 
depth  what  it  adds  to  their  extension.  Character 
should  define  the  limits  of  temperament,  for  it  is 
only  to  the  mind,  that  the  senses  should  yield  of 
their  own.  Nor  should  the  relaxation  of  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  form  result  from  mental  inability  or  from 
a  want  of  elasticity  of  the  intellectual  or  will¬ 
power,  for  this,  again,  would  degrade  humanity. 
Fullness  of  sensations  should  be  the  glory  of  man  ; 
with  triumphant  force  the  senses  themselves 
should  maintain  their  place,  and  resist  the  vio¬ 
lence  which  the  intrusive  action  of  the  mind 
would  like  to  commit  against  them.  In  one  word: 
the  impulse  of  sense  should  be  adequately  re¬ 
strained  by  the  personality,  and  the  impulse  of 
form  by  the  sensitive  powers  of  man’s  nature. 


LETTER  XIY. 

We  have  now  reached  the  conception  of  a  re¬ 
ciprocal  action  between  the  two  impulses,  where 
the  agency  of  the  one  determines  and  limits  the 
agency  of  the  other,  and  where  each  reaches  the 
highest  degree  of  manifestation  through  the  other’s 

activitv. 

•> 

This  reciprocal  relation  of  both  impulses  is  in¬ 
deed  a  problem  of  the  reason,  of  which  man  can 
only  furnish  a  complete  solution  in  the  fullness  of 
his  development.  It  is  really  the  idea  of  his  hu¬ 
manity ,  hence  something  infinite  which  he  may 
approximate  more  and  more  in  the  course  of  time 
without  ever  reaching  it.  “  He  is  not  to  aspire  at 
form  at  the  expense  of  the  substance,  nor  at  sub¬ 
stance  at  the  expense  of  the  form  ;  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  he  is  to  seek  absolute  being  by  his  finite 
form,  and  the  finite  form  by  an  infinite.  He  is  to 
place  opposite  to  himself  a  world,  because  he  is  a 
personality,  and  is  to  be  a  personality,  because  a 
world  is  opposite  to  him.  He  is  to  experience 
sensations,  because  he  has  consciousness,  and  he 
is  to  have  consciousness,  because  he  experiences 
eeusations.”  As  long  as  lie  only  gratifies  one  of 


these  impulses  exclusively,  or  only  one  after  the 
other,  he  can  never  know  that  this  idea  inheres  in 
his  very  being,  and  that  he  is  a  man  in  the  fullest 
acceptation  of  the  term;  for  as  long  as  he  only 
experiences  sensations,  his  personality  or  absolute 
existence  remains  a  mystery  to  him  ;  and  as  long 
as  he  only  thinks,  his  existence  in  time  or  his  phe¬ 
nomenal  condition  remains  closed  to  his  conscious¬ 
ness.  If  he  should  make  this  twofold  experience 
at  one  and  the  same  time,  should  at  the  same  time 
be  conscious  of  his  freedom,  and  experience  the 
sensation  of  his  existence,  if  he  should  feel  him¬ 
self  as  a  substance,  and  learn  to  know  himself  as 
a  spirit,  he  would  enjoy  in  all  such  cases,  and  in 
no  other,  a  full  and  intuitive  perception  of  his  hu¬ 
manity,  and  the  object  which  would  procure  for 
him  this  enjoyment,  would  be  to  him  a  symbol  of 
the  realization  of  his  destiny,  and  consequently 
(since  this  realization  can  only  take  place  in  the 
fullness  of  time)  a  representation  of  the  infinite. 

Suppose  that  such  cases  may  really  occur,  they 
would  excite  in  him  a  new  impulse,  which  would 
be  opposed  to  each  of  the  other  two  isolatedly, 
for  the  reason  that  these  two  co-operate,  and 
which  might  very  justly  be  regarded  as  a  new  im- 
pulse.  The  sensual  impulse  desires  that  there 
should  be  changes,  that  time  should  depend  upon 
substance  ;  the  impulse  of  form  desires  that  there 
should  not  be  any  changes,  that  time  should  be 
abrogated.  The  impulse  in  which  both  these  im¬ 
pulses  act  combinedly,  and  which  I  will  designate 
as  the  impulse  of  play — an  appellation  that  I  shall 
endeavor  to  justify  hereafter — would  tend  to  neu¬ 
tralize  time  in  time,  and  to  unite  existence  with 
the  absolute  esse,  change  with  identity. 

The  sensual  impulse  desires  to  assume  deter¬ 
minate  forms  of  manifestations,  it  is  waiting  for 
an  object ;  the  impulse  of  form  wants  to  produce 
its  object  and  to  be  itself  a  determining  power; 
the  impulse  of  play  will  therefore  endeavor  to  re¬ 
ceive  as  itself  would  have  produced,  and  to  pro. 
duce  as  the  senses  strive  to  receive. 

The  sensual  impulse  excludes  from  its  subject 
all  self-activity  and  freedom,  the  impulse  of  form 
all  dependence,  all  passiveness.  Exclusion  of 
freedom  is  a  physical,  exclusion  of  passiveness  is 
a  moral  necessity.  Both  impulses  constrain  the 
mental  sphere,  the  former  by  natural  laws,  the 
latter  by  the  laws  of  reason.  The  impulse  of 
play,  as  resulting  from  the  combined  action  of  the 
two  former,  will  constrain  the  mental  sphere  both 
physically  and  morally;  doing  away  with  the  ac¬ 
cidental,  it  will  likewise  do  away  with  the  neces¬ 
sary,  and  will  set  man  free  both  physically  and 
morally.  If  we  conceive  a  passion  for  a  person 
worthy  of  our  contempt,  we  feel  painfully  the  con¬ 
straint  of  nature.  If  we  are  hostile  to  a  person 
whom  we  are  compelled  to  esteem,  we  painfully 
experience  the  constraint  of  reason.  But  as  soon 
as  he  interests  our  inclination,  and  has  gained  our 
respect,  both  the  constraint  of  sentiment  and  that 
of  reason  vanish,  and  we  commence  to  love  him, 
in  other  words,  we  play  both  with  our  respect  and 
our  inclination. 

Whilst  the  sensual  impulse  constrains  us  physi¬ 
cally,  and  the  impulse  of  form  morally,  the  former 
leaves  our  form,  and  the  latter  our  substance  to  . 
the  chances  of  accident ;  in  other  words,  it  is  ac- 


JESTHETICAL. 


521 


cidental  whether  our  happiness  will  accord  with 
our  perfection,  or  our  perfection  with  our  happi¬ 
ness.  The  impulse  of  play,  in  which  these  two 
impulses  act  combinedly,  will  render  both  our 
formal  and  material  condition,  both  our  perfection 
and  happiness  accidental  ;  hence,  for  the  very 
reason  that  it  renders  both  impulses  accidental, 
and  that  the  disappearance  of  the  accidental  ac¬ 
companies  that  of  necessity,  it  will  do  away  with 
tl.3  accidental  in  the  sphere  of  either  impulse, 
hence  it  will  give  form  to  substance  and  reality  or 
substance  to  the  form.  In  proportion  as  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  play  deprives  sensations  and  passional 
emotions  of  their  dynamic  influence,  it  will  har¬ 
monize  them  with  the  ideas  of  reason,  and  in  the 
same  proportion  as  it  removes  the  weight  of  moral 
necessity  from  the  laws  of  reason,  it  will  reconcile 
them  with  the  interest  of  the  senses. 


LETTER  XV. 

I  approach  more  and  more  closely  the  end  to¬ 
ward  which  we  are  journeying  upon  a  rather  cheer¬ 
less  path.  Follow  me  a  few  steps  further;  a  freer 
horizon  will  disclose  itself  before  us,  and  a  bright 
prospect  may  reward  us  for  our  labor. 

The  object  of  the  sensual  impulse,  expressed  in 
one  general  idea,  is  life  in  the  most  general  ac¬ 
ceptation  ;  an  idea  which  comprehends  the  totality 
of  material  being,  and  the  totality  of  phenomenal 
existence.  The  object  of  the  impulse  of  form, 
expressed  in  a  general  idea,  is  shape ,  both  literal 
and  figurative ;  an  idea  which  comprehends  all 
the  formal  conditions  of  things  and  all  their 
relations  to  the  intellect.  The  object  of  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  play,  presented  in  a  general  expression, 
may  be  termed  living  form  ;  an  idea  which  desig¬ 
nates  all  the  aesthetic  properties  or  conditions 
of  phenomena,  in  one  word,  that  which  is  called 
beauty  in  the  vastest  acceptation  of  the  term. 

By  this  explanation,  if  it  can  be  so  termed, 
beauty  is  neither  extended  over  the  whole  domain 
of  the  living,  nor  exclusively  confined  to  it.  A 
block  of  marble,  although  it  remains  inanimate, 
may  nevertheless  have  a  living  form  imparted  to 
it  by  the  architect  and  sculptor;  a  man,  although 
he  is  a  living  being  and  has  a  form,  is  not,  by  any 
means,  a  living  form  for  all  that.  To  be  such  a 
form  it  must  be  life,  and  life  must  be  the  form.  As 
long  as  his  form  simply  excites  our  intellect,  it  is 
inanimate,  a  mere  abstraction  ;  as  long  as  we 
merely  feel  the  life,  the  work  is  shapeless,  a  mere 
impression.  It  is  only  when  the  form  lives  in  our 
imagination,  and  the  life  takes  shape  in  our  under¬ 
standing  that  man  is  a  living'  form,  which  will  be 
the  cas?  whenever  we  adjudge  beauty  to  him  as  an 
inherent  attribute. 

But  by  simply  knowing  how  to  indicate  the  ele¬ 
ments  which  produce  beauty  by  their  union,  the 
manner  in  which  the  idea  of  beauty  originates  is 
not  yet  accounted  for  ;  for  in  order  to  account 
for  it,  it  would  be  necessary  that  we  should  com¬ 
prehend  that  union  itself,  which  remains  incom¬ 
prehensible  to  us  like  every  other  reciprocal  action 
going  on  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite.  From 
transcendental  motives  reason  sets  up  the  postu¬ 


late  :  there  shall  be  a  communion  between  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  form  and  the  impulse  of  matter,  in  other 
words,  an  impulse  of  play,  because  the  idea  of  hu¬ 
manity  is  only  realized  by  the  union  of  substance 
and  form,  of  the  accidental  with  the  necessary, 
of  passiveness  with  freedom  of  will.  Reason 
has  to  set  up  this  postulate,  because  the  essence 
of  reason  consists  in  insisting  upon  completenesn  ; 
upon  the  removal  of  all  barriers,  and  because  any 
exclusive  activity  of  either  of  these  impulses 
leaves  human  nature  incomplete,  and  sets  up  a 
barrier  in  it.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  reason  issues 
the  mandate :  there  shall  be  a  humanity — it  sets  up 
the  law :  there  shall  be  beauty.  Experience  informs 
us  whether  beauty  exists,  and  we  shall  know  this 
as  soon  as  we  have  found  out  that  there  is  a  hu¬ 
manity.  But  neither  reason  nor  experience  can 
tell  us,  how  beauty  can  originate,  and  how  a  hu¬ 
manity  is  possible. 

We  know  that  man  is  neither  exclusively  matter, 
nor  is  he  exclusively  spirit.  Hence  beauty,  being 
the  fullness  of  humanity,  can  neither  be  exclu¬ 
sively  life,  as  spme  ingenious  observers,  favored 
by  the  taste  of  the  age,  and  who  have  adhered  too 
closely  to  the  testimony  of  experience,  have  main¬ 
tained  ;  nor  can  it  be  exclusively  form,  as  has  been 
asserted  by  speculative  philosophers,  who  went 
too  far  astray  from  experience,  and  by  philosophiz¬ 
ing  artists  who  were  guided  too  strictly  by  the 
wants  of  art  in  their  definitions  of  beauty  :*  it  is 
the  common  object  of  both  impulses,  namely  of 
the  impulse  of  play.  This  name  is  perfectly  jus¬ 
tified  by  the  usage  of  language  which  is  in  the 
habit  of  designating  as  play,  whatever  is  neither 
subjectively  nor  objectively  accidental,  or  exter¬ 
nally  or  internally  necessary.  Inasmuch  as  the 
mental  sphere  when  enjoying  an  intuition  of  the 
beautiful,  is  placed  in  a  happy  mean  between  law 
and  sensual  desire,  it  is  removed  from  the  constraint 
of  either,  because  it  is  intermediate  between  the 
two,  sharing  the  nature  of  each.  Both  the  impulse 
of  sense  and  the  impulse  of  form  are  earnest  in 
their  demands,  because  in  their  apperceptions  the  . 
former  grounds  its  claims  upon  the  reality,  the 
latter  upon  the  necessity  of  things  ;  and  in  their 
acts  the  former  tends  to  the  preservation  of  life, 
the  latter  to  that  of  dignity,  consequently  both 
aim  at  truth  and  perfection.  But  life  becomes 
more  indifferent  as  soon  as  dignity  intervenes,  and 
duty  no  longer  imposes  obligations  as- soon  as  in¬ 
clination  draws  ;  so  the  sensitive  sphere  receives 
the  reality  of  things,  the  substantial  truth,  with 
more  freedom  and  calmness,  as  soon  as  this  truth 
is  met  by  the  formal  truth  or  the  law  of  neces¬ 
sity  ;  nor  does  that  sphere  feel  strained  by  the 
process  of  abstraction,  as  soon  as  this  is  accom¬ 
panied  by  immediate  intuition.  In  one  word  : 
when  brought  in  contact  with  ideas,  the  real  loses 

«-  Burke,  in  his  Philosophical  Disquisitions  concerning 
the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  the  Beautiful, 
makes  beauty  mere  life.  It  is  made  mere  form  by  every 
adherent  of  dogmatic  systems,  who  has  ever  given  his 
testimony  on  this  subject;  among  the  artists,  Raphael 
Mengs  in  his  Thoughts  on  Taste  in  Painting;  not  to 
speak  of  others.  As  in  every  thing  else,  so  in  this  re¬ 
spect,  philosophical  criticism  has  opened  the  way  to  re¬ 
duce  empiricism  to  principles,  and  to  lead  speculation 
back  to  experience. 


522 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS, 


its  earnesfness,  because  it  becomes  little,  and  when 
coinciding  with  sensation,  that  which  is  necessary 
puts  off  its  seriousness,  because  the  necessary  be¬ 
comes  easy. 

But,  you  may  object,  will  not  the  beautiful  be¬ 
come  degraded  by  being  made  a  mere  plaything, 
and  will  it  not  be  placed  upon  a  level  with  the 
frivolous  things  that  have  possessed  this  name 
from  time  immemorial  ?  Is  it  not  contrary  to 
reason  and  to  the  dignity  of  beauty,  which  is  re¬ 
garded  as  an  instrument  of  culture,  to  convert 
beauty  into  a  result  of  mere  play,  and  is  it  not 
contrary  to  the  idea  of  play,  which  may  exist  to 
the  exclusion  of  taste,  to  limit  it  to  mere  beauty? 

But  what  is  to  be  understood  by  mere  play, 
after  we  once  know  that  in  all  the  circumstances 
in  which  man  may  be  placed,  it  is  play,  and 
indeed  only  play,  that  completes  his  being,  and  un¬ 
folds  his  twofold  nature  at  one  and  the  same 
time?  That  which  you,  from  your  stand-point 
call  limitation ,  that  I  call  from  my  stand-point, 
expansion.  I  would,  therefore,  reverse  the  pro¬ 
position,  saying, — man  treats  the  agreeable,  the 
good,  and  the  perfect  earnestly,  but  he  plays  with 
beauty.  In  reasoning  in  this  wise  we  must  not 
have  reference  to  the  plays  which  are  common  in 
life,  and  which  generally  refer  to  material  objects  ; 
but  in  real  life  we  should  in  vain  seek  the  kind  of 
beauty  of  which  I  am  talking.  Genuine  beauty 
is  worthy  of  the  impulse  of  play  ;  but  by  the  ideal 
beauty  which  reason  sets  before  us,  an  ideal  im¬ 
pulse  of  play  is  likewise  given,  which  man  should 
never  lose  sight  of  in  any  of  his  amusements. 

We  shall  never  err,  if  we  seek  the  ideal  beauty 
of  man  through  the  same  channels  that  he  grati¬ 
fies  his  impulse  of-  play.  If  the  Greek  nations 
find  their  delight  in  the  games  of  Olympia,  in  the 
bloodless  trials  of  strength,  swiftness,  docility,  and 
in  the  more  noble  rivalries  of  talents;  and  if  the 
Roman  people  gloat  over  the  death-struggle  of  a 
slain  gladiator  or  of  a  Lybian  adversary,  this  single 
trait  shows  why  the  ideal  forms  of  Venus,  Juno, 
Apollo  must  n<5t  be  looked  for  in  Rome,  but  in 
Greece.*  Now  reason  tells  us,  the  beautiful  should 
not  be  mere  form,  or  mere  beauty,  but  a  living- 
form,  that  is  to  say  beauty,  for  man  is  under  the 
double  law  of  absolute  form  and  absolute  reality. 
Consequently  reason  enunciates  the  proposition  : 
Man  should  only  play  with  beauty,  and  with  beauty 
he  should  only  play. 

For,  in  order  to  express  my  ideas  at  once  and 
tally,  man  only  plays  where  he  is  man  in  the  full 
acceptation  of  the  term,  and  he  is  wholly  man 
only  where  he  plays.  This  proposition  which  may 
seem  paradoxical  at  this  moment,  will  receive  a 
great  and  deep  significance,  if  we  apply  it  to  the 
double  earnestness  of  duty  and  destiny  :  it  will 
bear  the  whole  edifice  of  aesthetic  art  and  the 
still  more  difficult  art — to  live.  But  this  pro- 

*  If  we  contrast  the  horse-races  of  London,  the  bull¬ 
fights  of  Madrid,  the  spectacles  of  Paris,  the  gondola- 
races  of  Venice,  the  hunts  of  Vienna,  and  the  joyous 
life  of  the  Corso  in  Rome,  there  can  be  no  difficulty 
of  determining  the  shades  of  taste  which  prevail  among 
these  different  nations.  However  there  is  much  less  uni¬ 
formity  in  the  popular  games  of  these  countries,  than  we 
discover  in  the  games  of  the  more  refined  classes  in  these 
same  countries :  this  is  easily  accounted  for. 


position  is  unexpected  only  in  science.  Ages  ag« 
it  was  a  living  maxim  and  impulse  in  the  arts  and 
sentiments  of  the  Greeks  in  the  works  of  their 
most  illustrious  masters,  except  that  they  trans¬ 
ferred  to  the  Olympus  what  was  to  be  executed 
upon  the  earth.  Guided  by  the  truth  of  this  pro¬ 
position,  they  left  out  of  the  features  of  the 
blissful  gods,  the  gloom  and  the  labor  which 
wrinkle  the  cheeks  of  mortals,  as  well  as  the  un¬ 
meaning  pleasure  which  smooths  their  vacant  faces ; 
they  freed  the  ever-contented  from  the  fetters  of 
purpose,  duty,  care,  and  madeT«d^?ie.ss  and  indiffer¬ 
ence  the  envied  fate  of  the  gods:  they  were  only 
more  human  names  for  the  freest  and  sublimest 
state  of  existence!  The  physical  constraint  of 
natural  laws  as  well  as  the  spiritual  constraint  of 
moral  laws  were  counterbalanced  by  their  higher 
conceptions  of  necessity  which  locked  both  hea¬ 
ven  and  earth  in  one  embrace,  and  it  is  from  the 
union  of  these  two  necessary  elements  that  they 
derived  true  freedom.  Animated  by  this  spirit,  in¬ 
clination  as  well  as  every  trace  of  the  will  were  ex¬ 
tinguished  in  the  features  of  their  ideal,  or  rather, 
inclination  and  will  were  no  longer  perceptible  to 
the  eye  because  both  were  blended  in  the  most  in¬ 
timate  union.  It  is  neither  loveliness  nor  dignity 
that  radiates  from  the  face  of  Juno  Ludovisi  ;  it 
is  neither,  because  it  is  both  at  once.  Whilst  the 
goddess  commands  our  adoration,  the  godlike  wo¬ 
man  kindles  our  love  ;  but  whilst  we  abandon 
ourselves  to  her  heavenly  graces,  her  celestial  self- 
sufficiency  frightens  us  back.  The  whole  form  is 
a  living  and  perfect  unit,  a  closed  creation,  and  as 
if  beyond  space,  unyielding  and  yet  unresisting  ! 
Here  there  is  no  force  struggling  with  forces,  no 
weakness  where  time  might  effect  a  breach.  Irre¬ 
sistibly  moved  and  attracted  by  the  one,  kept  at  .a 
distance  by  the  other,  we  find  ourselves  at  the 
same  time  in  a  state  of  the  highest  repose  and  of 
the  intensest  interest,  and  there  arises  that  won¬ 
derful  emotion  for  which  the  understanding  offers 
no  conception,  nor  language  a  name. 


LETTER  XVI. 

Having  seen  the  beautiful  arising  from  the  recip¬ 
rocal  action  of  two  opposite  impulses  and  from 
the  union  of  two  opposite  principles,  its  highest 
ideal  must  therefore  be  sought  in  the  most  perfect 
union  and  equilibrium  of  reality  and  form.  This 
equilibrium  however,  will  always  remain  an  idea 
which  can  never  be  entirely  realized.  In  the 
reality  one  element  will  always  preponderate  over 
the  other,  and  the  highest  result  will  be  a  series 
of  oscillations  betwefen  the  two  principles,  where 
now  reality  and  now  the  form  preponderates. 
Ideal  beauty  is,  therefore,  always  one  and  indivi¬ 
sible,  because  equilibrium  is  only  one  ;  practical 
beauty,  on  the  contrary,  will  always  be  twofold, 
for  in  oscillatory  movements  the  equilibrium  may 
be  deficient  in  two  directions,  on  this  side  or  on 
the  other. 

I  have  stated  in  one  of  my  previous  letters — 
indeed  it  irresistibly  follows  from  all  my  previous 
statements — that  the  beautiful  may  exercise  both 
a  relaxing  or  dissolving  and  an  intensifying  or 


JESTHETICAL. 


523 


stimulating  action  ;  a  dissolving  action,  which 
will  keep  within  bounds  the  sensual  impulse  as 
well  as  the  impulse  of  form  ;  an  intensifying 
action  which  will  preserve  their  vigor.  Ideally 
these  two  modes  of  action  of  the  beautiful  should 
constitute  a  unit.  Beauty  should  exercise  its  dis¬ 
solving  effect  by  a  uniform  stimulation  of  both  na¬ 
tures,  and  its  stimulating  effect  by  relaxing  them 
equally.  This  follows  from  the  idea  of  reciprocal 
action,  which  implies  that  both  impulses  are  de¬ 
pendent  upon  each  other,  and  that  beauty  is  the 
most  perfect  product  of  this  mutual  dependence. 
But  experience  does  not  show  us  any  instance  of 
such  a  perfect  reciprocity  of  action,  but  more  or 
less  we  find  excess  counterbalanced  by  want,  and 
want  counterbalanced  by  the  opposite  excess. 
That  which  constitutes  a  purely  ideal  distinction 
in  the  sphere  of  ideal  beauty,  becomes  an  empiri¬ 
cal  reality  in  actual  life.  Ideal  beauty,  although 
simple  and  indivisible,  may  be  endowed  by  reason 
with  dissolving  as  well  as  stimulating  properties  ; 
empirically,  beauty  either  is  dissolving  or  stimu¬ 
lating.  This  is  and  will  be  the  case  wherever  the 
absolute  is  circumscribed  within  the  limits  of  time, 
and  the  conceptions  of  reason  are  actualized  in 
real  life.  Thus  virtue,  truth,  and  bliss  are  ima¬ 
gined  by  the  reflecting  reason  ;  but  the  acting 
man  simply  practices  virtues,  conceives  truths, 
enjoys  happy  days.  It  is  the  business  of  physical 
and  moral  culture  to  trace  these  isolated  pheno¬ 
mena  to  the  absolute  ideal,  to  substitute  wisdom 
for  knowledge,  and  bliss  for  happy  hours  ;  and  it 
is  the  business  of  aesthetic  culture  to  unite  single 
beauties  in  the  concrete  ideal. 

Stimulating  beauty  is  as  unable  to  preserve  man 
from  a  certain  brusquerie  and  harshness  of  manner, 
as  the  dissolving  beauty  is  able  to  guard  him 
against  a  certain  degree  pf  effeminacy  and  ener¬ 
vation.  For,  inasmuch  as  the  former  tends  to 
stimulate  and  augment  the  elasticity  of  man’s 
physical  as  well  as  moral  powers,  it  seems  quite 
natural  that  the  resisting  temperament  and  char¬ 
acter  should  blunt  the  sensitiveness  to  impres¬ 
sions,  that  the  more  tender  feelings  should  be 
stifled,  together  with  the  ruder  elements  of  nature, 
and  that  these  should  participate  in  an  increase 
of  energy,  which  should  only  be  imparted  to  man’s 
nobler  portion  ;  hence  it  is  that  in  the  age  of  vigor 
and  fullness,  true  greatness  of  the  imagination  is 
coupled  with  gigantic  and  grotesque  fancies,  and 
sublimity  of  sentiment  with  the  most  horrid  out¬ 
breaks  of  passion  ;  hence,  again,  in  ages  where 
rule  and  form  prevail,  nature  will  be  found  sup¬ 
pressed  as  often  as  wisely  controlled,  violated  as 
often  as  her  beauties  are  surpassed.  And,  inas¬ 
much  as  the  action  of  the  dissolving  beauty  con¬ 
sists  in  relaxing  human  energy  both  in  the  moral 
and  the  physical  sphere,  it  will  frequently  happen 
that  in  subduing  the  violence  of  desire,  we  like¬ 
wise  undermine  the  intensity  of  feeling,  and  that 
the  character  suffers  a  loss  which  was  only  intend¬ 
ed  for  the  passions  ;  hence  we  shall  frequently  find 
in  the  ages  of  a  more  refined  civilization  softness  and 
gentleness  of  manner  degenerate  into  effeminacy, 
extensiveness  of  culture  into  superficiality,  correct¬ 
ness  and  precision  into  emptiness,  liberality  into  arbi¬ 
trary  caprice,  ease  into  frivolity,  repose  into  apathy  ; 
the  most  contemptible  caricature  of  human  nature 


will  appear  to  be  next  door  to  the  most  exalted 
humanity.  To  the  man  who  is  living  under  the 
constraining  despotism  either  of  matter  or  form, 
the  dissolving  beauty  is  a  necessity  ;  for  he  is 
touched  by  grandeur  and  force  long  ere  he  becomes 
susceptible  to  harmony  and  the  graces.  To  the 
man  who  is  plunged  into  the  enjoyments  of  taste, 
the  stimulating  beauty  is  a  necessity  ;  for  he  is  too 
prone  to  dissipate  amid  the  allurements  of  refine¬ 
ment  an  energy  which  he  brought  with  him  from 
a  state  of  nature. 

This,  I  think,  will  afford  an  explanation  of  the 
contradictory  judgments  which  have  been  pro¬ 
mulgated  at  various  periods  concerning  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  beauty,  and  the  value  of  ses thetic  culture. 
These  contradictions  are  accounted  for  as  soon  as 
we  recollect  that  in  life,  beauty  is  twofold,  and 
that  the  authors  of  these  contradictions  apply  to 
beauty  generally  the  definitions  which  can  only  be 
regarded  as  true,  when  applied  to  a  particular  kind 
of  beauty.  These  contradictions  no  longer  exist, 
if  we  distinguish  the  double  order  of  necessities  to 
which  this  twofold  beauty  corresponds.  Both 
parties  will  probably  be  found  right,  if  they  first 
explain  which  kind  of  beauty  and  which  form  of 
humanity  they  meant. 

In  continuing  my  inquiries,  I  shall  pursue  the 
course  which  nature  adopts  toward  man  in  his 
sesthet.ical  culture,  and  from  the  varieties  of 
beauty  I  shall  ascend  to  the  species.  I  shall  ex¬ 
amine  the  effects  which  the  dissolving  beauty  has 
upon  man  in  a  state  of  over-stimulation,  and  the 
effects  of  stimulating  beauty  upon  man  in  a 
state  of  relaxing  depression,  in  order  to  finally  ab¬ 
sorb  these  opposite  forms  of  beauty  in  the  unity 
of  its  ideal,  precisely  as  those  two  opposite  forms 
of  human  nature  disappear  in  the  unity  of  the 
ideal  man. 


LETTER  XYII. 

As  long  as  we  had  no  other  object  in  view  than 
to  derive  the  general  idea  of  beauty  from  the  con¬ 
stitution  of  human  nature,  we  could  not  keep 
any  other  boundaries  of  the  latter  before  our 
minds,  except  such  as  are  inherent  in  its  essence 
and  inseparable  from  the  conception  of  finiteness. 
Without  troubling  ourselves  about  the  accidental 
limitations  which  the  actual  imposes  upon  beauty 
as  a  living  reality,  we  have  derived  the  conception 
thereof  from  reason  as  the  source  of  the  absolute, 
and  the  ideal  of  beauty  was  found  to  be  inherent 
in  the  ideal  of  humanity. 

But  now  we  descend  from  the  sphere  of  ideas 
to  the  scenes  of  the  actual,  where  we  find  man 
existing  in  determinate  conditions,  and  a  system 
of  limitations  which  do  not  originally  spring  from 
the  abstract  conception  of  human  nature,  but  from 
external  circumstances,  and  from  the  accidental 
mode  in  which  he  uses  his  freedom  of  will.  But 
in  whatever  manner  the  idea  of  humanity  may  be 
found  circumscribed  in  actual  life,  its  very  nature 
shows  that  upon  the  whole  only  two  opposite 
deviations  from  this  idea  are  possible.  If  man's 
perfection  consists  in  the  agreement  and  energy  of 
his  physical  and  spiritual  powers,  his  failure  of 
!  being  perfect  must  arise  from  a  want  of  agree* 


524 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ment  or  from  a  want  of  energy.  Before  even 
taking  the  deposition  of  experience  as  a  witness 
in  this  cause,  we  know  a  priori,  by  a  simple  infer¬ 
ence,  that  the  actual  man  must  either  exist  in  a 
state  of  depression  or  tension,  according  as  the 
harmony  of  his  being  is  disturbed  by  the  one¬ 
sided  activity  of  single  faculties,  or  the  unity  of 
his  nature  based  upon  the  uniform  depression  of 
his  physical  and  spiritual  powers.  We  shall  now 
proceed  to  show  that  both  these  opposite  limi¬ 
tations  are  counteracted  by  beauty  which  restores 
harmony  to  a  state  of  tension,  and  energy  to  a 
state  of  depression,  and  by  this  means,  in  accor¬ 
dance  with  its  own  nature,  adapts  the  conditions 
of  the  finite  to  the  idea  of  the  absolute,  and  ele¬ 
vates  man  to  the  position  of  an  inherently  perfect 
unit. 

The  actual  form  of  beauty  does  not  repudiate 
the  conception  which  speculative  reason  has  given 
rise  to  in  our  minds  ;  except  that  in  real  life, 
beauty  is  much  more  restricted  than  in  the  sphere 
of  pure  thought, where  we  have  regarded  her  as  an 
attribute  of  the  ideal  humanity.  The  actual  man 
presents  to  beauty  a  corrupt  and  resisting  mate¬ 
rial,  which  takes  from  her  ideal  perfection  as  much 
as  its  own  individual  quality  mixes  up  with  the 
former.  In  life,  beauty  will  therefore  always  ap¬ 
pear  as  a  particular  and  limited  species,  never  as 
an  absolutely  pure  type  ;  in  tense  or  rigid  na¬ 
tures  she  will  lose  a  portion  of  her  freedom  and 
variety,  in  depressed  natures  a  portion  of  her  in¬ 
vigorating  power  ;  whilst  wre  who  have  become 
familiarized  with  her  real  character,  will  not  be 
deceived  by  this  apparent  contradiction.  Far 
from  deriving  the  conception  of  beauty,  as  most 
critics  have  done,  from  isolated  phenomena,  and 
holding  her  responsible  for  the  defects  which  man 
renders  himself  guilty  of  in  spite  of  her  influence, 
we  know  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  man  who 
grafts  upon  her  the  imperfections  of  his  own 
being,  whose  subjective  limitations  oppose  the 
full  realization  of  beauty,  and  lower  her  absolute 
ideal  to  two  restricted  modes  of  manifestation. 

We  have  asserted  that  the  dissolving  beauty  is 
adapted  to  tense  or  strained,  and  the  intensifying 
beauty  to  depressed  natures.  I  call  a  man  strained 
not  only  if  he  is  under  the  constraint  of  emotions, 
but  likewise  under  that  of  ideas.  Any  exclusive 
dominion  of  one  of  his  two  fundamental  impulses 
is  for  man  a  state  of  constraint  and  violence ; 
freedom  resides  in  the  harmonious  action  of  his  two 
natures.  A  man  who  is  exclusively  ruled  by  emo¬ 
tions,  or  who  is  a  prey  to  the  intensified  action  of 
the  senses,  is  dissolved  and  set  free  by  the  form;  a 
man  who  is  exclusively  governed  by  laws  or 
whose  mental  condition  is  strained  by  excessive 
tension,  is  dissolved  and  set  free  by  matter.  In 
order  to  accomplish  this  double  task,  the  dis¬ 
solving  beauty  will  have  to  manifest  herself  in  two 
different  forms.  In  the  first  place,  as  a  calm  form 
she  will  quiet  the  rude  wildness  of  human  nature, 
and  will  pave  the  way  from  mere  sensations  to 
thoughts  ;  and,  secondly,  as  a  living  form,  she 
will  infuse  the  power  of  sense  into  a  lifeless  ab¬ 
straction,  will  ingraft  the  pure  conceptions  of 
reason  upon  the  sphere  of  sensual  perceptions, 
and  will  vitalize  law  by  the  living  sensation.  She 
renders  the  former  service  to  the  man  of  nature, 


and  the  latter  to  the  man  of  art.  But  since  in 
neither  case  she  disposes  of  her  material  in  per 
feet  freedom,  but  has  to  work  upon  that  which  is 
offered  to  her  either  by  formless  nature  or  by  a 
nature-opposing  art,  she  wil  1  in  either  case  show 
traces  of  her  origin,  and,  in  the  former,  will  as¬ 
sume  a  more  material,  and  in  the  latter,  a  more 
abstract  appearance. 

In  order  to  comprehend  the  possibility,  on  the 
part  of  beauty,  of  counteracting  this  double  state 
of  tension,  we  shall  have  to  investigate  her  origin 
in  the  human  mind.  Let  us,  therefore,  continue  for 
a  little  while  longer  in  the  domain  of  speculation, 
after  which  we  shall  leave  it  forever,  to  pro¬ 
gress  the  more  firmly  upon  the  solid  road  of  expe¬ 
rience. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

By  beauty  the  sensual  man  is  led  to  form  and 
thought ;  by  beauty  the  spiritual  man  is  led  back 
to  the  world  of  sense. 

This  statement  would  seem  to  imply  that  there 
must  be  a  middle  state  between  matter  and  form, 
between  passivity  and  activity,  and  that  beauty 
transfers  us  to  this  middle  state.  Most  people  in¬ 
deed  form  this  conception  of  beauty,  as  soon  as 
they  commence  to  reflect  on  her  action  ;  and  all 
experience  points  to  its  legitimacy.  On  the  other 
hand,  however,  nothing  is  more  absurd  and  con¬ 
tradictory  than  such  a  conception,  since  the  dis¬ 
tance  between  matter  and  form,  between  activity 
and  passivity,  between  sensation  and  thought  is 
infinite,  aud  there  cannot  be  any  intermediate 
connection  between  them.  How  do  we  remove 
this  contradiction?  Beauty  unites  the  two  oppo¬ 
site  conditions  of  sensation  and  thought,  and  yet 
there  is  nothing  intermediate  between  the  two. 
Sensation  is  made  evident  by  experience,  thought 
by  the  immediate  action  of  reason. 

Round  this  point  the  whole  question  of  beauty 
will  finally  revolve;  if  we  succeed  in  satisfac¬ 
torily  solving  this  problem,  we  shall  have  dis¬ 
covered  the  thread  that  will  lead  us  through  the 
whole  labyrinth  of  aesthetics. 

Two  very  different  operations  are  concerned  in 
this  investigation  which  necessarily  have  to  support 
each  other.  We  say  that  beauty  allies  two  con¬ 
ditions  which  are  opposed  to  each  other,  and 
never,  can  become  one.  We  have  to  start  from 
this  opposition  ;  we  have  to  conceive  and  recog¬ 
nize  it  in  all  its  absolute  purity,  so  that  these  two 
conditions  are  distinguished  from  each  other  in  the 
most  positive  manner ;  otherwise  we  shall  con¬ 
found  without*  uniting  them.  Again  we  assert: 
these  two  opposite  conditions  are  allied  by  beauty, 
which  therefore  removes  the  opposition.  Inas¬ 
much  as  these  two  conditions  will  forever  remain 
opposed  to  each  other,  they  can  only  be  united  by 
absorption.  Our  second  task  consists  in  perfect¬ 
ing  this  union,  in  completing  it  so  entirely  that 
both  conditions  disappear  in  a  third  until  no  trace 
of  separation  remains,  otherwise  we  individualize 
without  uniting.  All  controversies  about  beauty, 
which  have  divided  the  philosophical  world,  and 
divide  it  even  now,  have  no  other  foundation  than 
the  omission  of  not  rigidly  distinguishing,  or  else 


\ 


-ESTHETIC  AL. 


525 


not  perfectly  uniting,  these  opposite  conditions. 
Philosophers  who  are  guided  in  their  reflections 
on  beauty  by  the  feelings  exclusively,  cannot  ar¬ 
rive  at  a  pure  conception  of  beauty,  because,  mis¬ 
led  by  the  senses,  they  see  only  the  whole  without 
its  component  parts.  The  other  class  of  philoso¬ 
phers  who  are  exclusively  guided  by  the  understand¬ 
ing,  can  never  arrive  at  a  conception  of  beauty , 
because  they  only  see  the  parts  of  the  whole,  and 
spirit  and  matter,  in  spite  of  their  most  perfect 
union,  always  appear  distinct  to  their  mental 
vision.  The  former  are  apprehensive  of  annul¬ 
ling  beauty  dynamically,  as  an  efficient  agent,  by 
separating  principles  which  the  intuitive  feeling 
unites  ;  the  latter  fear  lest  they  should  annul 
beauty  logically,  as  a  pure  conception  of  the  rea¬ 
son,  by  uniting  conditions  which  the  understand¬ 
ing  distinguishes.  The  former  aim  at  imagining 
beauty  as  she  exists  in  real  life ;  the  latter  at  causing 
her  to  act  as  they  imagine  her  in  their  own  minds. 
Both  parties  necessarily  miss  the  truth :  the 
former  because  they  undertake  to  imitate  nature 
with  their  limited  mental  powers  ;  the  latter  be¬ 
cause  they  seek  to  circumscribe  infinite  nature 
within  their  own  finite  conception.  The  former 
are  afraid  lest  beauty  should  lose  a  portion  of  her 
freedom  by  too  rigid  an  analysis ;  the  latter  are 
afraid  lest  the  conception  of  beauty  should  be  ob¬ 
scured  by  too  bold  a  union  of  her  component 
parts.  But  the  former  forget  that  the  freedom 
which  they  very  justly  suppose  constitutes  the 
very  essence  of  beauty,  is  not  lawlessness,  but 
harmony  of  laws,  not  arbitrary  caprice,  but  a 
supreme  internal  necessity;  the  latter  do  not  con¬ 
sider  that  the  precision  with  which  they,  with 
equal  justice,  define  beauty,  does  not  consist  in 
excluding  certain  realities,  but  in  including  them 
all,  hence  that  beauty  is  not  limitation,  but  infinite 
expansion.  We  shall  avoid  the  cliffs  upon  which 
both  parties  have  been  wrecked,  by  proceeding 
from  the  two  elements  into  which  beauty  is  distin¬ 
guished  by  the  understanding,  and  afterward  elevat¬ 
ing  ourselves  to  the  pure  {esthetic  unity  by  which 
she  acts  upon  the  sensations,  and  in  which  those 
two  conditions  are  completely  absorbed.* 

*  In  noticing  the  contrast  which  we  have  set  up  be¬ 
tween  the  two  forms  of  beauty,  the  attentive  reader  must 
have  observed  that  the  cestheticians  of  the  sensualist 
school,  who  pay  more  attention  .to  the  testimony  of  the 
sensations  than  to  that  of  reason,  are  actually  much 
nearer  to  the  truth  than  their  opponents,  although  these 
have  a  dearer  comprehension  of  the  subject;  this  re¬ 
lation  exists  everywhere  where  nature  and  science  con¬ 
tend  against  each  other.  Nature  (the  senses)  unites 
everywhere,  the  understanding  disunites  everywhere; 
but  reason  recombines  ;  for  this  reason  man,  before  he 
commences  to  philosophize,  is  nearer  to  the  truth  than 
the  philosopher  who  has  not  yet  ended  his  investigation. 
Hence,  without  any  farther  examination,  we  may  declare 
a  philosophical  theory  erroneous  which  leads  to  results 
that  are  contrary  to  the  common  sentiment  of  the  world ; 
with  equal  justice  we  may  suspect  its  correctness,  if  its 
form  and  method  are  in  accord  with  the  common  senti¬ 
ment.  This  may  console  every  author  who  is  unable,  as 
many  readers  seem  to  expect,  to  present  a  philosophical 
deduction  like  a  chit-chat  by  the  fireside.  The  former 
conclusion  may  serve  to  silence  innovators  who  under¬ 
take  to  found  new  systems  at  the  expense  of  common 
sense 


LETTER  XIX. 

Generally  we  distinguish  in  man  two  different 
conditions  of  a  passive  or  active  capacity  for  de¬ 
termination,  and  hence  as  many  conditions  of 
active  and  passive  determination.  The  explana¬ 
tion  of  this  proposition  will  lead  us  to  our  final 
conclusions  by  the  shortest  road. 

The  condition  of  the  human  mind  previous  to 
all  determinations  which  are  imparted  to  it  by 
sensual  impressions,  is  an  unlimited  capacity  for 
determining  itself.  The  infinite  of  space  and  time 
is  abandoned  to  man’s  imagination  for  unlimited 
use,  and  inasmuch  as,  by  our  supposition,  nothing 
is  established,  consequently  nothing  presupposed 
in  this  vast  range  of  the  possible,  this  indeter¬ 
minate  condition  may  be  designated  as  a  vacant 
infinitude,  which  must  not  be  confounded  with  an 
infinite  vacuity. 

Now  his  senses  are  to  be  touched,  and  among 
the  infinite  number  of  possible  determinations  a 
single  one  is  to  be  realized  in  action.  A  concep¬ 
tion  is  to  arise  in  his  mind.  What  was  a  mere  fa¬ 
culty  in  his  previous  condition  of  determinable  ca¬ 
pacity,  now  becomes  an  efficient  power,  a  substan¬ 
tive  something;  at  the  same  time,  as  an  efficient 
power  it  becomes  limited,  whereas  it  was  unlimited 
as  a  mere  faculty.  There  is  reality,  but  the  infinite 
is  no  longer,  in  order  to  mould  a  form,  we  have  to 
limit  the  boundless  space  \  in  order  to  imagine  to 
ourselves  changes  within  time,  we  have  to  divide 
the  absolute  of  time  into  parts.  Limits  only  lead 
us  to  reality,  negation  or  exclusiveness  to  some¬ 
thing  positive,  the  cessation  of  our  unlimited 
capacity  for  self-determination  to  determinate 
acts. 

But  a  simple  exclusion  would  never  be  changed 
to  reality,  mere  sensations  would  never  become 
intuitions,  if  there  did  not  exist  a  something  from 
which  an  object  may  be  excluded  ;  if  by  some  ab¬ 
solute  act  of  the  mind  the  negation  were  not  set 
up  with  reference  to  something  positive ;  if  the 
absolute  of  existence  were  not  contrasted  with 
the  concrete  finiteness;  this  act  of  the  mind  is 
what  we  term  judging  and  thinking,  and  the  result 
thereof  is  designated  by  the  term  thought. 

Before  we  determine  upon  a  spot  in  space, 
there  is  really  no  space;  yet  without  absolute 
space  we  should  not  be  able  to  effect  such  a  de¬ 
termination.  This  likewise  applies  to  time.  Be¬ 
fore  we  possess  the  moment,  there  is  no  time  for 
us ;  but  without  absolute  time  we  could  never 
imagine  to  ourselves  a  moment.  It  is  indeed 
true  that  the  part  leads  us  to  the  whole,  and  the 
finite  to  the  infinite;  but  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
only  the  whole  that  leads  to  the  part,  and  the 
infinite  to  the  finite. 

If  now  we  assert  that  beauty  opens  a  pathway 
for  man  from  sensation  to  thought,  we  must 
not  understand  by  this  statement  that  beauty 
could  fill  up  the  gap  which  separates  sensation 
from  thought,  a  passive  from  an  active  condition; 
this  gap  is  infinite,  and  without  the  intervention 
of  a  new  and  self-existing  faculty  the  individual 
can  never  become  the  universal,  the  accidental 
can  never  become  the  essential.  Thought  is  the 
immediate  action  of  this  absolute  faculty  which 


526 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


must  indeed  be  impelled  by  the  senses  to  manifest  i 
itself,  but  in  its  manifestation  is  so  little  depen¬ 
dent  upon  the  senses  that  it  seems,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  to  be  opposed  to  them.  The  independence 
with  which  it  acts  excludes  every  foreign  inter¬ 
ference  ;  it  is  not  by  helping  thought  (for  this  im¬ 
plies  an  evident  contradiction),  but  by  procuring 
to  the  mental  powers  the  freedom  of  manifesting 
themselves  in  accordance  with  their  own  laws, 
that  beauty  may  become  the  means  of  leading 
man  from  matter  to  form,  from  sensation  to  law, 
from  a  limited  to  an  absolute  existence. 

But  this  implies  that  the  freedom  of  the  mental 
faculties  may  be  arrested,  which  seems  to  conflict 
with  the  idea  of  independent  power.  A  faculty 
which  receives  nothing  from  without  but  the 
material  wherewith  it  may  work,  can  only  be  pre¬ 
vented  from  performing  its  function  by  being  de¬ 
prived  of  the  material ;  it  would  be  misapprehend¬ 
ing  the  nature  of  spirit,  if  we  attributed  to  the 
sensual  passions  the  power  of  positively  suppress¬ 
ing  the  moral  freedom.  Experience  indeed  fur¬ 
nishes  numerous  instances  of  the  rational  powers 
appearing  suppressed  in  proportion  as  the  senses 
are  more  intensely  active  ;  but,  instead  of  tracing 
this  mental  weakness  to  the  intensity  of  the  pas¬ 
sions,  we  should,  on  the  contrary,  trace  the  latter 
to  the  former ;  for  the  senses  can  only  act  as  a 
power  over  man  in  so  far  as  the  mind  has  freely 
ceased  to  exercise  its  own  power. 

But  whilst  seeking  to  meet  an  objection  by 
this  explanation,  it  appears  that  I  have  incurred 
another  objection,  and  that  I  have  saved  the  in¬ 
dependence  of  the  mind  at  the  expense  of  its 
unity.  For  how  could  the  mind  draw  from  its 
own  nature ,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  reasons 
for  action  and  non-action,  if  it  were  not  divided 
in  itself,  opposed  to  itself. 

Here  we  have  to  recollect  that  it  is  with  the 
finite,  not  with  the  infinite  mind  that  we  have  to 
deal.  Finite  may  be  called  the  mind  which  mani¬ 
fests  its  activity  only  as  a  passive  being,  which 
attains  to  the  infinite  only  through  limited  mani¬ 
festations,  which  acts  and  moulds  into  form  only 
in  so  far  as  it  receives  a  material  to  work  upon. 
Such  a  mind  will  unite  with  the  impulse  of  form 
or  with  the  absolute,  an  impulse  toward  material 
or  limited  manifestations,  for  without  this  last- 
mentioned  impulse  the  former  could  not  be  grati¬ 
fied.  The  possibility  of  two  such  opposite  tenden¬ 
cies  coexisting  in  the  same  being  may  embarrass 
the  metaphysician,  but  cannot  surprise  the  tran¬ 
scendental  philosopher.  The  latter  does  not  pro¬ 
fess  to  account  for  the  possibility  of  things,  but 
contents  himself  with  determining  the  range  and 
order  of  knowledge,  by  means  of  which  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  empirical  facts  may  be  comprehended. 
Inasmuch  as  experience  is  no  more  possible  with¬ 
out  the  antagonism  of  those  two  tendencies  of  the 
mind  than  without  its  absolute  unity,  the  tran¬ 
scendental  philosopher  sets  up  both  these  opposite 
states  of  antagonism  and  unity  as  necessary  con¬ 
ditions  of  experience,  without  troubling  himself 
about  the  possibility  of  uniting  them.  This  in¬ 
herent  existence  of  two  fundamental  impulses  is 
not  contrary  to  the  absolute  unity  of  the  mind, 
provided  we  distinguish  mind  itself  from  either 
condition  of  existence.  Both  these  principles 


exist  and  act  in  the  mind,  but  the  mind  itself  if 
neither  matter  nor  form,  neither  senses  nor  reason, 
a  circumstance  which  seems  to  have  escaped  the 
attention  of  those  who  teach  that  the  human  mind 
only  acts,  where  its  proceedings  are  in  perfect 
accord  with  reason,  and  who  declare  the  human 
mind  passive,  whenever  its  action  is  contrary  to 
reason. 

Each  of  these  two  fundamental  impulses,  by 
virtue  of  an  inherent  necessity,  craves  gratifica¬ 
tion  from  the  moment  that  its  actual  develop¬ 
ment  has  commenced  ;  but  for  the  verv  reason 
that  both  are  necessary,  and  both  tend  in  oppo¬ 
site  directions,  this  double  necessity  neutralizes 
itself  and  the  will,  occupying  a  central  position 
between  both,  becomes  absolutely  free.  It  is  the 
will,  therefore,  which  acts  as  a  power  (as  a  cause 
of  actualization)  toward  either  impulse,  but  neither 
can  claim  to  be  a  power  over  the  other.  _  The 
most  positive  impulse  to  justice,  in  which  a  despot 
may  not  by  any  means  be  deficient,  will  not  pre¬ 
vent  him  from  committing  acts  of  injustice;  nor 
will  the  strong-minded  man  be  tempted  by  the 
most  alluring  charms  to  violate  his  principles. 
There  is  no  other  power  in  man  than  his  will ;  his 
internal  freedom  can  only  be  extinguished  by 
causes  which  put  an  end  to  man  himself, — death 
or  the  cessation  of  his  consciousness. 

A  necessity  outside  of  us  determines  our  exist¬ 
ence  in  time  by  means  of  sensations.  They  are 
involuntary  ;  as  we  are  acted  upon,  so  we  feel  or 
suffer.  In  the  same  way,  a  necessity  within  us 
discloses  our  personality  under  the  influence  of,  and 
by  opposing  these  sensations ;  for  self-conscious¬ 
ness  cannot  be  dependent  upon  the  will  which 
presupposes  its  existence.  This  original  manifes¬ 
tation  or  announcement  of  our  personality  is  no 
merit  of  ours,  nor  is  the  absence  thereof  our  fault. 
Reason,  or  in  other  words,  absolute  consistence 
and  universality  of  consciousness  can  only  be  de¬ 
manded  of  him  who  is  possessed  of  self-conscious¬ 
ness  ;  previous  to  this,  he  is  not  man,  nor  can  an 
act  of  humanity  be  expected  of  him.  As  little  as 
the  metaphysician  is  able  to  comprehend  the 
limits  which  are  imposed  upon  the  free  and  self- 
existing  mind  by  the  sensations,  as  little  the 
physicist  comprehends  the  infiniteness  which  the 
personality  manifests  in  consequence  of  these 
limits.  Neither  abstraction  nor  experience  leads 
us  back  to  the  source  whence  our  conceptions  of 
universality  and  necessity  emanate ;  their  early 
manifestation  in  time  removes  them  from  the  ob¬ 
server,  and  their  super-sensual  origin  from  the  meta¬ 
physical  inquirer.  But  enough,  self-consciousness 
exists,  whose  unalterable  unity  implies  a  law  of 
unity  for  all  things  which  exist  for  man,  and  for 
every  thing  that  is  to  be  originated  by  him,  a  law 
of  unity  for  his  cognitions  and  actions.  Incom¬ 
prehensible,  incorruptible,  and  fixed,  the  concep¬ 
tions  of  truth  and  justice  defy  the  decay  of  the 
world  of  sense ;  without  knowing  or  being  able 
to  say  how  and  whence  it  came,  we  observe  an 
eternity  in  time  and  a  necessity  in  the  succession 
of  phenomena.  Thus  sensation  and  self-conscious¬ 
ness  originate  without  the  action  of  the  subject ; 
the  origin  of  either  is  as  much  beyond  our  will,  as 
it  is  beyond  the  sphere  of  our  cognition. 

But  if  both  have  become  realities ;  if  sensation 


JESTHETICAL. 


527 


has  led  man  to  the  experience  of  a  positive  exist¬ 
ence,  and  if  self-consciousness  has  led  him  to  the 
experience  of  his  absolute  existence,  the  objects 
of  these  states  of  being1  will  excite  the  two  funda¬ 
mental  impulses  of  his  nature.  The  sensual  im¬ 
pulse  is  awakened  when  the  individual  first  begins 
to  exist,  the  rational  impulse  when  the  law  of 
personality  first  dawns  upon  the  mind;  and  it  is 
only  when  both  impulses  have  become  acti.ve 
that  the  human  idea  is  fully  embodied  in  man. 
Until  this  has  taken  place,  man  acts  by  a  law  of 
necessity ;  but  now  the  hand  of  nature  leaves 
him,  and  it  is  now  his  own  business,  to  preserve 
and  foster  the  humanity  which  nature  had  begun 
and  disclosed  in  him.  As  soon  as  two  opposite 
fundamental  impulses  become  active  in  him,  they 
cease  to  be  driven  by  a  law  of  inevitable  neces¬ 
sity;  freedom  originates  in  the  antagonism  of 
these  two  necessities.* 


LETTER  XX. 

The  mere  conception  of  freedom  implies  that 
this  state  cannot  be  acted  upon  ;  yet  we  may  ne¬ 
cessarily  infer  from  our  preceding  statements  that 
freedom  itself  is  an  effect  of  nature  (taking  this 
term  in  its  vastest  acceptation),  and  not  the  work 
of  man,  and  that  it  may  therefore  be  favored  or 
embarrassed  by  natural  agencies.  It  begins  only 
when  man  is  complete,  when  both  his  fundamental 
impulses  are  developed ;  hence  it  must  be  want¬ 
ing  as  long  as  he  is  incomplete,  and  one  of  his 
two  impulses  is  excluded  ;  and  it  must  be  sus¬ 
ceptible  of  restoration  by  every  thing  that  will 
contribute  to  his  completeness. 

There  is  a  moment  not  only  in  the  life  of  the 
species,  but  in  that  of  the  individual,  where  man  is 
not  yet  complete,  and  where  one  of  his  two  im¬ 
pulses  is  exclusively  active  in  him.  We  know 
that  at  first  he  simply  lives,  and  that  he  ends  as  a 
form,  that  he  is  first  an  individual  before  he 
becomes  a  personality,  and  that  he  proceeds  to 
the  infinite  from  the  finite.  Hence  the  sensual 
impulse  is  active  before  the  rational,  because  sensa¬ 
tion  precedes  consciousness,  and  it  is  this  pri¬ 
ority  of  the  sensual  impulse  which  affords  us  an 
explanation  of  the  whole  history  of  human  freedom. 

There  exists  a  period  when  the  impulse  of  life, 
not  being  interfered  with  by  that  of  form,  acts  as 
a  natural  and  necessary  principle,  when  the  senses 
constitute  a  power,  because  man  has  not  yet  com¬ 
menced  to  exist ;  for  in  man  himself  there  cannot 
be  any  other  power  than  the  will.  But  in  the 
state  of  rationality  into  which  man  now  is  to 
enter,  reason  is  to  become  a  power,  and  a"  logical 

*  In  order  to  prevent  all  misapprehension,  I  will  state 
that,  whenever  I  here  speak  of  freedom,  I  do  not  mean 
the  freedom  which  is  proper  to  man  as  an  intelligent 
being,  and  which  can  neither  be  given  to,  nor  taken  from 
him;  but  the  freedom  which  is  based  upon  his  mixed 
nature.  By  simply  acting  rationally,  man  evidences  a 
freedom  of  the  former  kind;  by  acting  rationally  within 
the  limits  of  sense,  and  by  performing  material  acts  in 
accordance  with  reason,  he  evidences  a  freedom  of  the 
second  order.  The  latter  might  be  accounted  for  as  a 
natural  possibility  of  the  former. 


and  moral  necessity  is  to  replace  the  necessity 
of  the  physical  life.  Hence  the  power  of  sensa¬ 
tion  has  to  be  annihilated,  before  law  can  assume 
its  sway.  It  is  not  sufficient  that  something 
which  was  not,  should  commence ;  something 
which  was,  has  previously  to  cease.  Man  cannot 
I  immediately  pass  from  sensations  to  thoughts  ;  he 
has  to  take  a  step  backward,  for  thus  an  opposite 
determination  may  take  place,  after  a  previous 
determination  has  been  annulled.  Hence,  in 
order  to  exchange  a  passive  for  an  active  state,  a 
passive  for  an  active  determination,  he  has  to  be 
without  any  for  a  time,  and  has  to  pass  through  a 
state  of  simple  capacity  for  self-determination. 
Hence  he  has  to  return,  so  to  say,  to  a  simple  con¬ 
dition  of  indeterminate  existence,  where  he  was  be¬ 
fore  any  thing  had  yet  acted  upon  his  senses.  This 
condition  was  without  any  substance,  and  the  ques¬ 
tion  now  is  to  combine  this  indeterminate  existence 
and  an  unlimited  capacity  for  self-determination 
with  the  largest  possible  amount  of  substance, 
since  something  positive  is  to  be  the  immediate 
result  of  this  condition.  The  determination  which 
is  imparted  to  him  by  sensation,  has  to  be  re¬ 
tained,  because  he  should  not  lose  the  reality  ;  at 
the  same  time,  inasmuch  as  it  is  limited,  it  cannot 
be  permitted  to  last,  for  man’s  capacity  for  self- 
determination  is  intended  to  be  endless.  The 
problem  is,  to  annihilate  and  at  the  same  time  to 
preserve  an  existing  determination,  which  can 
only  be  done  by  opposing  to  it  another  determi¬ 
nation.  When  empty,  the  scales  are  level ;  but 
they  are  likewise  level  when  loaded  with  equal 
weights. 

Thus  then  the  immaterial  man  passes  from 
sensation  to  thought  through  an  intermediate 
condition,  where  *the  senses  and  reason  being 
equally  active,  mutually  neutralize  their  deter¬ 
mining  power,  and  by  their  antagonism  effect  a 
negation.  This  intermediate  state,  where  man’s 
mind  is  not  subject  either  to  physical  or  moral 
constraint,  and  yet  is  active  in  both  directions, 
deserves  to  be  more  particularly  designated  as  a 
state  of  freedom  ;  and  if  the  appellation  of  physical 
is  applied  to  the  state  of  sensual,  and  the  appella¬ 
tion  of  logical  or  moral  to  the  state  of  rational 
determination,  a  state  of  actual  and  active  capa¬ 
city  for  self-determination  will  have  to  receive  the 
appellation  of  (esthetic .* 

*  To  readers  who  have  not  a  clear  knowledge  c'f  the 
genuine  meaning  of  this  term,  which  is  so  often  and  so 
badly  abused  by  ignorant  individuals,  the  following  re¬ 
marks  may  serve  to  elucidate  it.  All  things  which  are 
perceptible  to  the  senses,  may  be  imagined  under  four 
categories.  A  thing  may  have  reference  to  our  senses 
immediately  (existence  and  well-being) :  this  implies  its 
physical  nature.  Or  the  object  may  have  reference  to 
the  understanding,  and  may  constitute  a  form  of  know¬ 
ledge  :  this  implies  its  logical  nature.  Or  it  may  have 
reference  to  our  will,  and  may  be  regarded  as  an  object 
of  choice  for  a  rational  being:  this  implies  its  moral  na¬ 
ture.  Or,  finally,  it  may  have  reference  to  the  whole  of 
our  various  powers,  without  being  exclusively  designed 
for  any  one  of  them,  as  a  sphere  or  object  of  manifesta¬ 
tion  :  This  implies  its  cesthetic  nature.  A  man  may  be 
agreeable  to  us  by  his  obliging  disposition;  his  conver¬ 
sation  may  furnish  material  for  thought;  he  may  inspire 
us  with  respect  for  his  character;  finally  he  may  please 
us  by  his  simple  appearance,  without  reference  to  any 
law  or  purpose.  In  this  last-mentioned  relation  wo 


528 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


LETTER  XXI. 

I  stated  at  the  outset  of  my  previous  letter  that 
there  is  a  double  state  of  capacity  for  self-deter¬ 
mination,  and  a  double  state  of  actualized  deter¬ 
mination.  I  am  now  in  a  position  to  explain  this 
proposition. 

The  mind  is  determinable,  only  in  so  far  as  it  is 
not  under  the  influence  of  a  special  determination  ; 
but  it  is  likewise  determinable,  in  so  far  as  it  is 
not  exclusively  under  the  influence  of  any  special 
determination.  The  former  is  a  state  of  inde¬ 
terminate  existence  (unlimited,  because  without 
reality)  ;  the  latter  is  the  aesthetic  capacity  for 
self-determination  (unlimited,  because  compre¬ 
hending-  all  reality  within  itself). 

The  mind  is  bound  by  determinate  forms  in  so 
far  as  its  nature  is  limited ;  but  it  may  also  be 
bound  by  determinate  forms  from  its  own  absolute 
power.  The  former  condition  occurs  when  man 
experiences  sensations  or  emotions  ;  the  latter, 
when  he  thinks.  What  thinking  is  to  self-deter¬ 
mination,  that  the  aesthetic  constitution  is  to  the 
capacity  for  such  determination  ;  the  former  im¬ 
plies  limitation  from  an  internal  and  infinite  power, 
the  latter  a  negation  from  an  internal,  infinite  full¬ 
ness.  As  sensation  and  thought  have  but  the 
single  point  in  common,  that  in  both  these  states 
the  mind  is  the  determining  power,  that  man  is 
exclusively  either  an  individual  or  a  personality, 
whereas  in  all  other  respects  these  states  differ 
without  end  ;  so  the  aesthetic  capacity  for  self- 
determination  and  the  state  of  indeterminate  ex¬ 
istence  coincide  in  the  single  point,  that  both 
these  conditions  exclude  every  positive  form  of 
existence,  since  they  differ  infinitely  in  all  other 
respects,  as  all  differs  from  nothing.  Whereas 
the  latter,  an  indeterminate  existence  from  want 
of  substance,  has  been  represented  as  an  empty 
infinitude  or  an  infinite  vacuum ,  the  aesthetic 
freedom  of  determination  which  constitutes  the 
substantial  opposite  of  the  former,  should  be 
looked  upon  as  a  completed  infinitude,  a  concep¬ 
tion  which  harmonizes  most  perfectly  with  what 
has  been  taught  in  our  previous  inquiries. 

In  the  aesthetic  condition  man  is  a  mere  cipher  in 
so  far  as  we  consider  isolated  results,  not  the  whole 
or  collective  faculty,  and  in  so  far  as  we  consider 
the  absence  of  any  special  determination.  In  this 

judge  him  aesthetically.  Thus  we  have  an  educa¬ 
tion  whose  object  is  health ;  one  whose  object  is 
intelligence,  another  whose  object  is  morality,  and 
another  whose  object  is  taste  and  beauty.  The  last- 
mentioned  system  of  education  has  for  its  object  to 
develop  all  our  physical  and  spiritual  faculties  in  the 
highest  possible  harmony.  But  inasmuch  as  under  the 
beguiling  influence  of  a  false  taste,  and  fortified  in  this 
error  by  fallacious  reasonings,  the  idea  of  voluntary  ac¬ 
tion  is  very  frequently  included  in  the  conception  of 
{esthetic,  I  may  observe  (although  it  is  almost  the  exclu¬ 
sive  object  of  these  letters  to  refute  this  error),  that  a 
mind,  in  a  state  of  {esthetic  culture,  acts  in  perfect  free¬ 
dom,  and  without  the  remotest  constraint,  but  not  without 
laws,  and  that  this  {esthetic  freedom  is  only  distinguished 
from  the  logical  necessity  inherent  in  the  process  of 
thinking,  and  from  the  moral  necessity  inherent  in  the 
process  of  willing,  by  this,  that  the  laws  which  deter¬ 
mine  the  mind,  during  these  processes,  are  not  consciously 
imagined,  and  meeting  with  no  resistance,  do  not  seem 
obligatory. 


respect  those  who  declare  that  the  beautiful  and  the 
state  of  mind  which  it  develops  in  us,  are  without 
any  importance  or  result  as  far  as  cognition  and  sen - 
timent  are  concerned,  are  right.  They  are  perfectly 
right ;  for  beauty  does  not  effect  a  single  isolated  re¬ 
sult  either  in  the  sphere  of  the  understanding  or  in 
that  of  the  will ;  she  accomplishes  no  single  purpose 
eit  her  in  the  sphere  of  intellect  or  in  that  of  mo¬ 
rality  ;  she  does  not  discover  a  single  truth,  does 
not  aid  us  in  fulfilling  a  single  duty  ;  in  one  word, 
she  is  equally  unfit  to  serve  as  a  foundation  to 
character,  or  to  enlighten  the  understanding. 
.Esthetic  culture  leaves  a  man’s  personal  worth 
or  dignity,  in  so  far  as  they  depend  upon  his  own 
effort,  undecided,  and  all  that  he  accomplishes  by 
a  state  of  aesthetic  culture  is,  to  fit  himself  by 
nature  to  make  of  himself  what  he  chooses  ;  the 
liberty  to  be  what  he  ought,  is  restored  to  him. 

But  this  restoration  implies  the  attainment  of 
an  infinite  result.  For  if  we  recollect  that  he 
had  been  deprived  of  this  very  liberty  by  the  one¬ 
sided  necessity  of  nature  in  a  state  of  mere  sen¬ 
sation,  and  by  the  exclusive  legislation  of  reason 
during  the  process  of  thinking,  we  have  to  regard 
the  power  which  is  restored  to  him  by  the  aesthetic 
sense,  as  the  highest  gift  that  can  be  bestowed 
upon  man,  the  gift  of  humanity  itself.  It  is  true, 
as  a  potential  state  he  possesses  this  humanity 
prior  to  any  determinate  condition  or  form  which 
it  may  be  in  his  power  to  realize  ;  but  actually 
he  divests  himself  of  this  human  form  when¬ 
ever  he  realizes  any  determinate  condition  of 
existence,  and  that  form  has  to  be  restored  to 
him  by  the  aesthetic  sense  whenever  he  wishes  to 
substitute  a  new  determinate  condition  for  the 
former.* 

It  is  therefore  not  only  poetically  proper,  but 
philosophically  correct,  if  we  call  beauty  our 
second  maker.  For,  although  she  simply  fits  us 
for  a  state  of  humanity,  leaving  it  to  our  own  dis¬ 
cretion,  whether  and  how  far  we  desire  to  realize 
it  in  act;  she  does  as  much  for  us  as  nature, which 
gives  us  no  more  than  a  capacity  for  the  human 
form,  leaving  the  use  and  ulterior  development  of 
this  capacity  to  our  own  will  and  judgment. 


LETTER  XXII. 

If  an  sesthetic  state  of  mind  is  a  mere  cipher 
so  far  as  isolated  and  determinate  results  are  con¬ 
cerned,  it  is  on  the  other  hand  a  state  of  the  high- 

The  rapidity  with  which  certain  characters  pass  from 
sensations  to  thoughts  and  resolutions,  conceals  from  our 
view  either  partially  or  totally  the  aesthetic  state  of  mind 
through  which  they  must  necessarily  pass  during  this 
time.  Such  characters  are  unable  to  bear  for  any  length 
of  time  a  state  of  indeterminate  existence  ;  they  are  im¬ 
patient  for  results  which  they  do  not  meet  with  in  the 
sphere  of  a  purely  aesthetic  state  of  the  mind.  In  others, 
on  the  contrary,  who  find  more  enjoyment  in  the  cesthetic 
state  itself,  than  in  single  acts  emanating  from  it,  the 
range  of  aesthetic  perceptions  and  aspirations  is  far  more 
extensive.  As  much  as  the  former  dread  the  absence  of 
material  acts,  as  much  the  latter  dread  the  oppression  of 
finiteness.  The  former  are  more  adapted  to  details  and 
subordinate  positions,  the  latter,  if  they  are  otherwise 
possessed  of  practical  tact  and  knowledge,  are  fitted  for 
high  stations,  and  for  the  performance  of  universal  duties. 


JESTHETICAL. 


529 


e9t  reality  so  far  as  the  absence  of  all  limits  is 
concerned,  and  the  sum  of  powers  which  a  state 
of  aesthetic  culture  calls  into  play.  Those,  there¬ 
fore,  who  consider  such  a  state  as  the  most  fruitful 
for  the  development  of  positive  intelligence  and 
morality,  are  likewise  right.  Indeed  they  are 
perfectly  right;  for  a  state  of  mind  which  em¬ 
braces  the  whole  of  humanity  within  its  range, 
must  necessarily  include  the  capacity  for  every 
single  manifestation  of  human  power  ;  a  state  of 
mind  which  views  human  nature  as  a  boundless 
whole,  must  necessarily  consider  every  special 
manifestation  of  this  nature  as  capable  of  infinite 
expansion.  For  the  very  reason  that  such  a  state 
of  mind  does  not  patronize  exclusively  any  special 
function  of  humanity,  it  favors  indiscriminately 
any  one  of  them  as  the  common  source  from  which 
all  may  derive  the  possibility  and  power  of  devel¬ 
opment.  All  other  practices  impart  some  special 
fitness  to  the  mind,  but  circumscribe  it  at  the  same 
time  within  corresponding  limits ;  the  aesthetic 
practice  alone  leads  to  the  infinite.  Every  other 
state  into  which  we  enter,  may  be  traced  to  a 
previous  one,  and  may  require  a  subsequent  state 
for  its  own  solution  ;  the  aesthetic  state  alone  is  a 
whole  within  itself,  since  it  unites  within  itself  all 
the  conditions  of  its  origin  and  its  perpetuation. 
In  the  aesthetic  state  alone  we  feel  as  if  placed 
beyond  the  limits  of  time,  and  our  humanity  mani¬ 
fests  itself  with  a  purity  and  an  integrity  as  though 
the  action  of  external  forces  had  not  imposed  any 
limits  to  its  power  of  expansion. 

That  which  is  agreeable  to  our  senses  by  the 
pleasurable  effect  it  has  upon  them,  discloses  the 
susceptible  and  yielding  mind  to  such  impressions, 
but  diminishes  in  a  corresponding  degree  its  fitness 
for  exertions.  That  which  strains  our  intellectual 
powers,  and  invites  the  mind  to  rove  through  the 
sphere  of  abstract  ideas,  strengthens  it  for  every 
kind  of  resistance,  but  hardens  it  in  the  same 
proportion,  diminishing  our  susceptibility  as  much 
as  it  increases  our  own  independent  activity.  For 
this  very  reason  either  condition  must  necessarily 
soon  lead  to  exhaustion,  because  matter  cannot 
do  long  without  the  forming  power,  nor  power 
without  suitable  material  for  its  objective  mani¬ 
festation.  But  if  we  give  ourselves  up  to  the  en¬ 
joyment  of  genuine  beauty,  we  control  to  the 
same  extent  our  active  as  well  as  our  passive 
■oowers,  and  with  equal  facility  we  shall  turn  to 
earnest  labor  as  well  as  to  play,  to  repose  as  well 
as  to  exercise,  to  accommodations  as  well  as  to 
resistance,  to  abstract  thoughts  as  well  as  to  the 
sphere  of  sensual  perceptions. 

This  exalted  equanimity  and  freedom  of  mind, 
allied  to  a  feeling  of  vigor  and  energy,  is  the  mood 
which  a  genuine  work  of  art  should  kindlehn  our 
souls ;  there  is  no  better  touch-stone  of  true 
aesthetic  worth.  If,  after  enjoying  a  work  of  art, 
we  feel  particularly  disposed,  or  else  indisposed, 
to  entertain  certain  sentiments,  or  to  perform 
certain  acts,  we  may  regard  this  as  an  infallible 
proof  that  the  effect  upon  us  has  not  been  purely 
aesthetic ,  whether  the  fault  rested  with  the  work 
of  art,  or  with  our  own  mode  of  feeling,  or,  as  is 
most  frequently  the  case,  with  both. 

Inasmuch  as  no  pure  aesthetic  effect  is  possible 
Vol.  II.— 34 


in  real  life  (for  man  will  never  be  able  to  make 
himself  perfectly  independent  of  the  influence  of 
surrounding  forces),  the  value  of  a  work  of  art  will 
have  to  be  judged  by  the  extent  to  which  its  effect 
upon  us  approximates  to  the  purity  of  the  aesthetic 
ideal  ;  no  matter  what  a  high  degree  of  freedom 
we  may  have  realized  in  the  mind,  we  shall  always 
return  from  the  contemplation  of  a  work  of  art 
with  a  certain  bias,  or  involuntary  impression. 
The  more  universal  the  impression,  and  the  less 
circumscribed  the  direction  which  is  imparted  to 
the  mind  by  a  certain  species  of  art,  and  by  a  cer¬ 
tain  work  belonging  to  it,  in  the  same  ratio  the 
species  is  exalted,  and  the  work  is  distinguished 
by  excellence.  This  experiment  may  be  instituted 
with  works  of  different  arts,  and  with  different 
works  of  the  same  art.  We  leave  a  beautiful 
music  with  lively  emotions,  a  beautiful  poem  with 
an  animated  imagination,  a  beautiful  piece  of  sta¬ 
tuary,  or  a  beautiful  building,  with  an  increased 
intensity  of  the  understanding;  but  no  one  would 
meet  with  much  success  who  should  undertake  to 
invite  us  to  intellectual  abstractions  immediately 
after  listening  to  the  strains  of  inspiring  music, 
to  employ  us  for  one  of  the  technical  uses  of  com¬ 
mon  life  immediately  after  the  enjoyment  of  some 
exalted  poetical  composition,  or  to  inflame  our 
imagination,  and  surprise  our  emotions  immedi¬ 
ately  after  we  had  been  intensely  interested  in 
looking  at  some  beautiful  painting  or  statuary. 
The  reason  is,  because  even  the  most  intellectual 
music  by  the  character  of  its  material ,  has  more 
affinity  for  the  senses  than  is  consistent  with  genu¬ 
ine  aesthetic  freedom  ;  because  even  the  most  suc¬ 
cessful  and  most  appropriate  poem  is  still  colored 
by  the  spontaneous  and  accidental  play  of  the 
imagination,  as  the  medium  of  poetry,  more  than 
is  consistent  with  the  internal  necessity  of  the 
beautiful;  because,  finally,  the  most  excellent 
work  of  statuary,  or  architecture,  and  such  a  work 
of  art  more  perhaps  than  any  other,  borders  upon 
earnest  science,  in  consequence  of  the  definiteness 
of  the  intellectual  conception  embodied  in  its  form. 
These  peculiar  affinities  disappear  more  and  more 
in  proportion  as  a  work  belonging  to  any  of  these 
different  classes  of  art,  reaches  a  higher  degree 
of  perfection^  necessary  consequence  of  which  is, 
that,  without  mixing  up  or  altering  their  objective 
boundaries,  the  various  arts  become  more  and 
more  assimilated  to  each  other  in  their  effects 
upon  the  human  mind.  In  its  highest  perfection 
of  harmony,  music  should  affect  us  like  the  beauty 
of  form,  with  the  quiet  power  of  an  antique  ;  sta¬ 
tuary  and  architecture,  when  most  perfect,  will 
act  upon  us  like  music,  and  will  touch  our  senses 
by  the  immediate  presence  of  their  works  ;  poesy 
in  its  most  exalted  purity,  will  move  us  powerfully 
like  music,  and,  like  the  plastic  arts,  illumine  our 
understandings  with  the  light  of  its  heavenly  wis¬ 
dom.  By  this  it  is,  that  the  perfect  style  of  every 
art  is  perceived  :  it  removes  her  specific  bounda¬ 
ries  without  effacing  her  specific  attributes,  and 
by  wisely  improving  her  peculiarities,  imparts  to 
her  a  more  universal  character. 

Not  only  the  limits  inherent  in  the  specific 
character  of  his  art,  but  also  those  which  are  pe¬ 
culiar  to  the  material  upon  which  he  works,  should 


530 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


be  overcome  by  the  artist.  In  a  truly  beautiful 
work  of  art,  the  subject  should  do  nothing',  the 
form  every  thing;  for  it  is  through  the  form  alone 
that  t  he  whole  of  man  is  reached,  the  subject  only 
affects  exceptional  powers  or  faculties.  The  sub¬ 
ject,  were  it  ever  so  sublime  and  comprehensive, 
has  a  circumscribing  effect  upon  the  mind,  and  it 
is  only  of  the  form  that  true  aesthetic  freedom  can 
be  expected.  The  great  secret  of  art  consists  in 
this,  that  the  master  ivipes  out  the  subject  by  the 
form  ;  the  more  imposing,  the  more  assuming,  the 
more  seductive  the  subject,  the  more  it  claims  our 
attention  by  its  prominence,  or  the  more  the  be¬ 
holder  feels  disposed  to  permit  his  attention  to  be 
absorbed  by  the  subject :  the  greater  the  triumph  j 
of  an  art  which  subdues  the  subject  and  maintains  j 
her  supremacy  over  the  spectator.  The  specta¬ 
tor’s  or  listener’s  mind  should  remain  perfectly 
free  and  unaffected  ;  it  should  come  out  of  the 
enchanting  sphere  of  the  artist  as  it  left  the  hands 
of  the  Maker,  pure  and  perfect.  The  most  frivo¬ 
lous  subject  should  be  treated  in  a  manner  which 
will  dispose  us  to  pass  from  it  at  once  to  the  most 
sober  earnestness  ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  most 
serious  subject  should  be  treated  so  as  not  to  in¬ 
capacitate  us  from  exchanging  it  without  an  effort 
for  the  lightest  play.  Arts  like  tragedy,  calcu¬ 
lated  to  arouse  powerful  passional  emotions,  are 
no  objection  to  this  doctrine  ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
they  are  not  altogether  free  arts,  since  they  are 
designed  to  attain  a  special  end,  the  pathetic  ;  and 
in  the  second  place ,  no  true  critic  will  deny  that 
works  even  of  this  class  are  the  more  perfect,  the 
freer  they  leave  the  mind  even  in  the  highest  tu¬ 
mult  of  passional  excitement.  There  is  a  fine  art 
of  the  passions  ;  but  a  fine  passionate  art  is  a  con¬ 
tradiction,  for  the  inevitable  effect  of  the  beauti¬ 
ful  is  freedom  from  passions.  No  less  contradic¬ 
tory  is  the  conception  of  a  fine  didactic,  or  a  fine 
moral  art,  for  nothing  conflicts  more  with  the  idea 
of  beauty,  than  the  effort  of  giving  to  the  mind  a 
definite  tendency. 

We  must  not  infer,  however,  that  a  work  is 
without  any  beauty  of  form,  if  the  subject  alone 
strikes  the  mind  ;  this  may  likewise  be  owing  to  a 
deficiency  of  form  on  the  part  of  the  critic.  If  he 
should  be  too  rigid,  or  too  yielding  ;  if  he  is  in  the 
habit  of  either  receiving  impressions  only  through 
the  understanding,  or  through  the  senses,  h.e  will 
only  adhere  to  the  parts,  even  if  the  whole  should 
be  ever  so  perfect,  or  to  the  substance,  if  the 
form  should  be  ever  so  beautiful.  Without  sen¬ 
sitiveness,  except  to  rude  elements,  he  has  first 
to  destroy  the  aesthetic  organization  of  a  work 
before  he  is  able  to  enjoy  it,  and  to  rake  up  with 
anxious  care  the  elementary  details  which  the 
artist  had  sought  to  hide  with  infinite  art  in  the 
harmony  of  the  whole.  The  interest  he  takes  in 
the  work,  is  either  moral  or  physical ;  what  it 
should  be,  it  is  not, — it  is  not  aesthetic.  Such 
readers  enjoy  a  serious  and  pathetic  poem,  as  they 
do  a  sermon,  and  a  poem  of  a  naive  or  playful 
character,  as  if  it  were  an  intoxicating  beverage  ; 
and,  if  they  had  so  little  taste  as  to  expect  to  be 
edified  by  a  tragedy  or  epopee,  were  it  even  the 
Messiad,  they  will  undoubtedly  take  exceptions 
to  a  song  by  Anacreon  or  Catullus 


LETTER  XXIII. 

I  resume  the  thread  of  my  inquiry,  which  I 
have  only  abandoned  for  the  purpose  of  applying 
the  propositions  which  I  have  set  up,  to  practical 
art,  and  to  the  criticism  of  her  works. 

The  passage  from  a  passive  state  of  sensation 
to  an  active  state  of  thought  and  volition,  cannot 
be  effected  in  any  other  way  than  through  an  in¬ 
termediate  state  of  sesthetic  freedom,  and  although 
this  state  of  itself  decides  nothing  as  regards  our 
intelligence  or  sentiments,  and  therefore  leaves 
our  intellectual  or  moral  worth  altogether  pro¬ 
blematical,  yet  it  is  the  necessary  condition  of  our 
obtaining  intelligence  and  forming  sentiments. 
In  one  word  :  there  is  no  other  way  of  making  the 
sensual  man  rational,  than  by  first  making  him  an 
sesthetic  being. 

Will  you  object  that  this  intermediate  state  may 
not  perhaps  be  indispensable  ?  May  it  not  be  pos¬ 
sible  that  truth  and  duty  should  commend  them¬ 
selves  to  the  sensual  man  by  their  own  inherent 
power  ?  To  this  I  reply  that  they  not  only  can 
but  ought  to  be  indebted  for  their  determining 
power  exclusively  to  themselves,  and  that  nothing 
would  be  more  contrary  to  my  previous  statements 
than  to  suppose  that  they  were  intended  to  convey 
doctrines  of  an  opposite  import.  We  have  shown 
that  beauty  does  not  develop  any  direct  result 
either  in  the  sphere  of  the  understanding  or  of  the 
will,  that  it  does  not  interfere  in  the  processes 
of  thinking  or  willing,  that  it  simply  confers  the 
faculty  of  willing  or  thinking,  without,  however, 
determining  the  actual  use  of  this  faculty.  This 
use  takes  place  without  any  foreign  aid,  and  the 
pure  or  logical  form,  namely  the  abstract  concep¬ 
tion,  has  to  address  itself  directly  to  the  under¬ 
standing,  and  the  pure  or  moral  form,  namely  the 
law,  has  to  address  itself  directly  to  the  will. 

But  I  maintain  that  the  sesthetic  state  of  the 
mind  enables  the  pure  or  ideal  form  to  act  upon 
the  sensual  man.  Truth  cannot  be  received  by 
the  senses  like  the  actuality  or  the  physical  exist¬ 
ence  of  things  ;  truth  is  the  offspring  of  the  inde¬ 
pendent  and  self-existing  action  of  the  mind  ;  it  is 
this  independent  activity,  this  freedom  which  we 
do  not  find  in  the  sensual  man.  The  sensual  man 
is  already  determined  by  his  physical  nature, 
consequently  he  is  no  longer  able  to  determine 
himself  freely;  this  lost  power  of  self-determina¬ 
tion  has  necessarily  to  be  restored  to  him,  before 
he  can  exchange  a  passive  or  merely  potential 
state  for  a  state  of  active  self-determination. 
But  this  active  capacity  can  only  be  restored  to 
him  either  by  his  losing  the  passive  state  in 
which  he  existed,  or  else  the  active  state  of  deter¬ 
mining  power  into  which  he  is  to  enter ,  must 
already  be  present  within  him.  If  he  should 
simply  lose  the  passive  state  of  determinable  fit¬ 
ness,  he  would  at  the  same  time  lose  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  an  active  capacity  for  self-determination, 
since  thought  only  needs  a  body,  and  form  can  only 
be  realized  by  means  of  a  subject.  Hence  he  will 
have  to  contain  the  latter  within  himself,  he  will 
have  to  be  determined  both  actively  and  passively, 
in  other  words,  he  will  have  to  become  sesthetic. 

Through  the  sesthetic  sense  reason  manifests 


J3STHETICAL. 


531 


its  presence  even  in  the  sensual  range,  the  power 
of  sensation  is  broken  even  within  its  own 
limits,  and  the  physical  mini  is  ennobled  so  far, 
that  all  the  spiritual  man  has  to  do,  is  to  develop 
himself  out  of  the  former  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  freedom.  The  passage  from  the  aesthe¬ 
tic  condition  to  the  logical  and  moral  (from 
beauty  to  truth  and  duty)  is,  therefore,  far  easier 
than  the  transition  from  the  physical  to  the  aesthe¬ 
tic  condition  (from  a  mere  state  of  unconscious 
vitality  to  a  rational  manifestation).  As  regards 
the  former  step,  man  may  achieve  it  by  his  simple 
freedom,  since  he  need  only  take  from,  not  add  to 
himself;  individualize,  not  expand  his  nature  ;  the 
aesthetically-feeling  man  will  always  judge  and 
act  correctly,  as  soon  as  he  wills  to  do  so.  His 
passage  from  a  purely  sensual  existence  to  the 
beauty  of  form,  where  an  entirely  new  activity  is 
to  be  disclosed  in  him,  will  have  to  be  facilitated 
by  nature  ;  his  will  has  no  power  over  a  state  of 
mind  to  which  the  will  itself  is  indebted  for  its 
existence.  In  order  to  lead  the  aesthetic  man  to  in¬ 
telligence  and  great  sentiments,  all  that  is  neces¬ 
sary  is  to  afford  him  important  opportunities;  in 
order  to  obtain  this  result  over  the  sensual  man,  his 
nature  has  first  to  be  changed.  In  the  case  of  the 
former  the  impulse  of  an  exalted  circumstance, 
which  affects  the  will-power  more  immediately  than 
any  other  influence,  is  frequently  sufficient  in  order 
to  convert  man  into  a  hero  or  a  sage;  the  latter 
has  first  to  be  transformed  by  different  influences. 

It  ist  therefore,  one  of  the  most,  important 
problems  of  culture,  to  subject  even  man’s  physi¬ 
cal  life  to  the  form  of  beauty,  and  to  transform 
him  into  an  aesthetic  being,  as  far  as  the  bounda¬ 
ries  of  the  empire  of  beauty  extend,  for  it  is  only 
out  of  the  aesthetic,  not  out  of  the  physical  con¬ 
dition,  that  a  moral  state  can  be  developed.  If 
man  is  to  possess  the  power  in  every  single  case  to 
impress  upon  his  judgment  and  his  will  the  char¬ 
acter  of  a  judgment  and  will  of  the  species;  if 
every  finite  state  of  existence  is  to  lead  him  to 
the  infinite,  every  dependent  condition  to  a  state 
of  independence  and  freedom,  we  have  to  take 
care  that  at  no  one  moment  lie  should  simply  be 
an  individual  and  obey  the  law  of  simple  nature. 
If  he  is  to  be  able  and  fit  to  raise  himself  from 
the  narrow  sphere  of  natural  to  the  sphere  of 
rational  ends,  he  will  have  to  have  fitted  himself 
for  the  latter  within  the  limits  of  the  former,  and 
to  have  achieved  his  physical  destiny  with  a  cer¬ 
tain  freedom  of  mind,  namely,  in  conformity  with 
the  laws  of  beauty. 

This  may  be  accomplished  by  man  without  his 
physical  destiny  being  violated  in  the  least  degree. 
Nature  has  no  demands  against  him  except  in 
respect  to  what  he  is  achieving ,  or  in  respect  to 
the  matter  of  his  acts  ;  the  form  of  his  acts,  tlxe 
manner  in  which  he  performs  them,  is  left  unde¬ 
termined  by  the  natural  ends.  The  demands  of 
reason,  on  the  contrary,  have  exclusive  reference 
to  the  form  of  his  actions.  As  necessary  as  it 
therefore  is  for  the  sake  of  his  moral  destiny,  that 
he  should  be  absolutely  moral,  that  he  should 
evince  an  absolute  independence  of  action,  as  in¬ 
different  it  is  for  his  physical  destiny,  whether  he 
is  purely  physical,  whether  he  exists  in  an  abso¬ 
lutely  passive  state.  In  respect  to  his  physical 


destiny,  it  is  left  optional  with  him  either  to  realize 
it  as  a  mere  being  of  sense,  as  a  natural  power  (by 
which  we  understand  a  force  which  merely  acts  ac¬ 
cording  as  it  is  acted  upon)  ;  or  as  an  absolute 
power,  as  a  rational  being;  it  can  scarcely  be 
questioned  which  would  be  more  conformable  to 
his  dignity.  On  the  contrary,  as  much  as  he  de¬ 
grades  himself  by  doing  from  sensual  motives 
what  he  should  have  done  from  a  love  of  duty,  as 
much  he  honors  himself  by  aiming  at  law,  har¬ 
mony,  and  infinite  perfection  even  where  a  com¬ 
mon  man  gratifies  his  legitimate  desires.*  In  on 
word,  in  the  sphere  of  truth  and  morality,  sensa¬ 
tion  should  not  exercise  any  determining  power; 

*  This  intellectual  and  aesthetically  free  mode  of  treat¬ 
ing  the  common  realities  of  life,  is  the  sign  of  a  noble 
soul,  no  matter  when  and  where  we  may  meet  with  it. 
We  may  call  a  mind  noble  that  possesses  the  talent  of 
imparting  an  appearance  of  infinite  perfection  to  the 
most  insignificant  business,  or  to  the  smallest  object,  by 
the  manner  in  which  these  things  are  managed.  We  call 
any  form  noble  which  impresses  an  appearance  of  inde¬ 
pendent  action  upon  a  thing  which,  by  its  nature,  is 
simply  a  means,  a  medium  of  action.  A  noble  spirit  is 
not  content  with  being  free  itself;  it  feels  impelled  to 
emancipate  every  thing  around  it,  even  inanimate  ob¬ 
jects.  Beauty  is  the  only  possible  expression  of  freedom 
in  the  sphere  of  phenomena.  A  predominant  expression 
of  intelligence  in  the  countenance  or  in  a  work  of  art 
can  therefore  never  be  called  noble,  no  more  than  it  can 
ever  appear  beautiful,  fur  the  reason  that  such  an  ex¬ 
pression  renders  still  more  prominent  the  dependence 
(which  is  inseparable  from  fitness),  instead  of  conceal¬ 
ing  it. 

The  moral  philosopher  indeed  teaches  us  that  we  can 
never  do  more  than  our  duty.  In  this  he  is  perfectly 
right,  if  he  simply  refers  to  the  relation  existing  between 
acts  and  the  moral  law.  But  in  the  case  of  acts  which 
simply  have  reference  to  a  purpose,  to  go  beyond  ibis  pur¬ 
pose  into  the  region  of  the  super-sensual  (which  here 
cannot  mean  any  thing  else  than  to  perform  sensual 
things  in  an  aesthetic  manner),  would  be  tantamount  to 
going  beyond  one’s  duty,  since  duty  can  only  insist  upon 
the  will  being  holy,  not  upon  nature  having  already  ac¬ 
quired  holiness.  Thus,  although  dtity  cannot  be  ex¬ 
ceeded  in  a  moral,  yet  it  can  be  surpassed  in  an  aesthetic 
sense,  and  such  a  conduct  is  designated  as  noble.  But 
for  the  very  reason  that  a  noble  conduct  is  always  char¬ 
acterized  by  an  excess  of  good-will,  inasmuch  as  a  spirit 
of  beauty  is  perceived  where  simple  duty  would  be  satis¬ 
fied  with  the  material  act,  or  the  internal  beauty  of  the 
act  is  associated  with  a  quantity  of  material  result 
which  duty  did  not  prescribe  as  necessary ;  many  authors 
have  confounded  an  excess  of  aesthetic  beauty  with  an 
excess  of  morality,  and  beguiled  by  the  appearance  of 
the  noble  act,  have  assigned  to  the  domain  of  morality 
arbitrary  and  accidental  determinations  of  the  will, 
which  would  efface  the  boundaries  and  shake  the  found¬ 
ations  of  ethics. 

An  elevated  conduct  should  be  distinguished  from  a 
noble  conduct.  A  noble  conduct  goes  beyond  the  limits 
of  moral  obligation  :  not  so  an  elevated  conduct  which 
we  esteem  more  highly  than  the  former.  But  we  do  not 
esteem  it,  because  it  goes  beyond  the  rational  conception 
of  its  object  (the  moral  law),  but  because  it  exceeds  the 
empirical  conception  of  its  subject  (our  knowledge  of  the 
goodness  and  power  of  the  human  will);  vice  versa,  we 
do  not  esteem  a  noble  conduct,  because  it  exceeds  the 
nature  of  the  subject,  out  of  which  it  should,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  seem  to  flow  as  a  perfectly  free  act,  but  because  it 
reaches  beyond  the  nature  of  its  object  (the  physical  pur¬ 
pose)  into  the  sphere  of  spirit.  It  might  be  said  that  in 
the  former  case,  we  wonder  at  the  victory  which  the  ob¬ 
ject  achieves  overman;  in  the  latter  case  we  admire 
the  character  of  exaltation  which  man  impresses  upon 
the  object. 


532 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


but  the  sphere  of  sensual  happiness  may  be  ruled 
by  form  and  by  the  impulse  of  play. 

Even  in  the  indifferent  sphere  of  his  physical 
existence,  man’s  moral  nature  should  already  re¬ 
ceive  its  first  impetus;  while  yet  in  a  state  of 
passive  existence,  he  should  already  commence  to 
develop  his  moral  independence,  his  rational  free¬ 
dom  should  already  begin  within  the  limits  of  his 
sensual  existence.  Even  his  inclinations  should 
undergo  the  law  of  his  will ;  if  I  may  be  permitted 
to  use  this  expression,  man  should  transfer  the 
war  against  matter  to  its  own  domain,  in  order 
not  to  be  obliged  to  combat  this  terrible  enemy 
upon  the  sacred  soil  of  liberty ;  he  has  to  learn  to 
cherish  noble  desires ,  in  order  to  be  able  to  do 
without  elevated  volitions.  This  result  is  accom¬ 
plished  by  the  aesthetic  culture,  which  subjects  to 
laws  of  beauty  every  thing  concerning  which  the 
human  will  is  neither  bound  by  the  laws  of  nature 
nor  by  those  of  reason,  and  discloses  the  inner  life 
in  the  form  in  which  it  clothes  the  outer. 


LETTER  XXIV. 

We  may,  therefore,  distinguish  three  degrees  or 
stages  of  development  which  both  the  individual 
and  the  species  have  to  pass  through  in  a  definite 
order,  if  they  expect  to  accomplish  the  circle  of 
their  destiny.  Through  accidental  causes,  depend¬ 
ing  either  upon  the  influence  of  external  circum¬ 
stances  or  upon  man’s  own  free  determination,  a 
single  stage  or  period  may  indeed  be  lengthened 
or  shortened,  but  can  never  be  suppressed,  nor 
can  the  order  in  which  these  periods  naturally 
succeed  each  other,  ever  be  inverted  by  a  mere 
act^of  the  will.  In  his  'physical  stage  of  develop¬ 
ment,  man  simply  obeys  the  laws  of  a  natural 
state  ;  in  the  (Esthetic  stage  he  frees  himself  from 
the  tyranny  of  these  laws,  and  in  the  moral  stage 
he  governs  them. 

What  is  man,  before  beauty  beguiles  him  into 
abandoning  his  wild  delights,  and  his  savage  life 
is  calmed  by  the  gentle  influence  of  culture  ?  Ever 
subject  to  the  monotony  of  purpose,  ever  changing 
in  his  judgments,  selfish  without  being  a  person¬ 
ality,  unrestrained  without  being  free,  a  slave 
without  being  bound  by  a  rule.  In  this  period 
the  world  affects  him  like  fate,  not  as  an  object 
of  contemplation  ;  every  thing  exists  for  him  only 
in  so  far  as  it  contributes  to,  or  preserves  his  ex¬ 
istence  :  that  which  neither  adds  to,  nor  takes 
from  his  existence,  does  not  exist  at  all  in  his  eyes. 
Isolated  as  he  is,  every  phenomenon  affects  him 
like  an  isolated  fact.  Whatever  is,  seems  to  him 
like  the  work  of  the  moment;  every  change  is  to 
him  like  a  new  creation,  because  he  has  not  as  yet 
acquired  a  perception  of  the  inevitable  law  which 
binds  the  changing  forms  into  a  universe,  and 
overrules  the  evanescent  manifestations  of  indi¬ 
vidual  life.  In  vain  nature  exhibits  to  his  senses 
the  panorama  of  her  rich  beauties  ;  her  magnifi¬ 
cent  fullness  appears  to  him  a  mere  object  of 
prey,  her  power  and  greatness  affect  him  like  in¬ 
imical  realities.  Either  he  rushes  upon  things  as 
if  he  would  appropriate  them  to  his  own  substance 
in  his  wild  lust,  or  else  the  objects  around  him 


threaten  him  with  destruction,  and  he  repels  them 
in  a  fit  of  horror.  In  either  case,  the  character 
of  his  relation  to  the  world  of  sense  is  contact ; 
ever  disturbed  by  the  phenomena  which  crowd 
upon  him,  ever  tormented  by  the  wants  of  an  im¬ 
perious  necessity,  he  finds  rest  nowhere  except  in 
prostration,  and  limits  nowhere  except  in  glutting 
his  desires. 

The  mighty  breast,  indeed,  and  e’en  the  Titans’ 

Most  vigorous  marrow  is  ...  . 

His  certain  portion  ;  but  a  chain  of  brass 
The  power  of  Fate  has  forged  around  his  brows; 
Sense,  wisdom,  calmness,  patience  have  been  hid 
From  his  atfrighted,  sombre  look. 

Desire  torments  him  with  the  fire  of  rage, 

He  plunges  fiercely  into  endless  chaos. 

Iphiyenia  in  Tauris. 

Unacquainted  with  his  own  human  dignity,  he 
is  unable  to  honor  it  in  others;  conscious  of  his 
own  wild  desires,  he  dreads  them  in  every  crea¬ 
ture  that  looks  like  him. .  He  never  sees  others  in 
himself,  only  himself  in  others,  and  the  presence 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  instead  of  prompting  the 
unfolding  of  social  sympathies,  narrows  the  sphere 
of  his  individuality  more  and  more.  In  this 
gloomy  night  of  egotism,  he  rushes  through  the 
chaos  of  existence,  until  a  kind  destiny  removes 
the  weight  of  matter  from  his  darkened  senses, 
reflection  reveals  to  him  a  distinction  between 
himself  and  the  objects  of  nature,  which  dawn 
upon  his  consciousness  and  stimulate  his  power3 
of  inquiry  and  contemplation. 

As  we  have  described  this  state  of  rude  nature, 
it  cannot,  indeed,  be  shown  as  having  existed 
among  any  people  or  anywhere  in  the  history  of 
the  race;  it  is  a  mere  idea  which  is  partially  con¬ 
firmed,  however,  by  experience.  It  may  be  said 
that  man  was  never  wholly  confined  to  such  an 
animal  condition,  but  on  the  other  hand,  it  may 
be  asserted,  that  he  has  never  fled  from  it  entirely. 
Even  in  the  most  uncultivated  individual  we  dis*. 
cover  unmistakable  traces  of  rationality,  whereas 
the  most  cultivated  man  will  occasionally  exhibit 
traces  of  a  low  state  of  nature.  It  is  peculiar  to 
man  to  unite  the  highest  and  the  lowest  in  his  na¬ 
ture  ;  if  his  dignity  depends  upon  a  strict  distinc¬ 
tion  between  these  elements,  his  happiness  de¬ 
pends  upon  their  wise  union.  Culture,  whose  task 
it  is  to  establish  a  perfect  accord  between  his 
dignity  and  his  happiness,  will  therefore  have  to 
see  to  it,  that  these  two  principles  may  be  com¬ 
bined  in  their  highest  purity. 

The  first  dawn  of  reason  in  man  is,  therefore, 
not  as  yet  the  beginning  of  his  humanity.  ’Phis  is 
first  determined  by  his  freedom,  and  the  first  ef¬ 
fect  of  reason  is  to  make  him  conscious  of  his 
absolute  physical  dependence  ;  considering  the 
importance  and  universality  of  this  phenomenon, 
it  does  not  seem  to  me  to  have  been  dwelt  upon 
with  sufficient  attention.  We  know  that  reason 
manifests  itself  in  man  by  postulating  the  abso¬ 
lute  (the  inherently  necessary) ;  inasmuch  as  this 
inherent  necessity  of  reason  for  a  state  of  absolute 
truth  and  purity  can  never  be  entirely  gratified  at 
any  one  period  of  man’s  existence,  he  is  impelled 
by  reason  to  leave  the  world  of  sense  and  to  ele¬ 
vate  himself  to  the  sphere  of  ideas.  Although 
reason,  by  exciting  idealizing  aspirations  in  man’s 


J2STHETICAL. 


533 


soul,  really  designs  to  raise  him  above  the  level  of 
the  senses  into  the  sphere  of  ideas,  yet  this  tend¬ 
ency  may  be  misapplied  to  the  senses,  especially 
in  an  age  where  sensual  gratifications  are  so  ea¬ 
gerly  sought  after,  and  so  far  from  his  independ¬ 
ence  being  secured  by  the  aims  of  rationality,  he 
is,  on  the  contrary,  hurled  into  the  most  frightful 
bondage. 

This  is  indeed  the  case.  Upon  the  wings  of 
imagination  man  abandons  the  narrow  limits  of 
the  present,  within  which  the  mere  animal  exist¬ 
ence  is  confined,  in  order  to  press  forward  toward 
a  boundless  future  ;  but  whilst  the  infinite  is  dis¬ 
closed  to  his  giddy  imagination,  his  heart  has  not 
yet  ceased  to  live  in  the  details  of  the  present, 
and  to  do  homage  to  its  interests.  In  the  midst 
of  his  sensual  pursuits  he  is  seized  by  a  desire  for 
the  absolute,  and — since  in  this  state  of  mental 
obtuseness,  all  his  exertions  tend  to  the  material 
and  the  temporal,  and  to  the  interests  of  his  own 
individual  existence,  he  is  impelled,  by  a  demand 
for  the  absolute,  instead  of  losing  sight  of  his  in¬ 
dividuality,  to  strive  after  its  endless  development ; 
instead  of  seeking  a  perfect  form,  to  seek  an  im¬ 
perishable  fountain  of  sensual  delights;  instead  of 
seeking  the  unchangeable,  to  crave  a  perpetual 
change,  and  the  absolute  certainty  of  his  temporal 
existence.  The  same  impulse  which,  when  ap¬ 
plied  to  his  thoughts  and  acts,  would  lead  him  to 
truth  and  morality,  when  concentrated  upon  his 
sentient  life,  produces  an  unlimited  desire  and  an 
absolute  want.  His  first  fruits  in  the  empire  of 
spirit  are  care  and  fear  ;  both  being  the  effects  of 
reason,  not  of  the  senses,  but  of  a  reason  that  has 
missed  its  object,  and  applies  its  behests  to  the 
cultivation  and  multiplication  of  natural  wants. 
The  fruits  of  this  tree  are  the  various  systems  of 
happiness,  whether  intended  for  the  present  day, 
or  for  the  whole  life,  or  for  eternity,  which  does  not  1 
entitle  them  to  any  more  respect.  An  unlimited 
duration  of  existence  and  well-being,  for  no  other 
purpose  than  that  of  existence  and  well-being,  is 
nothing  but  the  ideal  of  desire,  or  a  demand  made 
by  an  animal  nature  craving  absolute  gratification. 
Without  his  humanity  gaining  any  thing  by  this 
manifestation  of  his  reason,  he  loses  his  happy 
finiteness  as  an  animal,  over  which  he  henceforth 
possesses  no  other  advantage  than  to  deprive  him¬ 
self  of  the  possession  of  present  enjoyment  by 
striving  after  distant  joys,  which  nevertheless  ap¬ 
pear  like  a  thing  of  the  present,  w'ere  they  other¬ 
wise  ever  so  remote. 

But  even  if  reason  should  not  miss  its  object, 
and  should  work  out  a  correct  solution  of  the 
problem,  yet  the  senses  will  for  a  long  time  to 
come  adulterate  her  conclusions.  As  soon  as 
man  has  commenced  to  use  his  understanding, 
and  to  combine  the  phenomena  by  which  he  is 
surrounded,  into  a  series  of  coherent  effects  and 
causes,  reason,  by  her  nature,  urges  the  determi¬ 
nation  of  the  absolute  law  or  reason  of  this  com¬ 
bination.  The  mere  statement  of  such  a  problem 
implies  that  man  must  have  exceeded  the  limits 
of  morality  ;  but  reason  employs  this  same  demand 
for  the  purpose  of  reclaiming  the  fugitive.  At 
this  point  it  is  where  he  had  to  forsake  the  world 
of  sense,  and  had  to  soar  to  the  sphere  of  pure 
ideas;  for  the  understanding  remains  forever  with¬ 


in  the  limits  of  the  finite,  and  continues  to  inter¬ 
rogate  and  to  analyse  without  ever  arriving  at  a 
first  cause.  But  inasmuch  as  the  man  of  whom 
we  are  speaking,  is  not  yet  capable  of  such  an  ab¬ 
straction,  he  will  have  to  seek  within  the  sphere  of 
his  feelings,  that  which  he  does  not  yet  find  with¬ 
in  the  sphere  of  his  sensual  cognitions .  and  which 
he  does  not  yet  look  for  in  the  sphere  of  reason  ; 
there  he  will  indeed  find  it  as  far  as  appearances 
indicate  such  a  result.  The  senses  reveal  nothing 
that  is  its  own  cause  and  law  ;  but  they  show  that 
which  is  unconscious  of  reason,  or  has  no  regard 
for  law.  Since  he  is  unable  to  quiet  the  interro¬ 
gating  understanding  by  the  discovery  of  final  and 
internal  principles,  he  silences  it  by  assuming  the 
absolute  or  unfathomable,  and  stops  within  the 
blind  necessities  of  matter,  since  he  is  as  yet  un¬ 
able  to  comprehend  the  sublime  necessity  of  reason. 
The  senses  not  knowing  of  any  other  purpose  than 
their  advantage,  and  not  feeling  impelled  by  any 
other  cause  than  blind  chance,  he  makes  the 
former  the  determining  principle  of  his  acts,  and 
the  latter  the  ruler  of  the  wrnrld. 

Even  the  sacred  principle  of  man’s  nature,  the 
moral  law,  is  unable  to  escape  this  adulteration 
during  its  first  manifestation  in  the  world  of  sense. 
Inasmuch  as  its  voice  is  that  of  a  forbidding  Men¬ 
tor,  it  must  necessarily  appear  to  him  as  something 
hostile  and  external,  as  long  as  he  has  not  yet 
succeeded  in  regarding  his  self-loving  sensuality 
as  something  external  to  his  better  nature,  and 
his  rational  principle  as  the  best  part  of  himself. 
Hence  he  only  feels  the  fetters  by  which  reason 
chains  him,  not  the  freedom  which  she  brings  to 
his  soul.  Without  suspecting  the  dignity  of  the 
legislator  within  himself,  he  only  experiences  the 
compulsory  condition  and  the  impotent  resistance 
of  the  subject.  Inasmuch  as  the  physical  impulse 
1 precedes  the  moral,  he  assigns  to  the  law  of  ne¬ 
cessity  a  commencement  in  time,  a  positive  origin, 
and  by  a  most  pernicious  mistake  he  transforms 
the  unchangeable  and  eternal  into  an  accidental 
attribute  of  the  perishable.  He  persuades  him¬ 
self  into  the  notion  that  right  and  wrong  are 
statutes  enacted  by  the  fiat  of  human  volition,  not 
eternal  ordinances  of  absolute  love  and  wisdom. 
As  he  transcends  nature  in  explaining  single  na¬ 
tural  phenomena,  and  seeks  beyond  her  limits  an 
explanation  which  can  only  be  obtained  by  the 
study  and  perception  of  her  inherent  reasonable¬ 
ness,  so  he  transcends  reason  in  accounting  for 
morality,  and  alienates  his  humanity  by  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  discover  a  godhead.  No  wonder  if  his  re¬ 
ligion  which  he  purchased  at  the  expense  of  his 
humanity,  shows  itself  worthy  of  such  an  origin  ; 
if  laws  which  were  not  binding  from  eternity,  are 
not  considered  by  him  absolute  and  binding  to  all 
eternity.  He  does  not  deal  with  a  holy,  he  only 
deals  with  a  mighty  being.  The  spirit  of  his 
worship  is  fear,  which  degrades  him,  not  venera¬ 
tion  which  raises  him  in  his  own  estimation. 

Although  these  various  deviations  of  man  from 
the  ideal  of  his  destiny  cannot  all  take  place  in 
the  same  epoch,— for  he  has  to  pass  through 
various  gradations  from  thoughtlessness  to  error, 
from  mere  absence  to  perversion  of  the  will, 
— yet  they  all  constitute  results  of  the  physi¬ 
cal  state,  for  in  all  of  them  the  impulse  of  life 


534 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


rules  over  the  impulse  of  form.  Suppose  reason 
has  not  yet  begun  to  act  in  man,  and  that  the  phy¬ 
sical  law  still  rules  him  with  a  blind  violence  ;  or 
that  reason  has  not  yet  been  sufficiently  purged 
of  all  sensual  admixture,  and  that  the  moral  prin¬ 
ciple  is  still  subservient  to  the  physical  wants  :  in 
either  case,  the  ruling  principle  in  man  is  of  a 
material  order,  and  man,  by  his  ultimate  acts,  be¬ 
comes  a  sensual  being,  with  this  difference,  that 
by  the  first  supposition  he  is  an  irrational,  and  by 
the  second  a  rational  animal.  But  he  is  to  be 
neither ;  he  is  to  be  a  man ;  nature  is  not  to 
govern  him  exclusively,  and  reason  is  not  to  rule 
him  conditionally.  Both  systems  of  law  are  to 
exist  in  perfect  independence  of  each  other,  and 
yet  are  to  be  perfectly  agreed. 


LETTER  XXY. 

As  long  as  man,  in  his  first,  physical  condition, 
is  only  passively  affected  by  the  world  of  sense,  he 
is  still  completely  identified  with  it,  and  for  this 
reason  the  external  world  has  as  yet  no  objective 
existence  for  him.  It  is  only  when  he  begins,  in 
his  sesthetic  state  of  mind,  to  regard  the  world 
objectively,  that  his  personality  is  severed  from  it, 
and  that  the  world  seems  to  him  an  objective 
reality  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  has  ceased 
to  constitute  an  identical  portion  of  it.* 

Contemplative  reflection  is  the  first  free  rela¬ 
tion  which  connects  man  with  the  surrounding 
universe.  Whereas  desire  grasps  its  object  imme¬ 
diately,  reflection  removes  it  to  a  distance,  and 
appropriates  it  as  its  genuine  and  inalienable  own, 
by  saving  it  from  the  greed  of  passion.  The  ne¬ 
cessity  of  sense,  which  ruled  him  with  undivided 
power  in  the  period  of  mere  sensations,  abates 
during  the  period  of  reflection  ;  the  senses  are 
momentarily  hushed  ;  time  even,  which  ever 
changes,  stands  still  whilst  the  scattered  rays  of 
consciousness  are  gathering,  and/orm,  an  image 
of  the  infinite,  is  reflected  upon  the  perishable 
ground.  As  soon  as  light  dawns  in  man,  there  is 
no  longer  any  night  outside  of  him  ;  as  soon  as 
there  is  peace  within  him,  the  tumult  among  the 
surrounding  elements  is  likewise  hushed,  and  the 
contending  forces  of  nature  find  rest  within  per¬ 
manent  boundaries.  Hence  we  cannot  wonder, 
if  the  ancient  traditions  allude  to  these  great 
changes  in  the  inner  man  as  to-a  revolution  in  sur- 

*  I  repeat  that  ideally  these  two  periods  are  necessa¬ 
rily  distinct,  but  that  actually  they  are  more  or  less 
mixed  up.  Nor  should  it  be  supposed  that  there  ever 
was  a  time  when  man  only  existed  in  this  physical  state, 
or  when  he  was  entirely  freed  from  the  influence  of  mat¬ 
ter.  As  soon  as  man  sees  an  object,  he  ceases  to  be  in  a 
simply  physical  state,  and  as  long  as  he  continues  to  see, 
he  will  not  be  able  to  free  himself  from  it,  because  he 
can  only  see  in  so  far  as  he  experiences  a  sensation.  The 
three  periods  or  degrees  which  I  have  named  at  the 
commencement  of  my  twenty-fourth  letter,  constitute,  in 
their  totality,  three  distinct  epochs  in  the  development 
of  humanity  as  well  as  in  the  development  of  the  indi¬ 
vidual;  but  they  may  likewise  be  distinguished  in  the 
perception  of  every  single  object,  and,  in  one  word,  con¬ 
stitute  the  necessary  conditions  of  every  cognition  which 
Comes  to  us  through  the  senses. 


rounding  nature,  and  symbolize  th  |ught  triumph¬ 
ing  over  the  laws  of  time,  by  the  figure  of 
Zeus ,  which  terminates  the  reign  of  Saturnus. 

From  being  a  slave  of  nature,  as  long  as  he 
merely  derives  sensations  from  a  contact  with 
her,  man  becomes  her  lawgiver  as  soon  as  he  be¬ 
gins  to  reflect  upon  her  objects  and  laws.  Na¬ 
ture,  which  previously  ruled  him  as  a  poiver,  now 
expands  before  him  as  an  object.  What  is  ob¬ 
jective  to  him,  has  no  power  over  him,  for  in 
order  to  become  objective,  it  has  to  experience  his 
own  power.  As  far  and  as  long  as  he  impresses  a 
form  upon  matter,  he  cannot  be  injured  by  its 
effect ;  for  a  spirit  can  only  be  violated  by  that 
which  deprives  it  of  its  freedom,  whereas  he  proves 
his  own  freedom  by  giving  a  form  to  the  formless. 
Where  the  mass  rules  heavily  and  without  shape, 
and  its  dim  outlines  are  wavering  between  uncer¬ 
tain  boundaries,  fear  takes  up  its  abode  ;  but  man 
becomes  superior  to  any  natural  terror,  as  soon  as 
he  knows  how  to  mould  it  and  transform  it  into  an 
object  of  his  art.  As  soon  as  he  commences  to 
maintain  his  independence  toward  phenomenal 
nature,  he  maintains  his  dignity  toward  her  as  a 
thing  of  power,  and  with  a  noble  freedom  he 
rises  against  his  gods.  They  throw  down  the 
masks  with  which  they  had  frightened  him  during 
his  infancy,  and  surprise  him  by  his  own  image, 
which  they  reflect  to  his  own  mind.  The  divine 
monster  of  the  Oriental,  which  goes  about  chang¬ 
ing  the  world  with  the  blind  force  of  a  beast  of 
prey,  dwindles  in  the  Greek  phantasy  to  the  charm¬ 
ing  outlines  of  humanity,  the  empire  of  the  Titans 
is  crushed,  and  the  boundless  force  is  tamed  by 
infinite  form. 

But  whilst  I  was  merely  seeking  an  outlet  from 
the  material  world,  and  a  passage  into  the  world 
of  mind,  the  bold  flight  of  my  imagination  has 
already  transported  me  into  the  very  midst  of  the 
latter  world.  The  beauty  which  we  are  in  search 
of,  is  already  behind  us,  and  we  have  stepped  be¬ 
yond  it  by  passing  from  the  mere  life  of  sensations 
at  once  to  the  pure  form  and  to  the  pure  object. 
Such  a  leap  is  not  inherent  in  the  conditions  of 
human  nature  ;  in  order  to  keep  even  pace  with  the 
latter,  we  shall  have  to  return  to  the  world  of 
sense. 

Beauty  is  indeed  the  sphere  of  free  contempla¬ 
tion  and  reflection  ;  beauty  leads  us  into  the  world 
of  ideas,  without,  however,  removing  us  from  the 
world  of  sense,  as  happens  when  a  truth  is  per¬ 
ceived  and  acknowledged.  This  is  the  pure  pro¬ 
duct  of  a  process  of  abstraction  from  every  thing 
material  and  accidental,  a  pure  object  free  from 
every  subjective  barrier,  a  pure  state  of  self-ac¬ 
tivity  without  any  admixture  of  passive  sensa¬ 
tions.  There  is  indeed  a  return-road  to  sensation 
from  the  highest  abstraction  ;  for  thought  touches 
the  inner  sensation,  and  the  idea  of  logical  and 
moral  unity  passes  into  a  sensation  of  sensual 
accord.  But,  if  we  revel  in  cognitions  we 
distinguish  very  accurately  our  own  conceptions 
from  our  sensations,  we  regard  the  latter  as  some¬ 
thing  accidental  which  might  have  been  omitted 
without  the  cognition  being  impaired  thereby, 
without  truth  being  any  the  less  true.  But  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  undertake  to  abstract  this 
relation  to  the  sentient  faculty  from  the  concep- 


JSSTHETICAL. 


535 


tion  of  beauty ;  hence  it  is  not  enough  that  we 
should  consider  one  as  the  effect  of  the  other,  but 
we  have  to  consider  both  and  mutually  as  cause 
and  effect.  While  enjoying  the  delight  of  cogni¬ 
tions  we  distinguish  without  difficulty  the  passage 
from  an  active  to  a  passive  state,  and  we  distinctly 
observe  that  the  first  is  over  as  soon  as  the  second 
commences.  But  no  such  succession  from  an 
active  to  a  passive  state  is  discernible  in  our  de¬ 
light  in  beauty,  here  reflection  so  completely 
coalesces  with  emotion  that  it  seems  to  us  as 
though  the  form  excited  the  emotion  immediately. 
Beauty  is  indeed  objective  to  us,  because  it  affects 
us  by  means  of  a  process  of  reflection  ;  but  it  is 
at  the  same  time  a  subjective  condition,  because 
emotion  is  necessary  to  awaken  the  conception  of 
beauty  in  our  minds.  Hence  beauty  is  form  in  so 
far  as  we  contemplate  it;  at  the  same  time  it  is 
life,  because  it  excites  our  emotion.  In  owe  word  : 
it  is  at  the  same  time  a  state  and  an  act  of  our 
being. 

And  because  it  is  both,  it  proves  triumphantly 
that  a  passive  state  does  not  exclude  a  state  of 
activity,  matter  does  not  exclude  form,  finiteness 
does  not  exclude  infinity;  it  proves  that  man’s 
moral  freedom  is  not  by  any  means  annulled  by 
his  physical  dependence.  Beauty  proves  this,  and 
I  must  add,  beauty  alone  is  able  to  do  so.  For 
inasmuch  as  in  the  enjoyment  of  truth  or  logical 
unity  emotion  does  not  necessarily  co-exist  with 
thought,  but  may  accidentally  follow  it,  this  may 
show  us  that  a  rational  state  of  mind  may  be  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  sensual  state,  or  vice  versa,  not  that 
both  natures  may  co-exist,  not  that  they  mutually 
act  upon  each  other,  not  that  they  have  to  be 
united  absolutely  and  necessarily.  On  the  contrary 
this  exclusion  of  the  emotions  as  long  as  the 
mind  thinks,  and  this  exclusion  of  thought  as  long 
as  the  emotion  is  uppermost,  would  seem  to  show 
an  incompatibility  of  both  natures,  in  consequence 
of  which  analysts  have  no  better  proof  for  the  ex¬ 
istence  of  pure  reason  in  man  than  their  own  ipse 
dixit.  Inasmuch  as  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  or 
of  (esthetic  unity  implies  an  actual  union,  an  ex¬ 
change  of  matter  with  form,  of  a  passive  with  an 
active  state,  the  possibility  of  uniting  both  na¬ 
tures,  of  realizing  the  infinite  in  the  finite,  and  of 
expressing  the  most  sublime  human  form,  is  de¬ 
monstrated  by  such  a  circumstance. 

We  now  need  no  longer  feel  embarrassed  in  en¬ 
deavoring  to  find  a  passage  from  a  state  of  physi¬ 
cal  dependence  to  a  state  of  moral  freedom,  since 
beauty  has  shown  that  the  former  may  coexist 
with  the  latter,  and  that  man  need  not  repudiate 
the  senses  in  order  to  live  as  a  spirit.  If  he  has 
worked  out  his  freedom  during  his  physical  life 
by  realizing  a  state  of  beauty,  and  if  freedom,  as 
is  implied  by  the  very  conception  of  it,  is  some¬ 
thing  absolute  and  super-sensual,  the  question  can 
no  longer  be  how  he  managed  to  elevate  himself 
from  the  finite  to  the  infinite,  to  oppose  the 
senses  by  his  thoughts  and  will,  since  these  results 
are  accomplished  by  the  triumph  of  beauty.  In 
one  word,  the  question  can  no  longer  be  how  he 
passes  from  beauty  to  truth,  the  latter  being  po¬ 
tentially  contained  in  the  former,  but  hew  he 
clears  a  passage  for  himself  from  the  common  re¬ 
alities  of  the  world  of  sense,  to  the  realities  of  the 


aesthetic  sphere,  from  mere  animal  sensations  to  a 
state  of  living  beauty. 


LETTER  XXVI. 

Since  the  aesthetic  sense,  as  I  have  shown  in 
my  previous  letters,  gives  birth  to  freedom,  it  is 
readily  seen  that  beauty  does  not  originate  in  free¬ 
dom  and,  for  this  reason,  cannot  have  a  moral 
origin.  It  must  be  the  gift  of  nature  ;  the  favor 
of  accidental  circumstances  alone  can  undo  the 
fetters  of  the  physical  state,  and  lead  the  savage 
to  a  state  of  beauty. 

The  germ  of  beauty  will  unfold  itself  no  more, 
where  a  barren  climate  deprives  man  of  every 
comfort,  than  where  a  luxuriant  vegetation  super¬ 
sedes  the  necessity  of  physical  labor,  where  the 
blunted  senses  feel  no  want,  or  where  the  ve¬ 
hement  desire  remains  forever  unsatisfied.  Not 
where  man  hides  himself  troglodyte-fashion,  in 
caverns,  where  he  is  ever  isolated  and  never  sees 
a  humanity  outside  of  himself ;  nor  where  he 
roves  about,  nomad-fashion,  in  numerous  swarms, 
where  he  is  ever  content  with  counting  his  num- 
bers,  and  never  becomes  conscious  of  the  hu¬ 
manity  within  him  ;  it  is  only  where  he  communes 
with  himself  when  alone  in  his  cabin,  and  where, 
on  leaving  it,  he  addresses  himself  to  the  whole 
race,  that  the  sweet  bud  of  beauty  will  perfect  its 
full  unfolding.  Where  a  light,  ethereal  atmosphere 
stimulates  the  senses  by  its  gentle  influence,  and 
where  the  luxuriant  mass  of  animal  and  vegeta¬ 
tive  life  seems  animated  by  an  inherent  energy  of 
expansion  ;  where  the  rule  of  brute  matter  is 
overcome  even  by  inanimate  nature,  and  the  low¬ 
est  organisms  seem  ennobled  by  the  impress  of 
beauty;  amid  the  joyous  scenes  and  in  the  bliss¬ 
ful  climes  where  activity  leads  to  enjoyment  and 
enjoyment  to  activity,  where  holy  order  proceeds 
from  and,  in  its  turn,  harmonizes  the  play  of  life; 
where  imagination  is  never  subjugated  by  the 
weight  of  reality,  and  yet  never  wanders  away 
from  nature’s  simple  ways  ;  it  is  only  in  circum¬ 
stances  like  these  that  sense  and  mind,  the  pas¬ 
sive  and  the  active  forces  can  develop  themselves 
in  those  happy  proportions  which  constitute  the 
soul  of  beauty  and  the  conditions  of  humanity. 

By  what  phenomenon  does  the  savage  manifest 
his  initiation  into  the  sphere  of  humanity  ?  His¬ 
tory  informs  us  everywhere  that  this  phenome¬ 
non  is  the  same  among  all  the  tribes  which  have 
escaped  the  bondage  of  the  animal  life  :  it  is  a  de¬ 
light  in  appearances ,  a  taste  for  ornaments  and 
games. 

Extreme  stupidity  and  the  highest  intelligence 
are  related  to  each  other  in  this,  that  both  seek 
realities  and  are  utterly  insensible  to  mere  appear¬ 
ances.  It  is  only  by  the  immediate  presence  of 
an  object  as  a  thing  of  sense,  that  stupidity  is 
roused  from  its  slumber;  and  it  is  by  confirm¬ 
ing  its  abstract  conceptions  by  the  facts  of  expe¬ 
rience  that  intelligence  is  quieted  and  becomes 
satisfied  with  itself ;  in  other  words  :  stupidity 
cannot  elevate  itself  above  reality,  nor  can  intelli¬ 
gence  descend  to  a  level  beneath  truth.  What  is 
effected  in  the  form  Jr  case  by  the  want  of  imagi- 


536 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


nation,  is  effected  in  the  latter  by  the  absolute 
control  over  this  faculty.  In  so  far  as  the  need 
of  realities  and  a  taste  for  the  actual  are  the  con¬ 
sequences  of  want,  so  far  the  indifference  toward 
realities,  and  a  taste  for  appearances  constitute  a 
genuine  expansion  of  human  nature  and  a  decided 
step  toward  culture.  In  the  first  place,  this  re¬ 
sult  testifies  to  a  state  of  external  freedom  :  for  as 
long  as  want  rules  and  stings  man  to  action, 
imagination  is  bound  with  rigid  fetters  to  actual 
realities ;  it  is  only  after  the  present  wants  are 
gratified,  that  this  faculty  displays  her  unchecked 
power.  In  the  second  place,  such  a  result  testi¬ 
fies  to  the  existence  of  an  iuternal  freedom,  since 
a  power  is  perceived,  which  moves  independently 
of  external  matter  and  possesses  a  sufficient 
amount  of  energy  to  keep  off  its  obtruding  influ¬ 
ences.  The  reality  of  things  is  their  own  work ; 
the  appearance  of  things  is  the  work  of  man,  and  a 
mind  which  delights  in  appearances,  ceases  to  be 
pleased  with  what  it  receives,  but  is  pleased  only 
with  what  it  does. 

Of  course  we  speak  of  the  aesthetic  appearance 
which  is  distinguished  from  reality  and  truth  ;  not 
of  the  logical  appearance  which  is  confounded 
with  reality  and  truth,  and  which  is  cherished 
simply  because  it  is  appearance,  not  because  it  is 
supposed  to  be  better  than  real  truth.  The  former 
appearance  is  a  play  of  the  imagination,  the  latter 
mere  deception.  Attaching  an  importance  or  a 
value  to  the  former,  can  never  be  prejudicial  to 
truth,  for  which  there  is  no  danger  of  its  ever  being 
substituted — which  is  the  only  way  in  which  +ruth 
can  be  injured; — despising  it,  is  to  despise  the 
line  arts  whose  very  essence  consists  in  appear¬ 
ance.  It  happens  sometimes  that  the  understand¬ 
ing  may  push  its  zeal  for  reality  to  this  degree  of 
intolerance,  and  may  condemn  the  art  of  beautiful 
appearances  simply  because  they  are  appearances  ; 
but  this  happens  to  the  understanding  only  in  cases 
where  it  is  reminded  of  the  above-mentioned  point 
of  contact  between  extreme  stupidity  and  the 
highest  order  of  intelligence.  Of  the  necessary 
limits  of  beautiful  appearances,  I  shall  take  oc¬ 
casion  to  speak  again  hereafter. 

Nature  herself  raises  man  from  reality  to  ap¬ 
pearances,  by  endowing  him  with  two  senses, 
which  lead  him  through  appearances  to  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  truth.  The  eye  and  ear  remove  ob¬ 
truding  matter  to  a  distance;  the  object  with 
which  the  animal  senses  are  in  immediate  contact, 
is  perceived  by  the  senses  of  vision  and  hearing 
beyond  this  point.  That  which  we  see  with  the 
eye,  is  distinguished  from  that  which  we  feel ;  for 
the  understanding  passes  beyond  the  limits  of 
light  to  the  objects  themselves.  The  object  of 
‘he  sense  of  tact  affects  us  like  an  act  of  violence  ; 
the  object  of  the  senses  of  vision  and  hearing  af¬ 
fects  them  like  a  form  created  by  themselves.  As 
long  as  man  lives  in  the  savage  state,  he  only  en¬ 
joys  with' the  sense  of  tact,  to  which  the  senses  of 
appearance  are  merely  subordinate  during  this 
period.  Either  he  does  not  enjoy  the  delights  of 
vision,  or  else  he  is  not  content  with  them.  As 
soon  as  he  commences  to  enjoy  with  his  eye;  as 
soon  as  vision  has  an  independent  value  for  him, 
he  is  assthetically  free,  and  the  impulse  of  play  | 
has  begun  to  become  an  active  power  in  his  soul,  j 


The  awakening  of  the  impulse  of  play  which 
delights  in  appearances,  is  immediately  followed 
by  the  imitative  impulse  which  treats  appearances 
as  something  really  existing.  As  soon  as  man 
has  arrived  at  a  point  where  he  is  able  to  distin¬ 
guish  appearances  from  realities,  the  form  from 
the  mass,  he  is  likewise  able  to  abstract  the  former 
from  the  latter ;  indeed  he  accomplishes  this  pro¬ 
cess  by  distinguishing  the  form.  The  faculty  for 
imitative  art  is  inherent  in  the  faculty  of  distin¬ 
guishing  forms  ;  the  impulse  of  form  is  founded  in 
another  faculty  or  disposition  of  which  no  special 
mention  need  be  made  in  the  present  instance. 
How  soon,  or  how  late,  the  aesthetic  sense  will 
manifest  itself,  will  depend  upon  the  degree  of 
affection  with  which  man  adheres  to  mere  appear¬ 
ances. 

Since  all  real  existence  proceeds  from  nature 
as  from  a  foreign  power,  but  all  appearance  ori¬ 
ginates  with  man  as  with  the  imagining  person¬ 
ality,  he  simply  avails  himself  of  his  absolute  right 
of  property  by  separating  the  apparent  form  from 
the  substance,  and  using  it  as  seems  most  suitable 
to  his  judgment.  With  an  unlimited  freedom  he 
may  combine  what  nature  has  separated,  provided 
the  things  can  be  thought  of  as  one  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  he  may  separate  that  which  nature  had 
united,  provided  he  can  disintegrate  the  object  in 
his  thoughts.  Nothing  but  his  own  law  need  be 
sacred  to  him  in  this  process  ;  only  let  him  guard 
the  line  which  separates  his  domain  from  that  of 
nature. 

He  exercises  this  human  right  to  rule  in  the 
art  of  appearances ;  the  more  rigidly  he  here 
draws  his  line  of  demarkation  between  mine  and 
thine  ;  the  more  carefully  he  separates  the  form 
from  the  substance, -and  the  more  independent  it 
becomes  in  his  hands :  the  more  he  enlarges  the 
empire  of  beauty,  the  more  carefully  he  pre¬ 
serves  even  the  boundaries  of  truth,  for  he  cannot 
purify  appearances  from  the  reality,  without  at 
the  same  time  freeing  the  reality  from  mere  ap¬ 
pearances. 

But  this  sovereign  right  is  possessed  by  him 
in  the  world  of  appearances,  in  the  shadowy 
empire  of  the  imagination,  only  so  long  as  he  con¬ 
scientiously  abstains  in  theoretical  things  from 
predicating  their  actual  existence,  and  in  practi¬ 
cal  things  from  shaping  them  agreeably  to  his 
ideal.  You  see  from  this,  that  the  poet  steps  be¬ 
yond  his  limits,  if  he  considers  his  ideal  as  actu¬ 
ally  existing,  or,  if  he  intends  to  put  it  up  as  a 
model  to  be  realized  in  life.  For  he  cannot  ac¬ 
complish  either  result  without  transgressing  his 
right  as  a  poet,  without  encroaching  with  his  ideal 
upon  the  domain  of  experience,  and  arrogating  to 
himself  the  privilege  of  shaping  the  actual  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  a  possible  existence,  or  without 
abandoning  his  right,  without  causing  experience 
to  encroach  upon  the  domain  of  the  ideal,  and 
limiting  ideal  possibility  to  the  conditions  of.  the 
actual. 

Appearances  are  sesthetical  only  in  so  far  as 
they  are  genuine  (without  any  claims  to  reality), 
and  self-existing  (without  deriving  any  aid  from 
reality).  If  they  falsely  feign  reality,  or  require 
I  the  aid  of  reality  to  produce  impure  effects,  they 
|  become  a  vulgar  tool  for  the  accomplishment  of 


jESTHETICAL. 


537 


material  ends,  and  prove  nothing  in  favor  of  in¬ 
tellectual  freedom.  It  is  not  necessary,  however, 
that  an  object  which  is  invested  with  beautiful 
appearances,  should  be  without  reality,  provided 
our  judgment  concerning  their  beauty,  is  made  up 
without  reference  to  this  reality;  for  in  so  far  as 
it  is  influenced  by  considerations  suggested  by  this 
reality,  it  is  without  aesthetic  value.  A  living 
female  beauty  will  please  us  as  well  and  perhaps 
better  than  a  painted  one  ;  but  in  so  far  as  the 
former  pleases  us  more  than  the  latter,  it  no  longer 
pleases  as  a  self-existing  appearance,  it  no  longer 
satisfies  the  pure  aesthetic  sentiment ;  as  far  as 
this  sentiment  is  concerned,  it  should  only  be 
pleased  with  living  things  in  so  far  as  they  are 
phenomenal  objects,  and  with  actual  things  as  far 
as  they  symbolize  ideas  ;  a  higher  degree  of  aesthe¬ 
tic  culture  is  undoubtedly  required  to  view  living 
objects  as  mere  phenomena  than  to  be  able  to  do 
without  the  living  spirit  in  beholding  phenomenal 
appearances. 

Wheresoever,  among  individuals  or  nations,  we 
meet  with  genuine  and  self-existing  appearances, 
we  may  take  the  existence  of  intelligence  and  taste 
and  every  allied  excellence  for  granted  ;  we  shall 
see  the  ideal  type  enjoy  the  precedence  over  the 
actual  reality,  honor  will  be  valued  more  highly 
than  possession,  thought  more  highly  than  enjoy¬ 
ment,  the  dream  of  immortality  more  highly  than 
the  present  existence.  There,  public  opinion  will 
seem  the  most  terrible  tribunal,  and  an  olive- 
wreath  will  be  valued  more  highly  than  a  purple- 
robe.  Only  weakness  and  perversity  resort  to 
spurious  and  superficial  appearances  ;  individuals 
as  well  as  nations,  which  “supply  the  deficiencies 
of  reality  by  appearances,  or  the  deficiencies  of 
(aesthetic)  appearances  by  reality” —  both  are  apt 
to  coexist, — prove  at  the  same  time  their  want 
of  moral  worth,  and  their  incapacity  for  aesthetic 
culture. 

The  question :  “  Row  far  are  appearances  jus¬ 
tifiable  in  the  moral  world  ?"  is  briefly  and  cate¬ 
gorically  answered  in  this  way  :  In  so  far  as  they 
are  aesthetic  appearances  ;  by  which  we  understand 
appearances,  that  neither  are  intended  as  a  substi¬ 
tute  for  reality,  nor  need  look  to  reality  as  a  substi¬ 
tute  for  them.  ./Esthetic  appearances  can  never 
endanger  the  truth  of  morality ;  where  the  opposite 
result  takes  place,  it  can  be  easily  shown  that  the 
appearances  were  not  aesthetic.  Only  a  stranger 
to  fine  manners  will  receive  simple  polite  assur¬ 
ances  of  a  general  character,  as  marks  of  personal 
affection,  and  complain  of  dissimulation  in  case 
he  finds  himself  deceived.  On  the  other  hand, 
only  a  bungler  in  polite  intercourse  will  avail  him¬ 
self  of  hypocrisy  in  order  to  be  polite,  and  will 
flatter  in  order  to  appear  obliging.  The  former 
is  still  deficient  in  self-existing  appearances,  hence 
he  can  only  impart  significance  to  them  by  sub¬ 
stituting  reality  for  the  mere  form  ;  the  latter  is 
deficient  in  reality,  which,  he  would  like  to  replace 
by  appearances. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  hear  certain 
ordinary  critics  raise  the  complaint,  that  all  so¬ 
lidity  has  disappeared  from  the  world  ;  and  that 
the  essence  is  sacrificed  to  appearances.  Although 
I  do  not  desire  to  clear  the  present  age  of  such  an 
accusation,  yet  it  is  evident  from  the  sweeping 


generality  of  such  a  criticism,  that  its  authors  not 
only  reject  spurious,  but  likewise  all  genuine  ap¬ 
pearances  ;  even  the  exceptions  which  they  are 
willing  to  allow  in  favor  of  beauty,  concern  the 
former  rather  than  the  latter.  They  not  only 
attack  the  false  tinsel  which  hides  truth,  and  ar¬ 
rogates  to  itself  the  privilege  of  acting  as  a  sub¬ 
stitute  for  reality;  they  likewise  reject  all  pleasing 
appearances  which  cover  up  deficiencies,  and  fill 
up  gaps  ;  or  ideal  appearances  which  serve  to  en¬ 
noble  the  common  realities  of  life.  A  spurious 
morality  justly  offends  their  sense  of  truth  ;  but 
they  are  wrong  in  including  civility  in  this  cate¬ 
gory  of  falsehood.  They  do  not  like  to  see  true 
merit  so  frequently  obscured  by  the  frivolities  of 
external  pomp ;  but  they  likewise  object  to  ap¬ 
pearances  being  demanded  of  true  merit,  or  pleas¬ 
ing  forms  of  genuine  internal  merit.  They  miss 
the  heartiness,  the  truthful  solidity  of  former 
ages ;  but  they  would  likewise  wish  to  see  the  re¬ 
pulsive  harshness,  the  awkward  bluntness,  and  the 
Gothic  profusion  of  former  ages  restored.  A  cri¬ 
ticism  of  this  kind  shows  that  they  entertain  a 
respect  for  the  substantial ,  which  is  unworthy  of 
humanity;  for  the  material  should  only  be  re¬ 
spected  in  so  far  as  it  is  capable  of  being  moulded 
into  a  form,  and  of  spreading  the  empire  of  ideas. 
Such  criticisms,  the  taste  of  this  age  need  not 
listen  to,  if  it  is  otherwise  justified  by  the  higher 
tribunal  of  true  art.  What  a  rigid  critic  can  ac¬ 
cuse  us  of  is  not  that  we  value  aesthetic  appear¬ 
ances  (we  do  not  value  them  nearly  enough),  but 
that  we  have  not  yet  realized  the  pure  appear¬ 
ance,  that  we  have  not  yet  sufficiently  separated 
the  substantial  from  its  phenomenal  manifestation, 
and  that,  by  this  means,  we  have  not  yet  perpetu¬ 
ally  secured  the  boundaries  of  each.  We  shall 
be  liable  to  this  reproach  as  long  as  we  are  unable 
to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  living  nature  without  de¬ 
siring  to  possess  them ;  or.  as  long  as  we  are  un¬ 
able  to  admire  the  beauties  of  imitative  art  without 
inquiring  for  an  end  ;  as  long  as  we  do  not  concede 
to  imagination  her  own  inherent  right  to  legislate 
for  herself;  as  long  as  we  do  not  acknowledge 
her  dignity  by  the  respect  which  we  show  for  her 
works. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

Have  no  fears  for  reality  and  truth,  if  the  ideal 
of  aesthetic  appearances  which  I  have  drawn  in 
my  last  letter,  should  become  a  universal  reality. 
This  will  never  happen  as  long  as  man’s  culture  is 
still  sufficiently  low  to  permit  him  to  prostitute 
appearances  to  vicious  ends  ;  the  universality  of 
aesthetic  appearances  would  imply  a  degree  of  cul¬ 
ture  that  would  render  such  abuses  impossible. 
The  effort  to  realize  genuine  appearances  requires 
greater  powers  of  abstraction,  a  more  certain  free¬ 
dom  of  the  heart,  a  more  determined  energy  of  the 
will  than  is  required  to  limit  one’s  interest  to  the 
real  things  in  life  ;  we  have  to  be  far  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  real  before  we  can  expect  to 
realize  the  appearance  of  aesthetic  forms.  We 
should  not  gain  much  if  we  sought  to  strive  after 
the  ideal  for  no  higher  purpose  than  to  save  our- 


533 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


selves  Ihe  trouble  of  satisfying  the  demands  of  the 
actual.  Of  aesthetic  appearances  in  the  sense  in 
which  we  have  defined  them  here,  not  much  need 
be  apprehended  for  reality  ;  so  much  more  may 
be  apprehended  for  appearances  from  the  influence 
of  reality.  Chained  to  material  wants,  man  for  a 
long  time  avails  himself  of  appearances  for  their 
gratification,  before  he  assigns  to  the  latter  an  in¬ 
dependent  position  in  the  domain  of  art.  To  do 
this,  he  has  previously  to  effect  a  complete  revolu¬ 
tion  in  his  whole  mode  of  being  affected  bythings, 
for  without  it  he  could  not  even  begin  to  reach  an 
ideal  life.  Where  we  discover  traces  of  a  dis¬ 
interested  and  liberal  appreciation  of  freedom  of 
form,  there  we  may  infer  that  such  a  revolution 
has  taken  place,  and  that  the  genuine  humanity 
has  commenced  to  bud  in  his  soul.  Traces  of 
this  character  are  seen  in  his  first  rude  attempts 
to  embellish  his  existence  ;  although  its  physical 
value  may  be  lessened  thereby.  As  soon  as  he 
commences  to  prefer  the  form  to  the  substance, 
and  to  sacrifice  the  mass  for  the  sake,  of  appear¬ 
ances  (provided  he  knows  and  acknowledges  them 
to  be  such)  his  animal  nature  is  broken  into,  and 
he  enters  upon  the  endless  path  of  beautiful  de¬ 
velopment. 

Not  satisfied  with  what  is  sufficient  for  nature, 
and  for  the  gratification  of  natural  wants,  he  de¬ 
mands  abundance;  at  first  an  abundance  of 
substance  for  the  double  purpose  of  concealing 
from  desire  the  boundaries  by  which  nature  has 
restrained  it,  and  of  securing  the  means  of  grati¬ 
fying  it  far  beyond  the  present  wants. ;  but  soon 
he  desires  an  abundance  of  a  different  s'ort,  an  im¬ 
provement  upon  the  mere  bulk,  an  aesthetic  addi¬ 
tion  to  it,  which  will  enable  him  to  gratify  the 
impulse  of  form,  and  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of 
his  enjoyments  far  beyond  every  present  want. 
By  simply  gathering  provisions  for  future  use,  and 
anticipating  their  enjoyment  in  his  imagination, 
he  indeed  passes  beyond  the  present  moment, 
without,  however,  leaving  the  boundaries  of  his 
age  ;  he  enjoys  more,  but  not  differently.  But  if 
he  begins  to  take  pleasure  in  observing  the  form 
of  the  objects  which  gratify  his  desires,  he  not. 
only  intensifies  but  ennobles  the  character  of  his 
enjoyments. 

It  is  true, nature  has  provided  the  brute  animal 
with  means  beyond  the  necessary,  and  has  illu¬ 
mined  the  darkness  of  the  animal  life  with  a  ray 
of  freedom.  If  the  lion  is  not  tormented  by 
hunger,  nor  challenged  to  combat  by  a  beast  of 
prey,  he  spends  his  idle  strength  in  boldly  roaring 
through  the  desert,  and  displaying  his  power  in 
aimless  freaks  of  motion.  Joyously  the  insect 
swarms  on  the  sunbeam  ;  nor  is  it  the  cry  of  de¬ 
sire  which  we  hear  in  the  melodious  warble  of 
birds.  It  is  undeniable  that  there  is  freedom  in 
these  motions,  not  freedom  from  want  generally, 
but  from  some  special,  sensual  want.  The  ani¬ 
mal  works  if  its  activity  is  stimulated  by  want, 
and  it  plays  if  its  activity  is  the  result  of  an  in¬ 
herent  excess  of  power.  Even  jn  inanimate  na¬ 
ture  such  a  luxuriant  profusion  of  power,  and 
such  a  vagueness  of  determination  are  observable 
which,  if  understood  in  this  material  sense,  might 
very  properly  be  termed  play.  The  tree  sends 
forth  innumerable  buds  which  perish  without  ever 


being  developed,  and  puts  out  more  /oots,  twigs, 
and  leaves  for  the  purpose  of  gathering  suste¬ 
nance  than  are  employed  in  preserving  either  the 
individual  or  the  species.  Thus  it  is  that  even  in 
her  material  kingdom,  nature  furnishes  a  prelude 
of  the  infinite,  and  partially  removes  the  fetters 
which  she  throws  off  entirely  when  entering  the 
kingdom  of  aesthetic  forms.  From  the  constraint 
of  want  or  from  physical  earnestness  she  passes 
through  the  constraint  of  abundance  or  physical 
play  to  the  ceslhetic  play,  and  before  elevating  her¬ 
self  in  the  exalted  and  liberal  sphere  of  the  beauti¬ 
ful  beyond  the  bondage  of  purpose,  she  remotely 
approximates  this  independence  by  the  freedom 
ivith  which  she  institutes  motions  which  are  their 
own  aim  and  means. 

Like  the  bodily  organs,  so  imagination  has  her 
own  freedom  of  motion  and  her  material  play, 
where  she  enjoys  her  inherent  power  and  freedom 
without  reference  to  form.  In  so  far  as  these 
plays  of  the  imagination  are  still  without  form  ; 
as  long  as  their  charm  consists  in  the  absence  of 
all  constraint  in  their  spontaneous  evolution,  they 
belong  to  man’s  animal  life  although  exclusively 
met  with  in  the  human  sphere,  and  they  simply 
show  his  freedom  from  external  physical  re¬ 
straints  without  justifying  the  inference  that  he 
is  endowed  with  an  inherent,  self-existing  forma¬ 
tive  power.*  From  this  free  succession  of  ideas 
which  is  of  a  purely  material  kind  and  may  be  ac¬ 
counted  for  upon  the  basis  of  natural  motion,  the 
imagination,  by  making  a  first  attempt  at  freedom 
of  form,  leaps  forward  to  the  aesthetic  play. 
This  should  be  called  a  leap,  because  a  new  force 
is  here  brought  into  action  ;  here,  for  the  first 
time,  the  law-making  mind  interferes  with  the 
actions  of  a  blind  instinct,  subjects  the  arbitrary 
meanderings  of  the  imagination  to  its  immutable 
unity,  impresses  its  own  self-existent  power  upon 
the  changeable,  and  its  infiniteness  upon  the  phy¬ 
sical.  But  as  long  as  uncultivated  nature  is  still 
too  powerful,  which  knows  no  other  law  than  to 
restlessly  rush  from  one  change  into  another,  she 
will  oppose  that  necessity  by  her  fitful  and  arbi¬ 
trary  changes,  that  steadiness  by  her  restlessness, 
that  self-existing  power  by  her  needy  condition, 
that  sublime  simplicity  by  her  insatiable  craving. 
In  its  first  attempts  the  aesthetic  impulse  of  play 
will  hardly  be  recognizable,  since  it  is  continually 

*  Most  popular  games  either  rest  entirely  upon  this 
sentiment  of  a  free  succession  of  ideas,  or  at  any  rate 
borrow  their  greatest  charm  from  this  source.  However 
little  it  may  prove  in  favor  of  a  higher  nature,  and 
however  true  it  is  that  the  least  energetic  souls  aban¬ 
don  themselves  to  this  unlicensed  flood  of  images,  on 
the  other  hand  it  is  this  independence  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion  of  external  impressions  that  constitutes  at  least 
the  negative  condition  of  her  creative  power.  It  is  only 
by  detaching  itself  from  the  real  that  the  creative 
power  is  enabled  to  idealize,  and  before  the  imagina¬ 
tion  is  enabled  to  employ  her  productive  power  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  her  own  laws,  she  has  to  free  herself  from 
all  foreign  bondage.  Indeed  a  great  step  remains  to  be 
taken  from  a  state  of  lawlessness  to  one  of  independent 
internal  order;  to  effect  this  result,  a  new  power,  the 
power  of  ideas,  has  to  be  called  into  play ;  but  hence¬ 
forth  this  power  can  develop  itself  with  more  ease, 
since  it  is  not  opposed  by  the  senses  and  that  which  ia 
indeterminate,  borders,  at  least  negatively,  upon  the  in¬ 
finite. 


JESTHETICAL. 


539 


disturbed  by  the  caprices  and  wild  desires  of  the 
senses.  Hence  it  is  that  a  rude  taste  first  seizes 
upon  the  new  and  the  startling,  the  checkered, 
the  fanciful,  and  the  queer,  and  that  scenes  of 
violence  and  barbarous  wildness  are  preferred  to 
simplicity  and  repose.  A  man  with  a  rude  taste 
fashions  grotesque  figures,  loves  sudden  transi¬ 
tions,  sensuous  forms,  harsh  contrasts,  glaring 
lights,  pathetic  songs.  He  calls  beautiful  what 
excites  his  feelings,  what  furnishes  food  for  his 
sensations  ;  but  the  excitement  must  rouse  his 
resisting  personality,  and  the  awakening  of  the 
sentient  faculty  must  lead  to  the  perception  and 
desire  of  imitation ,  otherwise  he  could  not  call 
beautiful  what  seems  to  him  so  now.  A  remarkable 
change  has  taken  place  in  the  determinations  of 
his  reasoning  faculty  ;  he  no  longer  seeks  objects 
for. his  passive  enjoyment,  but  for  purposes  of  active 
exercise  ;  they  no  longer  please  him  because  they 
gratify  a  want,  but  because  they  respond  to  a  law 
whose  accents,  although  yet  feeble,  begin  to  be 
heard  in  his  breast. 

Soon  he  is  no  longer  satisfied  with  objects  pleas¬ 
ing  to  him;  he  wants  to  become  a  pleasing  ob¬ 
ject  himself,  at  first  only  by  that  which  is  his,  and 
finally  by- what  he  is  himself.  What  he  possesses 
and  produces,  must  no  longer  show  the  traces  of 
servility,  the  anxious  form  of  a  purpose  ;  besides 
the  use  for  which  the  thing  was  created,  it  must 
at  the  same  time  reflect  the  intelligence  which 
imagined  it ;  the  loving  hand  which  executed  the 
work,  the  free  .and  buoyant  spirit  which  selected 
and  contrived  it.  Now  the  ancient  Teuton  looks 
for  brighter  hides,  for  more  stately  antlers,  for 
more  elegant  drinking-horns,  and  the  Caledonian 
selects  the  prettiest  shells  for  his  festivals.  Even 
their  arms  must  no  longer  be  objects  of  ter¬ 
ror,  they  must  be  ornamented  :  the  artistically- 
platted  sash  claims  as  much  attention  as  the 
sword’s  murderous  edge.  Not  content  with  in¬ 
troducing  an  aesthetic  abundance  into  the  sphere 
of  natural  necessities,  the  emancipated  impulse  of 
play  finally  frees  itself  entirely  from  the  fetters  of 
physical  need,  and  the  beautiful  becomes  for  its 
own  sake  an  object  of  his  endeavor.  He  orna¬ 
ments  his  person.  A  free  delight  becomes  part 
of  his  wants,  and  that  which  is  not  necessary  to 
his  physical  life,  becomes  the  best  part  of  his  en¬ 
joyments. 

In  proportion  as  he  begins  to  study  forms  in 
his  surroundings,  in  his  dwelling,  his  furniture, 
clothing,  the  influence  of  form  finally  takes  pos¬ 
session  of  himself,  at  first  transforming  the  outer 
and  afterwards  the  inner  man.  The  lawless 
bound  is  changed  to  the  harmonious  dance,  the 
wild  gesticulation  to  pleasant  and  expressive  ges¬ 
tures,  the  confused  impressions  of  sensation  as¬ 
sume  a  more  definite  and  regular  form,  they  become 
rhythmical  and  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
laws  of  song.  Whereas  the  Trojan  host  rushed  to 
battle  like  a  flock  of  cranes  with  wild  yells,  the 
Greek  army  approached  silently  and  with  a  firm 
and  manly  tread.  Yonder  we  behold  the  insolent 
exuberance  of  brute  force,  here  the  triumphant 
form  and  the  simple  majesty  of  law. 

A  more  beautiful  necessity  now  binds  the  races 
of  men,  and  the  sympathy  of  their  hearts  now 
aids  them  to  preserve  the  alliance  which  the  fitful 


caprice  of  desire  had  concluded.  Emancipated 
from  her  gloomy  prison-house,  the  form  is  studied 
by  the  more  quietly-observing  eye,  soul  looks  into 
soul,  and  the  interested  exchange  of  pleasure  is 
transformed  into  a  generous  interchange  of  af¬ 
fections.  In  proportion  as  man  learns  to  connect 
objects  with  his  internal  humanity,  his  desires  ex¬ 
panding  into  nobler  proportions,  assume  the  form 
of  a  more  unselfish  love,  and  low  sensual  advan¬ 
tages  are  scorned  in  order  to  secure  a  nobler  vic¬ 
tory  over  the  will.  The  desire  to  please,  subjects 
the  mighty  to  the  delicate  tribunal  of  taste,  he  may 
purchase  pleasure,  but  love  must  be  a  free  gift. 
This  higher  prize  can  only  be  conquered  by  form, 
not  by  brute  power.  To  act  upon  the  feelings,  he 
must  divest  himself  of  force;  and  he  must  cease 
to  be  mere  matter,  if  he  wishes  to  commune  with 
intelligence  ;  he  must  permit  liberty  to  exist,  if 
he  desires  to  be  pleasing  to  liberty.  As  beauty 
solves  the  antagonism  of  natures  in  its  simplest 
and  purest  form, — the  perpetual  contrast  of  the 
sexes, — so  she  solves  it,  or  at  least  aims  at  solv¬ 
ing  it,  in  the  complicated  mechanism  of  society, 
and  at  reconciling  the  gentle  and  the  vehement  in 
the  moral  world  bv  the  same  free  union  which  she 
established  between  manly  vigor  and  womanly 
gentleness.  Now  weakness  becomes  sacred,  and 
untamed  force  is  dishonored  ;  nature’s  wrongs  are 
repaired  by  the  generosity  of  chivalric  usages. 
He  whom  no  physical  power  frightens,  is  disarmed 
by  the  sweet  blush  of  shame,  and  tears  stifle  a 
revenge  which  blood  could  not  have  wiped  out. 
Even  hatred  respects  the  delicate  voice  of  honor, 
the  conqueror’s  sword  spares  the  disarmed  enemy, 
and  a  hospitable  hearth  sends  up  its  cheering 
smoke  for  the  comfort  of  the  shipwrecked  mariner 
who  had  heretofore  been  received  by  murderous 
bands  on  the  desolate  coasts. 

In  the  midst  of  the  fearful  kingdom  of  forces, 
and  of  the  holy  empire  of  laws,  the  aesthetic  im¬ 
pulse  of  form  is  engaged  in  building  up  a  third 
sphere  of  being, — the  joyous  empire  of  play  and 
appearance,  where  man  is  freed  from  the  fetters 
of  conventionalism,  and  from  every  physical  as 
well  as  moral  constraint. 

Whereas  in  the  dynamic  empire  of  rights,  man 
meets  man  upon  the  basis  of  power,  restraining 
his  neighbor’s  actions ;  whereas  in  the  ethical 
empire  of  duties,  man  opposes  man  with  the  ma¬ 
jesty  of  law,  fettering  his  will  ;  in  the  aesthetic 
empire  he  moves  about  with  all  the  freedom  of  a 
form  of  beauty.  To  give  freedom  through  free¬ 
dom  is  the  fundamental  law  of  this  kingdom. 

The  dynamic  state  simply  secures  the  possibility 
of  society  by  subduing  nature  through  nature;  the 
ethical  state  renders  society  morally  necessary  by 
subjecting  the  individual  to  the  public  will ;  the 
sesthetical  state  alone  realizes  the  perfect  ideal 
of  society  by  identifying  the  will  of  the  whole 
with  that  of  the  individual.  If  want  compels 
man  to  unite  with  man  in  social  relations:  if 
reason  develops  social  maxims  in  his  mind,  beauty 
alone  imparts  to  him  a  social  character.  Taste 
alone  introduces  harmony  into  society,  because  it 
develops  harmony  in  the  individual.  All  the  other 
forms  of  mental  action  disintegrate  man’s  nature, 
because  they  are  exclusively  founded  either  upon 
the  physical  or  spiritual  portion  of  his  being  ;  the 


540 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


conception  of  a  beautiful  form  combines  these 
elements  into  one,  because  both  the  spiritual  and 
the  physical  natures  are  necessary  to  effect  this 
result.  All  other  forms  of  intercourse  have  a 
tendency  to  disintegrate  society,  because  they  re¬ 
volve  either  around  private  interest  or  private 
talent,  and  hence  are  based  upon  the  distinctive 
differences  between  one  man  and  another;  it  is 
the  aesthetic  intercourse  which  consolidates  so¬ 
ciety,  because  it  regards  the  common  interest  of 
all.  The  pleasures  of  the  senses  are  only  enjoyed 
by  us  in  our  individual  capacity,  not  as  parts  of  a 
collective  whole;  we  cannot  make  our  sensual 
pleasures  those  of  the  whole  body,  for  the  reason 
that  we  cannot  impress  our  own  individuality  upon 
the  rest  of  the  species.  The  pleasures  of  wisdom 
are  enjoyed  by  us  in  our  collective  capacity,  by 
carefully  removing  from  our  minds  all  thoughts 
of  our  individual  selfhood;  hence  we  are  debarred 
of  the  faculty  of  universalizing  our  rational  enjoy¬ 
ments,  for  the  reason  that  we  cannot  exclude  the 
traces  of  individuality  from  the  judgment  of  others 
as  we  can  from  our  own.  The  beautiful  alone  is 
enjoyed  by  us  in  our  individual  as  well  as  in  our 
collective  capacity,  in  other  words  in  our  capacity 
as  representatives  of  the  species.  Sensual  good 
can  only  make  one  person  happy,  since  it  is 
founded  upon  appropriation,  which  always  implies 
exclusion  ;  this  one  can  only  be  made  partially 
happy  because  his  personal  will  has  no  part  in 
this  happiness.  Absolute  good  can  only  secure 
happiness  on  terms  which  cannot  be  supposed  to 
be  acceptable  to  every  body ;  for  truth  is  the 
price  of  self-denial,  and  only  a  pure  heart  has 
faith  in  the  pure  will.  The  beautiful  alone  makes 
every  body  happy,  and  every  being  forgets  its 
finiteness  while  charmed  by  the  fascinating  influ¬ 
ence  of  beauty. 

No  privileges,  no  exclusive  power  is  permitted, 
where  taste  rules  and  the  empire  of  aesthetic  forms 
is  acknowledged.  This  empire  extends  upward 
to  the  sphere  where  reason  rules  with  absolute 
necessity  and  all  matter  ceases  ;  it  extends  down¬ 
ward  to  where  the  natural  instinct  rules  with  a 
blind  force,  and  form  has  as  yet  no  beginning  ; 
even  at  these  extreme  points,  where  taste  has  no 
law-making  power,  it  still  enjoys  the  power  of 
executing  the  law.  The  dishumanizing  desire  has 
to  renounce  its  egotism,  and  the  attractiveness  of 
form,  which  only  charms  the  senses,  has  to  spread 
the  net  of  loveliness  even  over  mind.  The  rigid 
voice  of  necessity — duty — has  to  alter  its  harsh 
imperiousness,  which  is  only  justified  by  resist¬ 
ance,  and  has  to  honor  willing  nature  with  a  gene¬ 
rous  confidence.  From  the  mysteries  of  science 
wisdom  is  led  by  taste  beneath  the  open  sky  of 
public  spirit,  changing  the  property  of  schools  to  a 
common  good  of  society.  In  the  empire  of  taste 
even  the  most  powerful  genius  has  to  part  with 
his  exalted  character,  and  has  to  come  down  to 
the  ways  and  spirit  of  childhood.  Power  has  to 
suffer  itself  to  be  fettered  by  the  Graces,  and  the 
defiant  lion  by  the  reins  of  Love.  Taste  spreads 
its  vail  over  physical  want,  which  in  its  naked 
form  offends  the  dignity  of  free  spirits,  and  under 
the  attractive  garb  of  generous  and  free  illusions 
conceals  all  degrading  connection  with  matter 
from  our  view.  Winged  by  taste  even  mercenary 


labor  soars  above  the  ground,  md,  touched  by  its 
magic  wand,  the  fetters  of  bondage  fall  from  the 
inanimate  as  well  as  from  the  living.  In  the 
aesthetic  state  every  thing,  even  a  common  tool, 
enjoys  the  privilege  of  free  citizenship  as  fully  as 
the  noblest  element  of  this  republic ;  here  the 
understanding,  which  elsewhere  subjects  the  sub¬ 
missive  mass  to  its  ends  with  a  despotic  force,  has 
to  interrogate  the  substance  it  intends  to  mould 
concerning  its  destiny.  Here,  in  the  empire  of 
aesthetic  iorms,  the  ideal  of  equality  is  realized, 
which  the  enthusiastic  worshiper  would  like  to  see 
ingrafted  upon  real  life ;  and  if  it  be  true  that 
taste  matures  soonest  and  most  fully  near  the 
throne,  this  would  again  show  that  a  kind  destiny 
sometimes  imposes  limitations  upon  man  in  society 
in  order  to  compel  him  to  seek  refuge  in  an  ideal 
world. 

Does  such  an  aesthetic  state  exist,  and  where? 
As  an  aspiration  it  exists  in  every  finely-attuned 
soul ;  as  a  reality,  it  only  exists  like  the  true 
church  or  the  true  republic  in  a  few  select  circles, 
where  the  conduct  of  members  is  not  determined 
by  a  stolid  imitation  of  foreign  manners,  but  by 
their  own  sense  of  beauty ;  where  man  passes 
through  the  most  complicated  situations  with  a 
bold  simplicity  and  a  calm  innocence,  and  whore 
he  needs  not  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  others  in 
order  to  maintain  his  own,  or  divest  himself  of  his 
dignity  in  order  to  appear  graceful  and  lovely.  * 


ON  THE  NECESSARY  LIMITS  IN  THE  USE 
OF  BEAUTIFUL  FORMS.* 

The  abuse  of  the  beautiful  and  the  privilege 
which  the  imagination  assumes  to  exercise  legisla¬ 
tive  functions  where  it  should  only  claim  executive 
power,  have  done  so  much  injury  not  only  in  life 
but  also  in  science,  that  it  may  be  of  no  small  im¬ 
portance  to  correctly  define  the  limits  which 
jhould  be  observed  in  resorting  to  the  use  of 
beautiful  forms.  These  limits  are  inherent  in  the 
nature  of  the  beautiful,  and  we  have  simply  to 
recollect  how  taste  manifests  its  influence,  in 
order  to  determine  the  limit  how  far  this  influ¬ 
ence  may  be  legitimately  exercised. 

In  a  general  sense  taste  has  the  effect  of  har¬ 
monizing  man’s  physical  and  spiritual  powers 
in  the  bonds  of  an  intimate  union.  Wherever 
such  an  intimate  union  between  reason  and  the 
senses  is  fit  and  legitimate,  there  taste  may  exer¬ 
cise  a  legitimate  influence.  But  in  cases  where 
the  attainment  of  some  end,  or  the  fulfillment  of 
a  duty  makes  it  incumbent  upon  us  to  act  without 
any  sensual  bias,  simply  as  rational  beings,  and 
where  the  bond  which  binds  mind  and  matter  has 
to  be  severed  for  a  time,  taste  has  limits  which 
it  cannot  transgress  without  defeating  a  pur¬ 
pose  or  causing  us  to  swerve  from  the  path  of 
duty.  Such  cases  exist ;  they  are  provided  for 
by  the  nature  of  our  destiny. 

We  are  destined  to  acquire  knowledge,  and  to 
act  from  Knowledge.  Both  processes  imply  the 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  Horen,  1795. 


-32STHETICAL. 


541 


faculty  of  excluding  the  senses  from  acts  per¬ 
formed  by  the  mind,  since  cognition  should  exist 
independently  of  sensation,  and  moral  volition  in¬ 
dependently  of  desire. 

When  forming  a  cognition,  we  are  actively  em¬ 
ployed,  our  attention  is  directed  to  an  object ,  to  a 
relation  between  one  series  of  perceptions  and 
another.  When  experiencing  sensatiorts,  we  are 
in  a  state  of  passive  existence,  and  our  attention 
(provided  this  term  can  be  applied  to  an  action 
of  the  mind  without  consciousness),  is  simply 
directed  to  our  state,  in  so  far  as  it  is  modified  by 
external  impressions.  Since  the  beautiful  is  sim¬ 
ply  an  object  of  sensation,  not  of  cognition,  we 
enjoy  it  without  troubling  ourselves  about  its  re¬ 
lation  to  other  objects,  or  without  connecting  the 
perception  thereof  with  any  other  perceptions,  but 
simply  with  our  sentient  being.  The  beautiful 
object  does  not  present  itself  to  us  as  an  object 
of  cognition,  but  it  develops  a  change  of  state 
within  us,  the  sensation  of  which  constitutes  its 
expression.  Hence  our  knowledge  is  not  enlarged 
by  the  judgments  of  taste,  and  no  cognition,  not 
even  that  of  beauty,  is  obtained  by  the  sensation 
of  beauty.  Where  cognition  is  the  object,  taste 
can  be  of  very  little  use  to  us  either  directly  or 
indirectly;  on  the  contrary,  the  act  of  cognition 
is  interrupted  as  long  as  the  sensation  of  beauty 
preoccupies  the  mind. 

The  objection  may  be  raised  :  of  what  use  is  a 
tasteful  form  of  ideas,  if  the  purpose  of  a  discourse 
which  can  be  nothing  else  than  to  convey  cogni¬ 
tions  to  the  hearers’  minds,  is  impeded  rather  than 
promoted  thereby? 

It  is  indeed  true  that  the  beauty  of  form  con¬ 
tributes  as  little  to  convincing  the  understanding 
as  the  tasteful  arrangement  of  a  repast  to  satiating 
the  appetite,  or  a  man’s  elegant  appearance  to 
judging  his  inner  worth.  But  as  the  appetite  is 
excited  by  a  beautiful  arrangement  of  the  dishes, 
and  as  our  attention  to  a  man  is  awakened  and 
concentrated  by  his  polished  exterior,  so  the 
charming  form  in  which  a  truth  is  clothed,  excites 
a  willingness  in  the  soul  to  receive  it,  and  the  ob¬ 
stacles  are  removed  which  might  otherwise  have 
opposed  in  our  minds  the  difficult  continuation  of 
a  long  and  rigid  chain  of  thoughts.  It  is  never 
the  substance  which  gains  by  the  beauty  of  form, 
nor  is  the  understanding  aided  by  taste  in  per¬ 
forming  the  process  of  cognition.  The  substance 
has  to  commend  itself  to  the  understanding  by  its 
inherent  worth,  whilst  the  beautiful  form  appeals 
to  the  imagination,  and  flatters  it  with  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  freedom. 

But  even  this  innocent  yielding  to  the  senses  in 
regard  to  the  form,  without  the  substance  being 
altered  in  the  least,  is  subject  to  great  restrictions, 
and  may  be  altogether  inappropriate  according  as 
s  the  quality  of  the  cognition,  and  the  degree  of 
conviction  which  we  have  in  view  in  communicat¬ 
ing  our  thoughts  to  others. 

There  is  a  scientific  cognition  depending  upon 
clearness  of  ideas  and  recognized  principles,  and 
a  popular  cognition  based  upon  more  or  less  de¬ 
veloped  sensations.  What  is  often  useful  to  the 
latter,  may  prove  injurious  to  the  former. 

Where  a  rigid  conviction  is  to  be  effected  upon 
the  basis  of  principle,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  ex¬ 


pound  the  truth  substantially,  bit  the  proof  of 
the  truth  must  be  contained  in  the  form  of  its  ex¬ 
position  ;  in  other  words;  not  only  the  substance 
must  be  inherently  true,  but  the  exposition  of  the 
substance  must  take  place  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  evidence.  Ideas  should  be  presented  in 
the  same  logical  order  as  they  are  connected  in 
the  understanding.  Now,  it  so  happens,  that 
every  privilege  which  is  granted  to  the  imagination 
in  the  acquisition  of  cognitions,  conflicts  with  the 
severe  order  in  which  the  understanding  combines 
judgment  with  judgment,  and  inference  with 
inference.  By  its  nature,  the  imagination  con¬ 
tinually  strives  after  a  determinate  fullness  of 
perceptions,  and  is  making  unceasing  efforts  to 
concentrate  the  universal  in  special  cases,  to  cir¬ 
cumscribe  it  in  space  and  time,  to  individualize 
general  ideas,  to  invest  abstractions  with  con¬ 
crete  forms.  Moreover,  in  its  combinations  the 
imagination  loves  freedom,  and  is  guided  by 
no  other  considerations  than  accidental  asso¬ 
ciations  of  space  and  time  ;  for  these  constitute 
the  only  points  of  union  remaining  between  our 
perceptions,  after  all  internal  or  purely  intellec¬ 
tual  union  has  been  removed  from  them  in  our 
thoughts.  On  the  contrary,  the  understanding  is 
occupied  with  partial  perceptions,  and  its  efforts 
are  directed  toward  distinguishing  single  marks  or 
properties  in  the  living  unit  of  a  rational  intuition. 
Since  the  understanding  combines  things  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  their  internal  relations,  which  can 
only  be  traced  through  a  process  ot  abstraction, 
it  can  only  effect  combinations  in  so  lar  as  it  had 
previously  effected  a  separation  of  the  elementary 
constituents  of  a  general  idea.  In  its  combina¬ 
tions,  the  understanding  observes  a  strictly  logical 
order,  and  can  only  be  satisfied  with  a  continuous 
connection  of  ideas.  This  connection  is  disturbed 
whenever  the  imagination  interpolates  concrete 
cases  in  this  chain  of  abstractions,  and  mixes  up 
the  rigid  unity  of  ideas  with  accidental  occurrences 
in  space  and  time.*  Hence,  it  is  absolutely  ne¬ 
cessary,  that  wherever  a  rigid  logical  consistency 
is  aimed  at,  the  imagination  should  renounce  its 
lawless  freedom,  and  should  learn  to  sacrifice  its 
tendency  to  sensual  perceptions  and  to  an  ex¬ 
travagant  freedom  of  combination,  to  the  require¬ 
ments  of  the  understanding.  For  this  reason  the 
discourse  should  be  so  arranged  as  to  neutralize 
this  tendency  of  the  imagination  by  the  exclusion 
of  all  individual  and  sensual  characteristics,  and 
to  restrain  by  precision  of  language,  the  restless 
impulse  of  fiction  which  is  peculiar  to  the  imagi¬ 
nation,  as  well  as  the  unbounded  freedom  with 
which  this  faculty  of  the  soul  indulges  the  luxury 
of  effecting  combinations.  It  is  true,  it  is  net 
without  resistance  that  this  yoke  will  be  accepted  ; 
but  in  such  a  case,  it  is  reasonable  to  depend  upon 
some  self-denial  on  the  part  of  the  hearer  or  reader, 

*  Authors  who  aim  at  scientific  precision,  will  there¬ 
fore  employ  illustrations  sparingly  and  reluctantly.  hat 
is  perfectly  true  in  a  general  sense,  is  liable  to  restrictions 
in  particular  cases;  and,  since  circumstances  occur  in 
every  particular  case  which  are  accidental  with  respect 
to  the  general  principle  which  that  case  is  intended  to 
illustrate,  there  is  danger  lest  these  accidental  relations 
should  be  lugged  into  the  general  definition,  diminishing 
the  universality  and  logical  necessity  of  the  latter. 


542 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  upon  an  earnest  determination  on  their  part 
to  overlook,  for  the  sake  of  the  substance,  the 
difficulties  which  are  inseparable  from  the  form. 

But  where  such  a  determination  does  not  exist, 
and  where  no  hope  can  be  reasonably  entertained 
that  the  substance  will  prove  of  sufficient  interest 
to  induce  such  an  effort  in  the  hearer’s  or  reader’s 
mind.it  will  undoubtedly  become  necessary  to  re¬ 
nounce  the  feasibility  of  imparting1  rigorously  sci¬ 
entific  cognitions,  though  a  little  more  freedom 
may  be  obtained  in  regard  to  the  form.  In  such 
a  case  the  scientific  form  which  oppresses  the 
imagination  with  too  much  violence,  and  can  only 
be  rendered  acceptable  in  consequence  of  the  im¬ 
portance  of  the  subject,  is  abandoned,  and  the  form 
of  beauty  which  commends  itself  for  its  own  sake, 
independently  of  all  substance,  is  substituted  in 
the  place  of  the  form  of  science.  Since  the  sub¬ 
stance  does  not  protect  the  form,  the  form  will 
have  to  be  used  as  a  representative  of  the  sub¬ 
stance. 

Popular  instruction  accords  with  this  freedom. 
Since  the  popular  orator  or  popular  author — by 
whom  I  mean  any  public  teacher  who  does  not 
exclusively  address  the  learned  professions — does 
not  appeal  to  a  public  prepared  to  comprehend 
his  teachings,  and  does  not  select  his  readers,  but 
has  to  take  them  as  he  finds  them,  he  can  only 
expect  to  meet  with  a  general  capacity  for  exer¬ 
cising  the  thinking  faculty,  and  with  a  general 
interest  in  the  subject,  but  not  with  any  specially- 
acquired  aptitude  for  thinking ,  with  any  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  technical  definitions,  with  any  particular 
taste  for  definite  objects  of  study.  He  cannot, 
therefore,  be  perfectly  sure  whether  the  imagina¬ 
tion  of  those  whom  he  desires  to  instruct,  will 
attach  a  proper  meaning  to  his  abstractions,  and 
will  make  suitable  applications  of  the  general 
ideas  to  which  a  strictly  scientific  system  of  teach¬ 
ing  is  confined.  In  order  to  guard  against  all 
misapprehensions,  he  prefers  accompanying  his 
general  definitions  by  the  concrete  cases  to 
which  they  refer,  and  depends  upon  his  readers’ 
intelligence  for  abstracting  general  ideas  from  his 
practical  illustrations.  In  popular  expositions 
of  scientific  subjects  the  imagination  plays  a  very 
prominent  part,  but  only  reproductively  (by  re¬ 
newing  received  impressions),  not  productively 
(by  manifesting  its  own  plastic  power).  These 
concrete  cases  or  illustrations  are  calculated  with 
too  much  precision  for  the  present  purpose  and 
for  the  use  which  is  to  be  made  of  them,  to  per¬ 
mit  the  imagination  to  forget  that  it  is  simply 
employed  as  an  agent  or  instrument  by  the  under¬ 
standing.  The  style  is  somewhat  more  analogous 
to  the  ordinary  conversational  language,  but  not 
entirely  identical  with  it.  Hence  the  exposition 
of  the  facts  is  simply  didactic ;  for  to  deserve 
the  appellation  of  aesthetic,  two  principal  attri¬ 
butes  are  wanting,  sensuousness  of  form,  and  free¬ 
dom  of  movement . 

The  exposition  becomes  free,  if  the  understand¬ 
ing  determines  the  connection  of  the  ideas,  but 
applies  its  laws  of  logical  order  in  such  a  myste¬ 
rious  manner  that  the  imagination  seems  to  be 
left  perfectly  free  and  to  be  subject  to  no  re¬ 
straints  except  the  accidental  succession  of  events 
in  time  and  space.  The  exposition  becomes  sen¬ 


sual,  if  the  universal  is  concealed  in  the  parti¬ 
cular,  and  if  the  whole  image  is  presented  to  the 
imagination,  whereas  only  a  partial  image  is  de¬ 
sired.  In  one  sense  the  sensual  exposition  is 
rich,  since  a  complete  image,  a  collective  unit  of 
definitions,  a  full  individuality  is  given  in  cases 
where  only  one  definition  is  desired  ;  in  another 
sense  it  is  restricted  and  poor,  inasmuch  as  it 
only  asserts  of  an  individual  and  a  single  case 
what  should  be  applied  to  a  whole  series.  Conse¬ 
quently  it  circumscribes  the  understanding  by  as 
much  as  it  adds  in  the  way  of  excess  to  the  ima¬ 
gination  :  for  the  more  completely  an  idea  is  ex¬ 
pressed  the  less  extensive  will  be  the  material 
form. 

The  interest  of  the  imagination  consists  in  chang¬ 
ing  its  objects  according  to  its  own  good  pleasure  ; 
the  interest  of  the  understanding,  in  combining 
its  objects  according  to  a  principle  of  rigid  neces¬ 
sity.  However  much  these  two  interests  seem  to 
conflict  with  each  other,  yet  there  is  a  point  of 
union  between  both  ;  it  is  the  true  merit  of  a  beau¬ 
tiful  style  to  discover  this  point. 

In  order  to  satisfy  the  imagination,  speech 
must  have  a  material  form  or  body  which  consists 
of  the  perceptions  from  which  the  understanding 
obtains  the  particular  signs  or  ideas  by  a  process 
of  abstraction  ;  for  however  abstractly  we  may 
think,  all  thoughts  are  finally  based  upon  some¬ 
thing  physical.  Only  the  imagination  requires  to 
leap  without  rule  or  restraint  from  one  perception 
to  another,  nor  will  it  be  bound  by  any  other  bond 
than  the  chronological  order  of  facts.  Hence  if 
the  perceptions  which  constitute  the  body  of 
speech,  are  not  substantially  connected  ;  on  the 
contrary,  if  they  seem  to  exist  as  independent 
elements  and  unities;  if  they  betray  the  dis¬ 
order  of  a  playful  and  self-impelling  imagina¬ 
tion,  the  form  of  speech  reflects  aesthetic  free¬ 
dom,  and  the  wants  of  the  imagination  are  satis¬ 
fied.  Such  an  exposition  of  ideas  might  be 
designated  as  an  organic  product,  where  not  only 
the  whole  is  living,  but  the  single  parts  likewise 
enjoy  their  individual  existence;  a  purely  scien¬ 
tific  exposition  of  facts  is  a  mechanical  work 
whose  parts  are  lifeless  in  themselves,  but  whose 
perfect  agreement  imparts  to  the  whole  work  an 
artificial  life. 

In  order  to  satisfy  the  understanding  and  to 
produce  cognition,  speech  must  have  a  spiritual 
part,  namely  :  meaning  ;  this  is  obtained  by  means 
of  general  ideas  which  connect  the  perceptions 
with,  and  refer  them  to  each  other,  combining 
them  all  into  a  unit.  If  these  general  ideas, 
constituting  the  spiritual  portion  of  speech,  are 
most  intimately  connected,  whereas  the  corre¬ 
sponding  perceptions,  constituting  the  material 
portion  of  speech,  seem  to  be  placed  side  by  side 
of  each  other  by  a  mere  accident,  the  problem  is 
solved  and  the  understanding  is  satisfied  by  a 
strict  submission  to  law  at  the  same  time  that  the 
imagination  is  flattered  by  lawlessness. 

If  the  magic  power  of  beautiful  diction  is  in¬ 
quired  into,  we  shall  find  that  it  consists  in  this 
happy  relation  between  external  liberty  and  inter¬ 
nal  necessity.  To  this  freedom  of  the  imagina- 
nation  the  individualization  of  objects,  and  the 
figurative  expression  contribute  most,  the  former 


-ESTHETIC  A  L. 


543 


in  order  to  heighten  the  intensity  of  the  sensual 
impression,  the  latter  in  order  to  create  it  where 
it  does  not  exist.  By  representing  the  species  by 
an  individual,  and  symbolizing  a  general  idea  by 
a  single  case,  we  free  the  imagination  from  the 
fetters  with  which  the  understanding  had  chained 
her,  and  we  empower  her  to  show  her  creative 
power.  Aspiring  at  completeness,  she  now  re¬ 
ceives  and  employs  the  privilege  of  completing, 
animating,  transforming,  the  image  presented  to 
her,  at  her  pleasure,  and  of  pursuing  it  in  all  its 
connections  and  affinities.  For  a  time  she  may 
forget  her  subordinate  part,  and  act  as  a  sovereign 
ruler,  because  the  rigid  internal  connection  of 
ideas  prevents  her  from  breaking  loose  entirely 
from  the  reins  of  the  understanding.  The  figu¬ 
rative  form  of  speech  pushes  this  freedom  still 
further  by  combining  images  substantially  differ¬ 
ing  from  each  other,  but  united  with  each  other 
under  a  superior  general  idea.  Since  phantasy 
clings  to  the  substance,  but  the  understanding  to 
that  superior  general  idea,  the  former  seems  to 
leap  where  the  latter  perceives  the  most  perfect 
steadiness.  Ideas  succeed  each  other  by  a  law 
of  necessity ,  but  the  imagination  groups  them  in 
accordance  with  her  own  freedom  of  choice,  the 
idea  remains  the  same,  the  medium  which  ex- 
pr  esses  it,  changes.  Thus  it  is  that  an  eloquent 
author  brings  forth  the  most  exquisite  order  from 
apparent  chaos,  and  builds  up  a  solid  struc¬ 
ture  upon  the  ever-flowing  stream  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion. 

On  contrasting  the  scientific,  the  popular,  and 
the  beautiful  style,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  idea 
which  is  sought  to  be  conveyed,  is  substantially 
rendered  with  equal  fidelity  by  each  of  them,  and 
that  hence  each  of  them  operates  as  a  means  of 
acquiring  knowledge,  but  that  the  quality  and 
degree  of  this  knowledge  differ  according  as  one 
or  the  other  style  is  employed.  The  belles-lettres 
man  represents  to  us  the  subject  of  which  he 
treats  as  possible  and  desirable  rather  than  at¬ 
tempting  to  convince  us  of  its  reality,  much  less 
of  its  necessity  ;  for  his  thought  is  announced 
simply  as  a  spontaneous  creation  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  which  of  itself  is  always  unable  to  guarantee 
the  reality  of  her  conceptions.  The  popular 
author  excites  in  us  the  belief  that  things  really 
are  as  he  represents  them,  but  he  does  not  go  any 
further  ;  for  he  conveys  to  us  an  impression  that 
his  proposition  is  true,  but  not  an  absolute  cer¬ 
tainty  of  the  truth.  Sentiment  may  teach  us 
what  is,  but  never  what  ought  to  be.  The  philo¬ 
sophical  author  raises  that  belief  to  the  rank  of 
a  conviction  ;  for  he  proves  by  undoubted  argu¬ 
ments  that  things  necessarily  are  as  he  represents 
them. 

Starting  from  the  principles  which  we  have 
laid  down,  we  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  assign¬ 
ing  a  suitable  place  to  each  of  these  three 
forms  of  style.  As  a  general  rule  it  may  be  said 
that  the  scientific  style  should  be  preferred  where 
both  the  result  and  the  proofs  are  equally  essen¬ 
tial,  and  that  the  popular  and  the  beautiful  style 
deserves  a  preference  where  the  result  alone  is  of 
importance.  Under  what  circumstances  the  po¬ 
pular  style  may  be  allowed  to  glide  into  the 
beautiful,  will  depend  upon  the  more  or  less 


intense  degree  of  interest  which  we  may  sup¬ 
pose  the  subject  excites,  or  which  we  desire  to 
awaken. 

The  purely  scientific  style  places  us  (in  a  greater 
or  less  degree,  according  as  it  is  rather  philoso¬ 
phical  or  rather  popular)  in  possession  of  know¬ 
ledge  ;  the  beautiful  style  lends  us  knowledge  for 
momentary  enjoyment  and  use.  The  former,  if 
I  may  use  the  comparison,  furnishes  us  the  tree 
together  with  the  root,  but  we  have  to  be  patient 
until  it  buds  and  bears  fruit ;  the  beautiful  style 
simply  plucks  the  blossoms  and  the  fruit,  but  the 
tree  which  bore  it,  does  not  become  our  own,  and 
when  the  buds  and  the  fruit  have  perished  or  have 
been  enjoyed,  our  wealth  is  gone.  Tt  would  be 
as  absurd  to  gather  a  mere  bud  or  only  the  fruit  for 
him  who  wants  to  have  the  whole  tree  trans¬ 
planted  into  his  garden,  as  it  would  be  to  offer 
the  whole  tree  to  him  who  simply  desires  to 
taste  of  its  fruit.  The  application  may  be  made 
without  my  aid  ;  I  will  simply  add,  that  the  beau¬ 
tiful  style  is  as  little  adapted  to  a  professor’s  chair 
as  the  scientific  style  to  social  intercourse  or  to 
oratory. 

A  learner  gathers  knowledge  for  ulterior  ends 
and  uses  ;  hence  the  teacher  has  to  see  to  it,  that 
the  learner  should  become  the  full  owner  of  the 
knowledge  which  he  receives  from  the  former. 
Nothing  is  our  own  except  what  is  implanted  in 
the  understanding.  The  orator  aims  at  imme¬ 
diate  use,  and  wishes  to  gratify  the  present  want 
of  the  public.  Hence,  it  is  his  interest  to  present 
the  knowledge  which  he  scatters  among  the  peo¬ 
ple,  as  practically  as  possible,  a  result  which  is 
obtained  most  speedily  and  certainly  by  present¬ 
ing  knowledge  through  the  medium  of  the  senses 
and  of  the  sensations.  A  teacher  who  addresses 
his  public  conditionally,  and  is  entitled  to  take 
the  state  of  mind  which  the  reception  of  truth  re¬ 
quires,  for  granted,  accommodates  his  style  to  the 
subject  of  his  discourse,  whereas  the  orator  who  has 
no  agreement  with  the  public,  and  has  to  win  its 
favor  by  his  style,  has  to  accommodate  himself  to 
the  individuals  whom  he  addresses.  The  former 
whose  public  had  met  him  before  and  will  meet 
him  again,  need  but  furnish  fragments  which,  with 
other  fragments  that  had  been  offered  on  previous 
occasions,  constitute  a  whole  ;  the  latter  whose  pub¬ 
lic  changes  unceasingly,  and  who  comes  unprepared, 
and  perhaps  never  returns,  has  to  finish  his  work 
at  every  meeting  ;  each  of  his  performances  has 
to  constitute  a  whole,  and  to  contain  completely 
its  own  solution  and  explanation. 

Hence  it  is  no  wonder  if  a  dogmatic  discourse, 
were  it  ever  so  conclusive,  meets  with  indifferent 
success  in  convention  or  in  the  pulpit,  and  if  the 
most  brilliant  composition  remains  without  fruit 
in  the  professional  chair  ;  if  the  fashionable  world 
scorns  publications  which  create  a  sensation  in 
the  republic  of  the  learned,  and  if  a  savant  ignores 
works  which  constitute  a  school  for  people  of  the 
world,  and  are  greedily  devoured  by  the  lovers  of 
belles-lettres.  Each  may  deserve  the  admiration 
of  those  for  whom  it  is  designed  ;  all  may  be  dis¬ 
tinguished  by  the  same  internal  worth,  but  it 
would  he  impossible  to  afford  entertainment  for  a 
bel-esprit  in  a  work  which  is  intended  for  the  seri¬ 
ous  mind  of  a  thinker. 


544 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


For  this  reason  I  believe  it  to  be  injurious  if  young 
people  are  instructed  from  books  where  scientific 
subjects  are  clothed  in  beautiful  forms.  I  do  not 
mean  writings  where  the  substance  is  sacrificed 
to  the  form,  but  truly  excellent  works  capable 
of  standing  the  severest  scrutiny  as  far  as  the 
substance  is  concerned ;  but  where  the  form  is  not 
adequate  to  the  severe  character  of  the  science. 
It  is  true,  such  works  are  read,  and  so  far  their 
object  is  accomplished,  but  at  the  expense  of  the 
far  higher  end  which  induced  their  author  to  write 
them.  In  reading  such  works,  the  understanding 
is  always  exercised  in  company  with  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  and  does  not  learn  to  distinguish  between 
the  form  and  the  substance,  and  to  act  as  a  pure 
and  independent  power  of  the  soul.  Yet  the 
mere  exercise  of  the  understanding  is  a  subject  of 
momentous  interest  in  the  instruction  of  youth, 
and  in  most  cases  the  process  of  thinking  is  of 
more  importance  than  the  thought  itself.  If  we 
desire  a  business  to  be  well  attended  to,  let  us  not 
present  it  as  a  mere  play.  On  the  contrary,  the 
mind  should  be  kept  in  a  state  of  tension  by  the 
manner  in  which  the  subject  is  treated,  and  should 
be  driven  with  a  sort  of  force  from  its  passive  to 
an  active  state.  The  teacher  should  not  hide 
from  his  pupil  the  rigid  consistency  of  method, 
but  should  direct  his  attention  to,  and,  if  possible, 
excite  his  desire  for  it.  The  student  should  learn 
to  pursue  an  end,  and,  for  the  sake  of  this  end, 
should  be  willing  to  accommodate  himself  to  the 
use  of  difficult  means.  At  an  early  period  he 
should  learn  to  aspire  at  the  noble  delight  which 
is  the  prize  of  effort.  In  scientific  discourses  the 
senses  are  left  out  of  the  question,  in  literary 
compositions  they  become  interested  partners. 
What  will  be  the  consequence  ?  Such  a  writing, 
such  a  conversation  is  eagerly  devoured  ;  but  if 
results  are  inquired  into,  they  can  hardly  be 
pointed  out.  This  is  natural ;  here  whole  masses 
of  ideas  penetrate  into  the  soul,  whereas  the  un¬ 
derstanding  has  to  distinguish  one  from  the  other, 
in  order  to  realize  a  state  of  lucid  cognition ; 
whilst  reading,  the  soul  was  passive  rather  than 
active,  and  the  mind  possesses  only  that  which  it 
accomplishes  in  act. 

These  remarks,  however,  only  apply  to  the 
beautiful  of  a  common  sort,  and  to  a  common 
mode  of  enjoying  the  beautiful.  The  truly  beau¬ 
tiful  is  based  upon  the  most  rigid  precision,  upon 
the  most  exact  discrimination,  upon  a  supreme 
internal  necessity,  but  such  a  precision  should 
become  spontaneously  manifest  instead  of  rudely 
obtruding  upon  our  attention.  There  should  be 
perfect  order,  but  it  should  seem  like  that  of  na¬ 
ture.  Such  a  production,  when  studied,  will  satisfy 
the  understanding,  but  it  is  because  it  is  truly 
beautiful,  that  it  does  not  obtrude  upon  us  its 
orderly  composition,  that  it  does  not  especially 
appeal  to  the  understanding,  but,  that  it  addresses 
itself  to  man  as  an  harmonious  unit,  as  one  off- 
spring  of  nature  speaking  to  another.  A  com¬ 
mon  critic  may  find  such  a  work  empty,  devoid 
of  substance,  of  precision  ;  the  very  feature  which 
constitutes  the  triumph  of  method — the  perfect 
absorption  of  the  parts  in  the  pure  form  of  the 
whole — offends  him  for  the  reason  that  he  only 
knows  how  to  analyze,  and  only  appreciates  the 


results  of  analysis.  In  philosophical  expositions, 
the  understanding, as  being  the  analytical  faculty, 
should  indeed  be  satisfied  with  the  results  of  the 
analytical  process ;  this  end  should  not  by  any 
means  be  overlooked.  But,  if  an  author  by  a  rigor¬ 
ous  internal  arrangement  of  his  ideas,  has  provided 
for  the  finding  of  these  results  as  soon  as  the  un¬ 
derstanding  sets  about  making  the  discovery;  and 
if,  not  satisfied  with  this  arrangement,  and  urged 
on  by  his  individuality — which  always  acts  as  an 
harmonious  unit,  and  restores  its  unity  whenever 
it  is  disintegrated  by  the  process  of  abstraction — • 
re-combines  the  severed  parts,  and,  invited  by  the 
united  sensual  and  spiritual  powers  of  his  being, 
addresses  himself  to  every  element  in  human  na¬ 
ture,  his  style  and  method  are  certainly  not  to 
be  considered  inferior,  because  he  has  come  nearer 
to  the  highest  ideal.  The  common  critic  who  has 
no  taste  for  this  harmony,  who  is  continually 
urging  forward  single  details,  who  would  first  think 
of  looking  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Peter  for  the 
pillars  that  support  her  artificial  firmament,  will 
not  thank  him  for  the  double  labor  which  his 
genius  inflicts  upon  the  critic’s  brain  ;  for  such  a 
one  has  first  to  translate  him  to  render  him  intel¬ 
ligible,  for  the  same  reason  that  the  naked  under¬ 
standing,  destitute  of  all  imaginative  power,  has 
first  to  transpose  into  its  own  language  the  beau¬ 
tiful  harmonies  of  nature,  as  well  as  of  art  ;  or, 
that  the  scholar  who  wishes  to  read,  has  first  to 
learn  to  spell.  But  the  author  who  deals  in  the 
creations  of  the  imagination,  does  not  accept  the 
law  which  the  limits  of  his  readers’  minds  might 
attempt  to  impose  upon  him.  He  wanders  on¬ 
ward  on  his  path  to  meet  the  ideal  which  he  car¬ 
ries  with  him  in  his  own  breast,  without  caring 
who  follows  or  who  stays  behind.  Many  will  stay 
behind  ;  rare  as  it  is  to  meet  with  thinking  readers, 
it  is  still  more  so  to  meet  with  thinking  readers 
who  are  endowed  with,  and  use  their  powers  of 
imagination.  Such  an  author  will,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  disappoint  both  those  who  simply  enjoy 
intuitions  and  sensations,  for  he  imposes  upon 
them  the  fatiguing  labor  of  thinking  ;  as  well  as 
those  who  do  nothing  but  think;  for  he  expects 
them  to  do  that  which  it  is  utterly  impossible  for 
them  to  accomplish,  namely,  to  imagine  living 
forms  of  thought.  But  both  being  poor  repre¬ 
sentatives  of  the  common,  as  well  as  of  the  nobler 
type  of  human  nature,  both  of  which  should  be 
found  united  in  harmonious  accord  in  the  works 
of  imagination,  their  criticisms  amount  to  nothing; 
on  the  contrary,  they  satisfy  him  that  he  has  at¬ 
tained  the  ideal  which  he  sought  to  realize.  The 
abstract  thinker  pronounces  his  production  the 
offspring  of  thought,  arid  the  impressible  reader 
finds  his  style  animated ;  both  approve  what  they 
are  capable  of  comprehending ;  they  only  miss 
what  exceeds  their  powers. 

For  this  very  reason,  such  an  author  is  unfit  to 
impart  a  knowledge  of  the  subject  which  he  treats, 
or  to  teach  in  the  strictest  acceptation  of  the 
term.  Fortunately  his  services  for  such  purposes 
are  not  required,  since  there  will  always  be  plenty 
of  individuals  to  subserve  the  wants  of  the  learn¬ 
ing  public.  A  teacher  should  conform  very 
strictly  to  the  wants  of  his  class  ;  he  proceeds 
with  the  supposition  that  his  hearers  are  ignorant 


J5STHETICAL. 


545 


of  the  subject,  whereas  our  author  expects  to  find 
a  certain  preparatory  fitness  and  education  in 
those  for  whom  he  writes.  This  being  the  case, 
his  efforts  are  not  limited  to  the  imparting  of 
lifeless  definitions  ;  with  a  living  energy  he  seizes 
upon  living  ideas,  and  at  once  takes  possession 
of  the  whole  man,  of  his  intelligence,  his  emotions, 
and  his  will. 

If  we  have  deemed  it  prejudicial  to  a  thorough 
acquisition  of  knowledge,  to  comply  with  the  re¬ 
quirements  of  taste  in  arranging  a  technical  course 
Of  studies  for  the  young,  we  do  not  wish  to  be  un¬ 
derstood  that  we  regard  the  cultivation  of  this 
faculty  among  learners  as  premature.  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  the  student  should  be  encouraged  to  impart 
as  living  truth  the  knowledge  which  he  had  acquired 
in  the  class-room.  If  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 
is  properly  attended  to,  the  imparting  it  can  only 
result  in  useful  consequences.  One  must  possess  a 
tolerably  comprehensive  knowledge  of  a  subject 
in  order  to  impart  it  to  others  in  a  different  form 
from  that  in  which  it  had  been  received  ;  a  hiffh 
order  of  intelligence  is  required  to  enjoy  the  full 
play  of  the  imagination  without  losing  sight  of  the 
subject.  He  who  communicates  his  knowledge  in 
the  strict  order  of  scholastic  routine,  may  prove 
thereby  that  he  has  comprehended  and  knows 
how  to  maintain  his  positions  ;  he  who  is  at  the 
same  time  able  to  impart  the  acquired  knowledge 
in  a  beautiful  form,  not  only  shows  that  he  pos¬ 
sesses  the  faculty  of  enlarging  the  extent  of  his 
acquirements,  but  that  he  has  made  them  part  of 
his  very  nature,  and  is  able  to  embody  them  in  his 
acts.  As  a  result  of  thought,  there  is  no  other 
way  of  reaching  the  will,  and  the  sphere  of  actual 
life,  than  through  the  independent  exercise  of 
one’s  inherent  creative  power.  N othing  but  what 
is  living  within  us,  can  be  transformed  into  a 
living  fact  in  the  outer  sphere  ;  the  same  law  ap¬ 
plies  to  the  creations  of  mind,  which  governs 
those  of  matter:  all  fruit  emanates  from  blos¬ 
soms. 

If  we  consider  how  many  truths  have  acted  in 
us  as  living  intuitions  before  philosophers  ever 
thought  of  demonstrating  their  existence,  and 
how  powerless  truths  which  have  been  demon¬ 
strated  with  the  most  conclusive  evidence,  remain 
in  the  sphere  of  emotion  and  volition,  we  cannot 
help  perceiving  how  important  it  is  to  follow  this 
hint  which  nature  gives  us,  and  to  re-transform 
the  cognitions  of  science  into  living  intuitions. 
It  is  only  by  these  means  that  even  those  may 
participate  in  the  enjoyment  of  wisdom’s  treas¬ 
ures  who  are  incapacitated  by  their  natural  defi¬ 
ciencies  from  pursuing  the  thorny  road  of  science. 
Beauty  here  performs  the  same  part  in  regard  to 
knowledge  that  it  performs  in  the  moral  sphere 
in  regard  to  man’s  conduct ;  it  unites  men  in  ac¬ 
tual  life,  who  would  never  have  been  able  to  agree 
in  argument. 

The  fair  sex,  by  virtue  of  its  nature  and  its 
beautiful  destiny,  can  never  become  man’s  partner 
in  the  sphere  of  science ,  but  by  means  of  a  suita¬ 
ble  exposition  of  the  subject,  may  be  made  to  par¬ 
ticipate  with  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  truth.  A 
man  excuses  an  offense  against  taste,  provided 
his  understanding  is  indemnified  by  the  genuine 
merit  of  the  subject.  As  a  general  rule,  he  is 

Yol.  II.— 3.r> 


pleased  the  more,  the  more  rigidly  the  lines  are 
drawn,  and  the  more  completely  the  substance  is 
distinguished  from  the  form.  But  a  woman  does 
not  excuse  the  neglect  of  form,  if  the  substance 
were  ever  so  rich;  the  whole  inner  structure  of 
her  being  entitles  her  to  insisting  upon  the  ob¬ 
servance  of  beautiful  forms.  The  fair  sex,  which 
even  if  it  did  not  rule  by  beauty,  should  be  called 
so,  because  it  is  ruled  by  beauty,  summons  every 
thing  before  the  tribunal  of  emotion,  and  that 
which  does  not  interest,  or  worse  still,  which  is 
repudiated  by  this  judge,  is  incongenial  to  a  wo¬ 
man’s  mind.  It  is  true,  only  the  practical  results 
of  truth  can  be  conveyed  to  her  through  this 
channel;  truth  itself,  which  is  inseparable  from 
demonstration,  cannot  be  transmitted  by  the 
agency  of  beauty.  Happily  the  fair  sex  only  re¬ 
quires  the  substance  of  truth  in  order  to  reach 
its  highest  degree  of  perfection  ;  the  exceptions 
which  have  existed  heretofore,  cannot  possibly 
excite  a  desire  that  they  should  become  the  rule. 

For  this  reason  man  should  assume  with  re¬ 
doubled  vigor  the  responsibility  which  nature  not 
only  spared,  but  positively  refused  to  the  other 
sex,  provided  he  is  desirous  of  meeting  woman 
upon  her  own  level  in  this  important  sphere  of 
her  existence.  He  will  therefore  endeavor,  as 
much  as  he  is  able,  to  move  out  of  the  sphere  of 
abstraction  where  he  rules,  into  that  of  imagina¬ 
tion  and  emotion  where  woman  is  at  the  same  time 
model  and  judge.  Inasmuch  as  plants  of  permanent 
growth  do  not  thrive  in  the  soil  of  female  nature, 
he  will  seek  to  produce  the  greatest  possible 
variety  of  blossoms  and  fruit  in  his  own  garden, 
in  order  to  be  able  to  renew  the  quickly-fading 
flowers  in  the  female  mind,  and  to  secure  an  arti¬ 
ficial  crop  where  no  natural  harvest  can  be  reaped. 
Taste  corrects  or  conceals  the  natural  differences 
in  the  minds  of  the  two  sexes  ;  it  feeds  and  adorns 
the  female  mind  with  the  productions  of  the  male, 
and  enables  the  fair  sex  to  experience  emotions 
without  the  previous  exercise  of  thought,  and  to 
enjoy  life  without  the  previous  fatigue  of  labor. 

In  communicating  knowledge  we  may  allow 
taste  to  determine  the  form,  but  on  the  express 
condition  that  the  substance  is  not  to  be  injured 
thereby.  It  should  never  forget  that  it  simply 
acts  in  the  capacity  of  agent,  not  as  the  master 
of  the  concern.  All  it  is  to  do  is  to  secure  a 
favorable  mood  for  the  reception  of  knowledge  ; 
but  it  is  not  to  exercise  the  l^ast  authority  over 
the  essential  subject. 

If  it  assumes  this  last-mentioned  privilege  ;  if  it 
raises  its  own  law,  which  is  to  please  the  imagina¬ 
tion  and  to  afford  delight  to  the  inquiring  mind,  to 
the  rank  of  a  supreme  arbiter ;  if  it  applies  this  law 
not  only  to  the  fori n,  but  to  the  substance  itself, 
and  not  only  arranges  but  selects  the  materials 
in  accordance  with  its  own  requirements,  taste 
not  only  exceeds  its  limits,  but  violates  its  duty, 
and  adulterates  the  subject  which  should  have 
been  transmitted  free  from  all  extraneous  admix¬ 
tures.  We  no  longer  trouble  ourselves  about  the 
essence  of  things,  but  how  they  may  be  presented 
to  the  senses  in  the  most  attractive  form.  _  The 
rigid  consistency  of  the  argument  which  simply 
should  have  been  kept  concealed,  is  set  aside  as 
a  burdensome  chain  ;  perfection  is  sacrificed  to 


546 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


attractiveness,  the  truth  of  details  to  the  beauty 
of  the  whole,  the  internal  essence  to  the  external 
impression.  But  where  the  internal  substance  is 
made  subordinate  to  the  form,  there  is  no  sub¬ 
stance  ;  the  form  is  an  empty  thing,  and  instead 
of  augmenting  our  knowledge,  we  are  treated  to 
an  entertainment. 

Authors  who  possess  more  wit  than  intelligence, 
more  taste  than  science,  incur  too  frequently  the 
responsibility  of  this  kind  of  deception,  and  read¬ 
ers  who  are  more  accustomed  to  emotions  than 
to  thoughts,  are  but  too  willing  to  excuse  the 
trick.  As  a  general  rule  it  is  a  dubious  business 
to  cultivate  taste  to  its  fullest  extent  before  the 
understanding  has  been  exercised  as  a  pure  faculty 
of  the  mind,  and  the  brain  has  been  stocked  with 
definitions.  For  inasmuch  as  a  definition  has  re¬ 
ference  to  the  form  of  a  thing,  not  to  the  thing 
’tself,  all  essential  differences  vanish  where  defini¬ 
tions  are  exclusively  regarded.  We  become  indif¬ 
ferent  toward  the  reality,  and  value  nothing  but 
the  form  and  the  phenomenal  manifestation. 

Hence  the  spirit  of  superficiality  and  frivolity 
which  so  frequently  prevails  among  classes  and  in 
social  circles  that  are  otherwise  entitled  to  lay 
claim  to  the  highest  refinement.  A  young  man 
can  only  be  injured  by  being  introduced  into  this 
circle  of  the  Graces  before  the  Muses  have  dis¬ 
missed  him  as  competent ;  that  which  imprints  the 
seal  of  perfection  upon  the  matured  youth,  trans¬ 
forms  the  inadequately  prepared  into  an  insipid 
fop.*  Substance  without  form  is  only  a  partial 
possession ;  for  the  most  exquisite  knowledge  re¬ 
mains  hidden  in  a  brain  which  does  not  know  how 
to  give  it  shape  and  utterance.  Form  without 
substance  is  only  the  shadow  of  possession,  and 
all  the  readiness  of  speech  is  of  no  avail  to  him 
who  has  nothing  to  communicate. 

if  an  aesthetic  culture  is  not  to  mislead  us  into 
these  ways  of  error,  taste  should  only  determine 
the  external  form,  reason  and  experience  the  in¬ 
ternal  essence.  If  the  sensual  impression  is  con¬ 
stituted  the  supreme  judge,  and  things  are  valued 
only  in  so  far  as  they  excite  sensations,  man  will 
never  be  freed  from  the  bondage  of  matter ;  light 
will  never  dawn  in  his  mind,  and  he  will  lose  in  ra- 

*  In  contrasting  the  manners  of  the  common  citizen 
with  those  of  a  young  nobleman,  in  the  first  part  of  his 
Essays  <&c.,  (a  work  which  I  trust  is  in  every  body’s 
hands,)  Mr.  Garve  mentions  among  the  prerogatives  of 
the  young  nobleman  his  early  fitness  for  intercourse  with 
the  higher  classes,  from  which  the  common  man  is  ex¬ 
cluded  by  his  inferior  position.  But  Mr.  Garve  has  not 
informed  us  whether  this  privilege,  which  is  an  un¬ 
doubted  advantage  as  far  as  the  external  or  aesthetic  cul¬ 
ture  of  the  young  man  is  concerned,  can  be  called  an 
advartage  with  regard  to  his  inner  culture.  However 
much  may  be  gained  by  this  means  in  aesthetic  appear¬ 
ances,  as  much  must  be  lost  in  genuine  substance,  and  if 
we  consider  how  much  easier  it  i3  to  adapt  form  to  sub¬ 
stance  than  to  add  the  latter  to  the  former,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  common  citizen  has  much  cause  to  envy  the 
young  nobleman  the  enjoyment  of  this  prerogative.  If 
■the  custom  is  to  continue  hereafter  as  heretofore,  that  the 
eoratnon  citizen  shall  icork,  and  the  nobleman  represent, 
no  more  suitable  means  of  perpetuating  this  social  con¬ 
dition  could  be  devised  than  the  system  of  education 
which  now  prevails ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  noble 
classes  will  forever  remain  content  with  this  distribution 
of  our  social  duties. 


tional  freedom  as  much  as  he  allows  to  the  imagi¬ 
nation  more  freedom  than  it  is  entitled  to. 

The  beautiful  affects  us  by  simply  being  looked 
at,  truth  requires  to  be  studied.  He  who  has  cul¬ 
tivated  nothing  but  his  sense  of  the  beautiful,  will 
content  himself  with  superficial  glances  where 
severe  study  is  necessary,  and  will  want  to  indulge 
intellectual  amusement  where  sober  exertions  are 
indispensable.  We  never  gain  any  thing  by 
merely  looking  at  a  thing.  He  who  wants  to 
achieve  great  things,  has  to  penetrate  deeply,  dis¬ 
tinguish  sharply,  combine  variously,  and  persevere 
firmly.  Even  the  artist  and  the  poet,  whose  mis¬ 
sion  it  is  to  afford  delight  by  the  simple  contem¬ 
plation  of  their  works,  have  to  apply  themselves  to 
fatiguing  and  by  no  means  attractive  studies  in 
order  to  acquire  the  means  of  affording  us  enter¬ 
tainment  and  delight. 

This  seems  to  me  the  infallible  touchstone  by 
which  the  mere  amateur  is  distinguished  from  the 
true  artistic  genius.  The  seductive  charm  of  great¬ 
ness  and  beauty ;  the  fire  which  it  enkindles  in  the 
youthful  imagination,  and  the  appearance  of  ease 
by  which  it  beguiles  the  senses,  have  persuaded 
more  than  one  inexperienced  young  amateur  to 
seize  easel  or  lyre,  and  to  embody  in  forms  or 
sounds  the  living  thoughts  of  his  mind.  His  brain 
is  agitated  by  dim  ideas  that  make  him  think  he 
is  inspired.  He  mistakes  dimness  for  depth, 
crudity  for  vigor,  vagueness  for  infinity,  absurdity 
for  supra-sensualism — and  how  this  offspring  of 
his  fancy  tickles  him  !  But  this  testimony  of  a 
heated  self-love  is  not  confirmed  by  the  judgment 
of  the  connoisseur.  With  his  unkind  criticism, 
he  destroys  this  phantom  of  delusion,  and  lights 
the  uninitiated  and  self-deceived  beginner  into  the 
mine  of  science,  where  beauty  has  her  source  away 
from  the  eye  of  profanation.  If  the  vigor  of  true 
genius  is  slumbering  in  the  youth’s  inquiring  soul, 
he  may  be  startled  by  the  frank  criticism  of  his 
friend,  but  the  courage  of  true  talent  will  stimu¬ 
late  him  to  new  attempts.  If  nature  had  de¬ 
signed  him  to  become  a  plastic  artist,  he  will  study 
anatomy,  will  descend  to  the  loivest  depths  in 
order  to  be  true  on  the  surface ,  and  he  will  inves¬ 
tigate  all  the  characteristics  of  the  species  in 
order  to  be  just  to  the  individual.  If  born  to  be 
a  poet,  he  will  listen  to  the  accents  of  humanity 
in  his  own  breast,  in  order  to  comprehend  the 
endlessly  changing  scenes  upon  the  vast  stage  of 
the  world,  he  will  subject  his  luxuriant  fancy  to  the 
discipline  of  taste,  and  will  cause  the  sober  under¬ 
standing  to  measure  the  banks  between  which  the 
wild  torrent  of  enthusiasm  may  roll  its  waves  to¬ 
ward  the  infinite.  He  knows  that  greatness  pro¬ 
ceeds  from  the  smallest  beginnings,  and  he  adds  one 
grain  of  sand  to  the  other  until  the  magic  struc¬ 
ture  which  astounds  us  by  its  integral  and  marvel¬ 
ous  impression,  is  achieved.  If  nature  has  de¬ 
signed  him  for  a  simple  amateur,  the  difficulty  of 
the  task  will  cool  his  zeal ;  and,  if  he  is  a  modest 
young  man,  he  will  either  forsake  a  path  to  which 
his  own  delusion  had  led  him,  or  if  he  is  not 
modest,  he  will  contract  the  proportions  of  his 
great  ideal  to  suit  the  small  diameter  of  his 
capacity,  since  he  is  unable  to  enlarge  his  capacity 
to  suit  the  great  measure  of  the  ideal.  The 
genuine  artist  is  known  by  this,  that  with  the  most 


JESTHETICAL.  647 


ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  whole,  he  associates 
coolness  and  persevering  patience  in  the  execution 
of  details,  and  rather  sacrifices  the  enjoyment  of 
completion  than  to  injure  the  perfection  of  the 
work.  The  mere  amateur  becomes  disgusted  with 
the  subject  in  consequence  of  the  troublesome 
character  of  the  means,  and  he  would  like  to  pro¬ 
duce  a  work  of  art  as  easily  as  he  contemplates 
its  beauties. 

So  far  we  have  discussed  the  disadvantages 
which  an  excessive  sensitiveness  causes  to  the 
beauty  of  form,  and  which  extravagant  aesthetic 
demands  inflict  upon  the  development  of  thought 
and  the  expansion  of  the  intellect.  Of  far  greater 
significance  are  these  assumptions  of  taste  if  the 
will  is  their  object;  for  it  is  not  at  all  the  same 
thing  whether  an  excessive  disposition  for  beauti¬ 
ful  forms  prevents  the  enlargement  of  knowledge, 
or  whether  it  spoils  our  character  and  leads  us  to 
violate  duty.  Anarchy  of  thought  in  the  republic 
of  belles-lettres  is  undoubtedly  a  great  evil,  and 
must  necessarily  obscure  the  understanding ;  but 
this  anarchy,  if  applied  to  maxims  of  the  will,  be¬ 
comes  something  evil ,  and  must  necessarily  cor¬ 
rupt  the  heart.  To  this  dangerous  extreme  man 
is  brought  by  aesthetic  culture  as  soon  as  he  con¬ 
fides  himself  exclusively  to  the  sense  of  beauty, 
and  sets  up  taste  as  the  absolute  arbiter  of  his  will. 

Man’s  moral  destiny  requires  that  the  will 
should  be  independent  of  the  influence  of  sensual 
impulses,  whereas  taste  is  unceasingly  employed 
in  uniting  reason  and  the  senses  in  ever  closer 
bonds.  By  this  means  the  desires  become  doubt¬ 
lessly  ennobled  and  more  consonant  with  the  de¬ 
mands  of  reason  ;  but  even  this  may  result  in 
great  danger  to  the  cause  of  morality. 

Considering  that  in  the  aesthetically-refined 
man,  the  imagination  conforms  to  laws  ,  even 
while  reveling  in  the  freedom  of  her  play,  and 
that  the  senses  consent  not  to  enjoy  any  thing 
without  the  sanction  of  reason,  these  are  very  apt 
to  demand  of  reason  an  exchange  of  favors, 
namely :  to  modify  the  rigidity  of  her  laws  agree¬ 
ably  to  the  interests  of  the  imagination ,  and  not 
to  impose  her  commands  upon  the  will  without 
the  assent  of  the  sensual  impulses.  The  moral 
obligation  of  the  will,  which  should  be  uncondi¬ 
tionally  valid,  gradually  and  imperceptibly  comes 
to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  contract,  which 
binds  one  party  as  long  as  the  other  fulfills  it. 
The  accidental  agreement  of  duty  and  inclination 
is  finally  set  down  as  a  necessary  condition,  and 
thus  it  is  that  the  very  sources  of  morality  are 
poisoned. 

This  gradual  perversion  of  the  character  may 
be  accounted  for  in  the  following  manner  : 

As  long  as  man  lives  in  the  savage  state, 
as  long  as  his  impulses  are  directed  to  no  other 
than  material  objects,  and  his  actions  are  guided 
by  an  egotism  of  the  coarser  kind,  sensuality  can 
endanger  morality  only  by  its  brutal  power,  and 
can  resist  the  precepts  of  reason  only  by  possible 
means.  The  voice  of  justice,  of  moderation,  of 
humanity  is  cried  down  by  the  loud  claims  of  de¬ 
sire.  He  is  terrible  in  his  revenge,  because  he 
feels  an  insult  most  keenly.  He  robs  and  mur¬ 
ders,  because  his  lusts  are  still  too  powerful  for 
the  feeble  reins  of  reason.  He  acts  like  a  furious 


beast  toward  others,  because  he  himself  is  ruled 
like  an  animal  by  the  natural  instinct. 

By  exchanging  this  wild  natural  condition  for 
a  state  of  refinement ;  by  ennobling  his  impulses  ; 
by  assigning  to  them  nobler  objects  in  the  moral 
world  ;  by  moderating  their  brutish  manifestations 
agreeably  to  the  rules  of  beauty,  it  may  happen 
that  the  very  same  impulses  which  previously  had 
become  terrible  by  their  blind  power,  become  still 
more  dangerous  to  morality  by  an  appearance  of 
dignity  and  by  an  assumption  of  authority,  and 
exercise  a  much  more  pernicious  tyranny  over  the 
will  under  the  mask  of  innocence,  nobleneso,  and 
purity. 

A  man  of  taste  withdraws  himself  voluntarily 
from  the  rude  yoke  of  instinct.  He  subjects  his 
desire  for  pleasure  to  the  determinations  of  reason, 
and  consents  to  allow  the  thinking  mind  to  choose 
suitable  objects  for  the  sensual  impulses.  The 
more  frequently  it  happens  that  the  moral  and  the 
aesthetic  judgment,  the  moral  and  the  aesthetic 
sense,  meet  in  the  same  object  and  in  the  same 
decision,  in  the  same  ratio  reason  becomes  more 
inclined  to  regard  such  a  spiritualized  impulse  as 
one  emanating  from  her  own  sphere,  and  finally  to 
leave  to  it  the  government  of  the  will  with  un¬ 
limited  powers. 

As  long  as  there  is  a  possibility  of  inclination 
and  duty  coinciding  in  the  same  object  of  desire, 
this  representation  of  the  moral  by  the  aesthetic 
sense  cannot  do  any  positive  harm,  although, 
strictly  speaking,  nothing  is  gained  thereby  for 
the  morality  of  single  acts.  But  the  case  is 
different,  if  the  interests  of  sensation  and  reason 
differ,  if  duty  commands  a  conduct  which  is  re¬ 
pulsive  to  taste,  or  if  taste  is  attracted  toward  an 
object  which  reason  in  her  capacity  of  moral 
judge,  is  compelled  to  reject. 

Now  a  necessity  arises  of  severing  the  claims 
of  the  moral  and  the  esthetic  sense,  which  such  a 
long-lasting  agreement  had  almost  blended  in 
an  indissoluble  oneness,  of  determining  their  re¬ 
spective  rights  and  bowing  to  the  legitimate  au¬ 
thority  among  the  impelling  principles  of  human 
nature.  But  this  authority  had  been  lost  sight  of 
during  the  uninterrupted  state  of  representation, 
and  the  long-lasting  submission  to  the  direct  sug¬ 
gestions  of  taste,  coupled  with  the  consciousness  of 
well-being  in  this  condition  of  the  mind,  must  neces¬ 
sarily  and  imperceptibly  have  invested  taste  with 
an  appearance  of  legitimacy.  Considering  the 
blameless  manner  with  which  taste  exercised  its 
control  over  the  will,  a  certain  respect  for  its  de¬ 
cision  must  necessarily  have  resulted  from  such 
conduct,  and  it  is  this  very  respect  which  inclination 
now  seeks  to  enforce  against  the  duty  of  conscience, 
with  the  most  captious  sophistry  of  argument. 

Respect  is  a  sentiment  which  can  only  be  felt  for 
the  law  and  its  legitimate  results.  What  is  en¬ 
titled  to  respect,  claims  unqualified  homage.  The 
ennobled  inclination  which  has  obtained  respect 
by  surreptitious  means,  is  not  satisfied  with  being 
made  subordinate  to  reason  ;  it  claims  to  be  a  co¬ 
ordinate  power.  It  declines  being  regarded  as  a 
faithless  subject  who  rebels  against  his  legitimate 
sovereign  ;  it  wants  to  be  treated  as  a  power 
invested  with  majesty,  and  to  be  regarded  by 
reason  as  her  equal,  as  a  moral  lawgiver.  Hence 


548 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


according  to  the  decision  of  inclination,  the  scales 
are  evenly  balanced,  and  how  easily,  under  such 
circumstances,  may  interest  preponderate  ! 

Among  the  inclinations  which  emanate  from 
the  aesthetic  sphere,  and  are  the  property  of  re¬ 
fined  souls,  not  one  commends  itself  to  the  moral 
sense  with  more  intensity  than  the  pure  affection 
of  love;  not  one  is  more  fruitful  in  sentiments 
which  correspond  with  man’s  true  dignity.  To 
what  heights  is  not  human  nature  raised  by  her, 
and  what  divine  sparks  does  she  not  elicit  even 
from  common  souls  !  Every  selfish  inclination  is 
consumed  by  her  holy  flame;  not  even  principles 
can  preserve  more  purely  the  chastity  of  the  moral 
sense,  than  love  watches  over  the  heart’s  noble¬ 
ness.  Yery  often  love  achieves  a  triumph  while 
principles  are  still  struggling,  and  by  her  all- 
power  I'ul  energy,  accelerates  resolutions  which  the 
mere  sentiment  of  duty  would  have  been  unable 
to  extort  from  man’s  feeble  will.  Who  would 
mistrust  an  affection  which  so  powerfully  protects 
the  excellencies  of  human  nature,  and  so  tri¬ 
umphantly  overcomes  egotism,  this  hereditary 
enemy  of  all  morality. 

But  let  no  one  blindly  trust  this  guide,  who  is 
not  previously  secured  by  a  better  one.  Suppose 
the  beloved  one  should  be  unhappy,  unhappy  on 
our  account  ;  and,  that  we  have  it  in  our  power, 
by  sacrificing  a  few  moral  scruples,  to  secure  the 
beloved  one’s  happiness.  “Are  we  to  let  him 
suffer  in  order  to  keep  a  clear  conscience?  Is 
this  consistent  with  a  generous,  disinterested,  self- 
sacrificing  affection  ?  True,  it  is  against  our  con¬ 
science  to  resort  to  the  immoral  means  which 
might  afford  him  relief ;  but  can  it  be  called  love , 
if  we  still  think  of  ourselves  wdiile  the  loved  one  is 
suffering  on  our  account?  Are  we  to  be  more 
anxious  for  ourselves  than  for  the  object  of  our 
love,  for  no  better  reason  than  because  we  would 
rather  see  him  unhappy  than  be  made  so  ourselves 
by  the  reproaches  of  conscience  ?”  By  this  sort 
of  specious  reasoning  love  knows  how  to  bring 
contempt  upon  the  moral  voice  in  us,  if  this  is 
contrary  to  the  selfish  desire,  by  falsely  represent¬ 
ing  it  as  an  instigation  of  self-love  ;  and  how  to 
picture  our  moral  dignity  as  an  ingredient  of  our 
happiness,  which  we  possess  the  right  to  alienate 
at  our  pleasure.  If  our  character  is  not  firmly 
guarded  by  principles,  we  shall  commit  an  act  of 
villainy  in  spite  of  the  most  exalted  flight  of  our 
imagination,  and  we  shall  fancy  we  are  conquering 
a  glorious  victory  over  our  self-love,  whereas  we 
are  sacrificing  to  it  ourselves  and  our  self-respect. 
The  French  novel,  entitled  “ Liaisons  Danger- 
euses ,”  contains  a  striking  instance  of  this  decep¬ 
tion  which  love  practices  upon  an  otherwise  pure 
and  beautiful  soul.  The  wife  of  President  de 
Tourvel,  has  been  beguiled  into  a  sinful  act  by  a 
sudden  surprise,  and  now  she  seeks  to  quiet  her 
tormented  heart  by  the  thought  that  she  had  sac¬ 
rificed  her  virtue  to  her  generosity. 

It  is  the  so-called  imperfect  duties  which  are 
protected  by  the  aesthetic  sense,  and  are  very  fre¬ 
quently  placed  above  the  perfect  or  absolute  du¬ 
ties.  Inasmuch  as  they  allow  a  more  extensive 
range  to  the  spontaneous  choice  of  the  individual, 
and  at  the  same  time  spread  a  halo  of  meritori¬ 
ousness  around  themselves,  they  commend  them-  i 


selves  to  taste  far  more  urgently  than  the  perfect 
duties  which  urge  their  commands  with  an  un¬ 
qualified,  uncompromising  rigidity.  How  many 
men  permit  themselves  to  be  unjust,  in  order  to 
be  generous  !  How  many  there  are  who  violate 
their  duty  to  society,  in  order  to  do  a  kind  act  to 
some  individual !  How  many,  who  would  rather 
be  guilty  of  an  untruth,  than  of  an  indelicacy;  of 
an  insult  to  humanity,  than  to  the  laws  of  honor,; 
who  ruin  . their  bodies  in  order  to  accelerate  the 
perfection  of  their  minds  ;  and  who  debase  their 
character  in  order  to  adorn  their  understandings. 
How  many  there  are,  who  do  not  even  hesitate  to 
commit  a  crime,  if  a  laudable  end  is  to  be  attained, 
who  pursue  an  ideal  of  political  happiness 
through  all  the  horrors  of  anarchy  ;  who  trample 
laws  in  the  dust,  in  order  to  make  room  for  better 
ones,  and  ivho  are  not  afraid  of  delivering  the 
present  generation  over  to  the  pangs  of  misery, 
in  order  to  fortify  the  happiness  of  the  next  by 
such  a  proceeding.  The  apparent  disinterested¬ 
ness  of  certain  virtues,  imparts  to  such  reformers 
an  appearance  of  purity,  that  emboldens  them  to 
bid  defiance  to  duty,  and  upon  many  among  them 
fancy  plays  the  strange  trick  of  making  them  be¬ 
lieve  that  their  conduct  exceeds  the  boundaries 
of  the  strictest  morality,  and,  that  their  reason  is 
far  above  the  sublime  heights  of  reason  itself. 

A  man  of  refined  taste  is  liable  in  this  respect 
to  moral  perversity,  against  which  the  raw  son  of 
nature  is  guarded  by  his  very  rawness.  In  the 
case  of  the  latter,  the  contrast  between  that 
which  the  senses  crave  and  that  which  duty 
commands,  is  so  marked,  and  his  desires  are 
so  entirely  devoid  of  the  spiritual  element  that 
they  cannot  command  his  respect,  though  they 
should  rule  it  over  him  ever  so  fiercely.  If  the 
overwhelming  power  of  the  senses  impels  him  to 
commit  a  wrong  act,  he  may  indeed  succumb  to 
the  temptation,  but  he  will  not  hide  his  fault  from 
his  reason,  and  will  do  homage  to  her  at  the  very 
moment  wrhen  he  acts  contrary  to  her  precept. 
On  the  contrary,  the  refined  pupil  of  art  does  not 
want  to  admit  his  fall,  and  he  had  rather  lie  to 
his  conscience  than  to  admit  his  error.  He 
would  like  to  gratify  his  desires,  but  without 
losing  in  his  own  estimation.  How  does  he  effect 
this  ?  He  previously  overthrows  the  authority 
which  is  opposed  to  his  inclination,  and  before 
transgressing  the  law,  he  throws  a  doubt  on  the 
authority  of  the  legislating  agent.  Does  it  seem 
credible  that  a  perverse  will  can  bias  the  un¬ 
derstanding  to  this  extent  ?  All  the  dignity  which 
an  inclination  can  claim,  is  due  to  its  agreement 
with  reason  ;  but  now,  although  existing  in  oppo¬ 
sition  to  reason,  it  has  still  the  insolence  to  arro¬ 
gate  this  dignity  to  itself,  and  even  to  avail  itself 
of  the  same,  contrary  to  the  authority  of  reason. 

So  greatly  is  the  morality  of  the  character 
jeopardized,  if  there  exists  too  intimate  a  com¬ 
munion  between  the  sensual  and  the  moral  im¬ 
pulses  of  nature,  which  can  only  be  perfectly  har¬ 
monized  in  the  ideal,  but  not  in  the  reality  of  human 
existence.  In  this  communion,  the  senses  indeed 
risk  nothing,  since  they  do  not  possess  any  thing 
that  they  would  not  be  obliged  to  give  up,  if  duty 
should  claim  the  sacrifice.  But  reason,  as  the 
moral  law-maker,  risks  all  the  more,  if  she  accepts 


jESTHETICAL. 


549 


of  inclination  as  a  gift,  what  it  would  be  her  pri¬ 
vilege  to  insist  upon  as  a  right,  for  under  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  voluntary  submission,  a  feeling  of 
reciprocal  obligation  is  apt  to  hide  itself,  and  a 
gift  may  be  refused,  if  the  senses  should  find  it  in¬ 
convenient  to  comply  with  it.  The  morality  of 
the  character  is  therefore  more  safely  guarded,  if 
the  representation  of  the  moral  by  the  aesthetic 
sense  is  discontinued  at  times,  if  reason  issues  her 
commands  directly  more  frequently  than  had  been 
done  heretofore,  and,  if  she  shows  to  the  will  who 
is  its  true  master. 

It.  is  therefore  remarked  with  a  great  show  of 
correctness,  that  true  morality  is  tried  only  in  the 
school  of  adversity;  and  that  a  continued  happi¬ 
ness  is  apt  to  become  the  cliff  of  virtue.  I  call 
happy  him  who  need  not  do  wrong  in  order  to  en¬ 
joy,  and  who  need  not  deprive  himself  of  any  thing 
in  order  to  do  right.  The  uninterruptedly  happy 
man  never  looks  duty  in  the  face,  because  his 
legitimate  and  well-regulated  inclinations  always 
anticipate  the  commands  of  reason,  and  no  temp¬ 
tation  to  violate  the  law  reminds  him  of  its  ex¬ 
istence.  Ruled  solely  by  the  aesthetic  sense  which 
a  ts  as  reason’s  vicar  in  the  world  of  sense,  he  will 
descend  into  his  grave  without  becoming  con¬ 
scious  of  the  dignity  of  his  destiny.  An  unhappy 
man,  on  the  contrary,  if  he  is  at  the  same  time 
virtuous,  enjoys  the  sublime  privilege,  of  holding 
direct  communion  with  the  majesty  of  the  law, 
and,  his  virtue  not  being  aided  by  any  inclination, 
of  revealing  the  divine  origin  of  freedom  even  in 
his  human  acts. 


ON  NAIVE  AND  SENTIMENTAL  POETRY  * 

There  are  moments  in  life,  when  we  experience 
a  sort  of  love  and  touching  esteem  for  nature 
in  plants,  minerals,  animals,  landscapes,  likewise 
for  human  nature  in  children,  in  the  manners  of 
country-people  and  of  the  aborigines,  not  so  much 
because  our  intelligence  or  taste  is  gratified  by 
such  exhibitions  of  nature — because  the  contrary 
may  take  place  in  regard  to  either — but  simply 
because  they  happen  to  be  nature.  Any  man  of 
a  somewhat  refined  organization,  and  who  is  not 
entirely  devoid  of  sentiment  experiences  this  emo¬ 
tion  during  a  walk  in  the  country,  when  contem¬ 
plating  the  monuments  of  antiquity,  or  whenever 
in  'he  artificial  situations  in  which  he  may  be 
placed,  he  is  surprised  by  the  sight  of  simple  na¬ 
ture.  It  is  this  interest  which  very  frequently 
assumes  all  the  intensity  of  a  natural  want,  that 
gives  rise  to  many  of  our  favorite  tastes  for 
flowers,  animals,  for  simple  gardens,  for  walks,  for 
the  country  and  country-people,  for  many  pro¬ 
ducts  of  remote  antiquity,  &c. ;  provided  that 
such  tastes  do  not  depend  upon  affectation  or 
some  other  accidental  interest.  This  sort  of 
interest  in  nature  only  takes  place  on  two  condi¬ 
tions  :  In  the  first  place  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  the  object  which  inspires  the  interest,  should 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  Horen,  1795 

and  1790. 


be,  or  should  be  supposed  to  be,  a  natural  object: 
and  in  the  second  place,  that  this  object  should 
be  (in  the  vastest  acceptation  of  the  term)  naively 
natural,  by  which  we  mean  that  nature  should 
form  a  contrast  with,  and  confound  art.  Nature 
does  not  assume  the  characteristics  of  naivete 
until  that  contrast  occurs. 

Viewed  in  this  light  nature  is  to  us  nothing  but 
the  expression  of  existence  in  a  state  of  spontane¬ 
ous  freedom,  the  existence  of  things  as  they  are, 
the  fact  of  existence  in  accordance  with  its  own 
unalterable  laws. 

This  view  is  absolutely  necessary,  if  we  are  to 
feel  interested  in  such  manifestations.  If  an  arti¬ 
ficial  flower  could  be  made  to  resemble  nature 
with  the  most  perfect  illusion  of  form  ;  if  naive 
manners  could  be  imitated  in  the  highest  perfec¬ 
tion  of  art,  the  discovery  that  these  forms  are 
imitations  instead  of  being  genuine,  would  annihi¬ 
late  the  sensation  of  which  we  are  talking.* 
This  shows  that  this  sort  of  delight  in  natural 
things  is  not  an  aesthetic  but  a  moral  sentiment; 
for  it  is  superinduced  by  an  idea,  not  produced 
by  immediate  contemplation  ;  nor  is  it  dependent 
upon  the  beauty  of  form.  What  is  there  pleasing 
to  our  senses  in  a  diminutive  flower,  a  spring,  a 
mossy  stone,  in  the  twitter  of  birds,  the  humming 
of  the  bees,  &c.?  What  is  there  in  these  pheno¬ 
mena  that  entitles  them  to  our  love?  It  is  not 
these  objects  which  we  love,  but  an  idea  which  is 
represented  by  them.  We  love  in  them  the 
quietly-creating  vital  energy,  the  calm,  self-acting 
endeavor,  the  fact  of  existence  in  accordance  with 
its  own  inherent,  laws,  the  internal  necessity,  the 
eternal  accord  with  itself. 

They  are  what  we  were ;  they  are  what  we  are 
destined  to  become  again.  We  were  nature  as 
they  are,  and  reason  and  liberty  are  to  lead  us 
back  again  to  a  more  exalted  and  more  cultivated 
state  of  nature.  They  represent  to  us  our  lost 
childhood,  which  remains  forever  dear  to  us ; 
hence  they  fill  us  with  a  certain  sadness.  At  the 
same  time  they  represent  to  us  the  highest  reali¬ 
zation  of  an  ideal  existence;  hence  they  excite  in 
us  sublime  emotions. 

But  their  perfection  is  not,  their  merit,  since  it  is 
not  the  work  of  their  own  choice.  Hence  they 
afford  Uo  the  singular  pleasure  of  being  our  models 
without  filling  us  with  shame.  They  surround  us 
with  the  light  of  a  divine  phenomenon,  but  they 
are  rather  refreshing  than  dazzling  to  our  senses. 
That  which  constitutes  their  own  character  is  the 
very  thing  which  is  wanting  to  the  perfection  ot  our 
own  ;  that  which  distinguishes  us  from  them  is  the 
very  thing  which  they  require  in  order  to  be  made 

*  Kant,  the  first,  as  far  as  I  know,  who  has  reflected  on 
this  phenomenon,  observes  that  if  we  should  hear  a  man 
imitate  the  warbling  of  a  nightingale  with  the  most  per¬ 
fect  illusion,  and  if  we  should  abandon  ourselves  to  the 
impression  with  all  the  emotion  of  our  souls,  all  our 
pleasure  would  vanish  as  soon  as  the  illusion  is  de¬ 
stroyed.  See  the  chapter :  Of  the  Intellectual  Interest,  in 
the  Beautiful,  in  Kant’s  Critique  of  the  ^Esthetic  Judg¬ 
ment.  He  who  has  heretofore  known  this  author  only  in 
the  light  of  a  great  thinker,  will  rejoice  at  seeing  his 
heart  revealed  in  this  doctrine;  this  discovery  will  con¬ 
vince  him  of  the  exalted  philosophical  calling  of  thif 
man — who  insists  upon  both  these  attributes  being  united 
in  one  person. 


550 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


divine.  We  are  free,  whereas  they  obey  the  law 
of  necessity;  we  change,  whereas  they  remain  the 
same.  But  it  is  from  the  union  of  these  two  ele¬ 
ments — if  the  will  obeys  the  Jaw  of  necessity  in 
perfect  freedom,  and 'it'  reason  maintains  her  rule 
in  spite  of  all  changes  of  the  imagination — that  the 
.divine  ideal  proceeds.  In  them  we  ever  behold 
that  in  which  we  are  deficient,  at  which  we  are 
called  upon  to  aspire,  and  to  which  we  shall  end¬ 
lessly  approximate,  although  we  shall  never  be 
able  to  reach  this  goal.  In  us  we  discover  an  ad¬ 
vantage  of  which  they  are  deprived,  and  which 
they  must  either  forever  do  without,  like  irrational 
things  generally,  or  in  which  they  can  only  parti¬ 
cipate  like  children,  by  pursuing  the  path  which 
we  have  trod.  Hence  they  afford  us  the  sweet 
enjoyment  of  our  ideal  humanity,  although  they 
necessarily  excite  in  us  feelings  of  shame  when 
we  contrast  their  perfect  state  with  any  actual 
condition  of  our  own  earth-life. 

Since  this  interest  in  nature  is  founded  upon  an 
idea,  it  can  only  exist  in  minds  that  are  susceptible 
to  the  power  of  ideas,  namely  in  moral  minds.  In 
the  case  of  most  men  their  interest  is  simply 
feigned,  and  the  universality  of  the  sentimental 
taste  which  manifests  itself  at  the  present  time 
in  sentimental  journeys,  rural  gardens,  walks, 
and  other  fancies  of  the  same  sort,  does  not  by 
any  means  prove  the  universality  of  the  genuine 
emotion.  Nevertheless  even  the  most  insensible 
individual  will  be  more  or  less  affected  by  nature, 
for  this  influence  is  secured  to  her  by  the  moral 
disposition  or  capacity  inherent  in  every  human 
beiug  ;  and  all  men,  were  they  really  ever  so  far 
removed  from  the  truth  and  simplicity  of  nature, 
are  ideally  impelled  to  realize  these  attributes  in 
their  own  conduct.  This  susceptibility  to  nature’s 
influences  is  awakened  in  us  with  particular  force 
at  the  sight  of  objects  which  are  more  closely 
united  with  us,  and  afford  us  an  inducement  to 
contrast  their  present  state  with  our  own  past  in¬ 
nocence  and  present  deviation  from  nature's 
ways  ;  such  objects  are,  for  instance,  children  and 
childlike  nations.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  if  the  society  of  children  at  times  fills  us  with 
so  much  emotion,  it  is  the  thought  of  their  helpless¬ 
ness  which  produces  this  result.  This  may  be  the 
case  with  those  in  whom  the  sight  of  weakness 
excites  no  other  impression  than  the  contrast 
afforded  by  their  own  physical  superiority.  The  feel¬ 
ing  to  which  I  allude  (and  which  only  exists  in 
peculiar  states  of  moral  sensibility  and  should  not 
be  confounded  with  the  emotion  which  the  joyous 
gambols  of  children  are  apt  to  excite  in  our  souls), 
shames  our  self-love  rather  than  flatters  it ;  if 
advantages  are  seen  at  such  times,  they  do  not 
exist  on  our  side.  Our  emotion  is  not  excited 
because  we  look  down  upon  the  child  from  the 
height  of  our  strength  arid  perfection,  but  because 
from  the  limited  sphere  which  we  have  actualized, 
we  look  up  to  the  unlimited  capacity  for  develop¬ 
ment,  and  to  the  innocence  which  characterizes 
the  child  ;  at  such  a  time  our  emotion  is  so  evi¬ 
dently  mingled  with  a  certain  sadness,  that  the 
source  from  which  it  flows  cannot  well  be  misap¬ 
prehended.  In  the  child  we  behold  the  capacity 
and  the  destiny,  in  us  the  fulfillment  which  always 
remains  far  behind  the  former.  Hence  the  child  I 


symbolizes  to  us  the  ideal,  tnt  the  ideal  realized, 
but  to  be  realized;  hence  it  is  not  the  thought  of 
childish  helplessness,  but  of  the  child’s  absolute 
and  free  power,  of  the  child’s  integrity  and  infinity 
that  excites  emotions  of  sadness  in  our  soul.  For 
this  reason,  to  the  man  of  true  moral  sensibility 
the  child  becomes  a  sacred  object,  which  wipes 
out  every  actual  by  its  ideal  greatness,  and  which 
richly  recovers  before  the  tribunal  of  reason 
what  it  may  have  lost  before  that  of  the  under¬ 
standing. 

From  this  antagonism  between  the  judgment 
of  reason  and  that  of  the  understanding  results 
the  mixed  sensation  which  the  naive  innocency  of 
thought  excites  in  our  minds.  In  this  state  of 
the  mind,  a  childlike  simplicity  coexists  with  child - 
isliness  ;  the  latter  exposes  the  mind  to  that  smile 
of  pity  by  which  we  manifest  our  ( theoretical )  su¬ 
periority.  But  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  suspect  that 
the  childishness  is  rather  a  childlike  simplicity; 
that  it  is  not  deficiency  of  intellectual  power, 
but  a  more  exalted  degree  of  [practical)  strength, 
a  heart  full  of  innocence  and  truth,  which  gives 
rise  to  this  state  of  mind,  and,  that  the  assistance 
of  art  was  rejected  in  consequence  of  the  living 
consciousness  of  internal  greatness,  the  trium¬ 
phant  pity  of  the  understanding  is  at  an  end,  anl 
the  derision  which  the  childish  appearance  excited 
in  us,  gives  place  to  feelings  of  admiration  of  the 
simplicity  of  heart.  We  feel  compelled  to  respect 
the  object  that  had  excited  our  smiles  heretofore, 
and,  casting  a  glance  at  our  own  inner  nature,  to 
pity  ourselves  for  not  being  like  the  former.  Thus 
it  is  that  a  sentiment  arises  in  our  hearts,  which  is  a 
mixture  of  mirthful  derision,  respect,  and  sadness.* 
In  order  to  realize  a  state  of  naivete,  it  is  necessary 

*  In  a  note  to  the  Analysis  of  the  Sublime  (Critique 
of  the  ^Esthetic  Judgment,  page  225,  of  the  first  edition.) 
Kant  likewise  distinguishes  these  three  ingredients  in 
the  naive  state  of  mind,  but  he  accounts  for  them  differ¬ 
ently.  “A  cortain  something  which  is  composed  of  both 
these  sensations  (the  animal  feeling  of  delight,  and  the 
spiritual  feeling  of  respect),  is  met  with  in  naivete  which 
is  an  act  of  rebellion  of  the  sincerity  originally  inherent 
in  humanity  against  the  art  of  dissimulation,  which  has 
become  our  second  nature.  We  laugh  at  the  simplicity 
which  does  not  yet  understand  the  art  of  dissimulation, 
and  yet,  we  rejoice  at  the  simplicity  of  nature  which  de¬ 
feats  the  former  art.  We  expected  to  meet  the  habitual 
affectation  of  manners  which  aims  at  beautiful  appear¬ 
ances,  and  behold!  it  is  unsophisticated  nature  w'lich 
most  unexpectedly  greets  our  eye,  and  which  he  who 
treats  us  to  such  a  spectacle,  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
of  displaying.  The  fact  that  the  beautiful,  but  false^ap- 
pearance,  which  is  generally  regarded  as  exceedingly  im¬ 
portant,  is  suddenly  reduced  to  nothing;  and,  that  our 
roguery  is  exposed  as  it  were  to  the  light,  induces  oppo¬ 
site  emotions  in  us  which  at  the  same  time  effect  a  salu¬ 
tary  shock  in  the  body.  The  purity  of  thought,  or  a  ca¬ 
pacity  for  it,  which  is  still  left  in  the  human  soul,  and 
which  is  better  than  all  acquired  manners,  mingles  ear¬ 
nestness  and  esteem  with  this  playfulness  of  our  judgment. 
But  inasmuch  as  this  purity  is  seen  only  for  a  short  time, 
and  is  very  soon  hidden  again  behind  the  vail  of  dissimu¬ 
lation,  we  experience  a  sort  of  regret,  which  is  an  emo¬ 
tion  of  tenderness,  and,  considering  its  playful  character, 
agrees  perfectly  with  such  a  good-natured  smile  with 
which  it  is,  indeed,  very  generally  combined  ;  at  the  same 
time  it  counterbalances  the  embarrassment  which  he  who 
furnishes  the  occasion  for  this  exhibition  of  mixed  emo.' 
tions,  experiences  in  consequence  of  not  having  as  yet 
I  succeeded  in  having  learned  the  art  of  dissimulation  alter 


A1STHETICAL. 


551 


that  nature  should  triumph  over*  art,  whether 
without  or  with  the  knowledge  or  consent  of  the 
individual.  In  the  former  case,  we  have  the 
naivete  of  surprise,  which  affords  us  amusement ; 
in  the  latter,  the  naivete  of  sentiment ,  which  ex¬ 
cites  our  emotion. 

The  realization  of  the  first  species  of  a  naive 
state  depends  upon  a  moral  capacity  of  the  indi¬ 
vidual  for  denying  nature  ;  this  moral  capacity  does 
not  exist  in  the  second  species,  where  the  indi¬ 
vidual  should  not  however  be  thought  of  as  phy¬ 
sically  incapable  of  denying  nature,  if  an  impres¬ 
sion  of  naivete  is  to  be  produced  in  our  minds. 
Hence  the  actions  and  the  language  of  children 
convey  to  us  the  pure  impression  of  naivete,  only 
as  long  as  we  do  not  think  of  their  incapacity  for 
dissimulation,  and  as  long  as  we  only  keep  in  view 
the  contrast  between  their  own  naturalness  and 
our  affectation.  Naivete  is  a  state  of  childlike¬ 
ness,  where  we  no  longer  expect  to  meet  it,  and, 
for  this  very  reason,  cannot  rigorously  be  applied 
to  actual  childhood. 

In  either  case,  however,  in  the  naivete  of  sur¬ 
prise,  as  well  as  the  naivete  of  sentime'nt,  nature 
must  be  right,  art  wrong.  It  is  only  by  this  last 
definition,  that  the  whole  circle  of  the  naive  is 
encompassed.  Passion  too,  is  nature,  and  the 
rule  of  social  propriety  is  something  artificial ; 
nevertheless,  the  triumph  of  passion  over  pro¬ 
priety,  is  not  by  any  means  a  state  of  naivete. 
But,  if  passion  triumphs  over  affectation  or  dis¬ 
simulation,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  designate  such 
an  exhibition  of  feeling  as  naive.f  It  is  therefore 
required  that  nature  should  triumph  over  art,  not 

the  fashion  of  the  world."  I  confess  that  this  mode  of 
explaining  the  character  of  naivete  does  not  satisfy  me 
entirely,  more  particularly  for  the  reason  that  what  is 
here  asserted  of  naivete,  is  at  most  true  only  of  one  of  its 
species,  the  naivete  which  occasions  surprise,  and  of 
which  I  shall  speak  hereafter.  We  smile  indeed,  if  some 
one  exposes  his  toeakness  by  naivete ;  and,  in  many  cases, 
this  smile  may  be  caused  by  the  complete  vanishing  into 
nothing  of  an  expectation  which  we  had  entertained. 
But  even  a  naivete  of  the  most  noble  character,  the 
naivete  of  sentiment,  always  excites  a  smile.  This  can¬ 
not,  however,  be  owing  to  the  vanishing  into  nothing 
of  an  expectation,  but  results  from  the  contrast  of  a  cer¬ 
tain  conduct  with  the  established  and  expected  forms  or 
manners.  Moreover,  I  am  doubtful  whether  the  regret 
with  which  our  emotion  is  mingled,  when  naivete  of  the 
latter  sort  occurs,  instead  of  being  intended  for  the  naive 
individual,  is  not  rather  intended  for  ourselves,  or  for 
humanity  generally,  whose  decay  we  are  reminded  of  by 
such  an  occurrence.  It  is  too  evidently  a  moral  mourn¬ 
ing  which  must  be  called  forth  by  a  nobler  object  than 
the  physical  ills  by  which  candor  is  threatened  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  events ;  this  object  can  be  no  other 
than  the  loss  of  truth  and  simplicity  in  humanity. 

*  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  simply  said :  truth  over  dis- 
timulation  ;  but  the  idea  of  naivete  seems  to  imply  some¬ 
thing  more,  since  simplicity  generally  when  triumphing 
over  affectation,  and  natural  ease  when  triumphing  over 
stiffness  and  constraint,  produce  in  us  a  similar  sensa¬ 
tion. 

t  A  child  is  ill-behaved,  if  it  acts  contrary  to  the  pre¬ 
cepts  of  good  education  from  desire,  levity,  impetuous 
passion;  but  it  is  naive,  if  its  free  and  healthy  nature 
impels  it  to  set  aside  the  mannerism  of  an  absurd  educa¬ 
tion,  the  stiffness  of  the  dancing-school,  <fcc.  This  applies 
to  figurative  states  of  naivete  in  the  sphere  of  irrational 
objects.  Nobody  will  call  it  natural  (naive),  if  a  badly 
kept  garden  is  covered  all  over  with  rankling  weeds;  but 


through  her  blind  power,  dynamically ,  but  through 
her  form,  as  a  moral  force,  in  one  word,  that  she 
should  triumph  by  virtue  of  an  internal  order  and 
beauty,  not  by  the  brute  forces  of  external  sense. 
Not  the  insufficiency,  but  the  unfitness  of  art  has 
to  secure  the  triumph  of  nature;  for  insufficiency 
implies  want,  and  nothing  that  originates  in  want 
can  elicit  our  respect.  In  the  naivete  of  surprise, 
it  is  the  superiority  of  the  passion  and  the  want 
of  a  proper  presence  of  mind  which  characterizes 
the  manifestation  of  nature;  but  this  want,  and 
yonder  superiority,  do  not  constitute  the  essence 
of  naivete,  they  simply  furnish  an  opportunity 
enabling  nature  to  act  without  opposition  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  her  moral  attribute,  and  with  the 
law  of  agreement. 

A  naivete  occasioning  surprise  can  only  be  at¬ 
tributed  to  man,  and  to  him  only  in  so  far  as  he 
ceases  at  that  moment  to  be  pure  and  innocent 
nature.  It  presupposes  the  existence  of  a  will 
which  no  longer  accords  with  what  nature  accom¬ 
plishes  on  her  own  responsibility.  Such  an  indi¬ 
vidual,  when  recovering  his  calm  presence  of 
mind,  will  seem  frightened  at  himself ;  if  he  is 
naively  disposed,  he  will  on  the  contrary  wonder 
at  men  and  at  their  amazement.  Since  it  is  not  the 
moral  and  personal  character,  but  a  natural  char¬ 
acter  emancipated  from  the  thralldom  of  passion, 
that  here  manifests  itself  in  all  truthfulness,  we  do 
not  consider  this  sincerity  as  meritorious,  and 
our  smile  assumes  the  form  of  a  well-deserved  de¬ 
rision  which  is  not  prevented  by  the  personal  es¬ 
teem  that  we  feel  for  the  individual.  But  since 
here,  too,  it  is  the  sincerity  of  nature  that  breaks 
through  the  vail  of  falsehood,  a  satisfaction  of  a 
higher  grade  accompanies  our  mischievous  exulta¬ 
tion  at  having  surprised  a  man  in  his  weakness ; 
for  nature  as  contrasted  with  affectation,  and 
truth  as  contrasted  with  deception  must  necessa¬ 
rily  excite  respect.  Hence  a  naivete  which  causes 
surprise,  likewise  affords  us  a  moral  satisfaction, 
although  not,  perhaps,  induced  by  a  moral  char¬ 
acter .* 

When  naivete  surprises  us,  we  indeed  respect 
nature,  because  we  cannot  help  respecting  truth  ; 
but  if  naivete  characterizes  the  sentiment,  we  re¬ 
spect  the  person ,  and  hence  not  only  enjoy  a 

it  affects  us  as  something  natural  (naive),  if  the  free 
growth  of  unaccommodating  branches  annihilates  in  some 
French  garden  the  laborious  work  of  the  shears.  It  is  not 
natural  (naive),  if  a  trained  horse  performs  badly  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  his  natural  awkwardness;  but  there  is  some¬ 
thing  natural  (naive)  in  his  forgetting  the  lesson  from  an 
exuberance  of  natural  freedom. 

*  Since  naivete  depends  upon  the  form  how  a  thing  is 
said  or  done,  this  property  is  lost  sight  of  as  soon  as  the 
thing  itself,  either  on  account  of  its  causes  or  its  conse¬ 
quences,  makes  an  overwhelming  or  rather  contrary  im¬ 
pression  upon  us.  A  naivete  of  this  sort  may  lead  to  the 
discovery  of  a  crime;  but  in  such  a  case  we  lack  both 
the  necessary  repose  and  the  leisure  to  direct  our  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  form  of  the  discovery,  and  the  abhorrence 
of  the  personal  character  absorbs  our  delight  in  the 
exhibition  of  natural  movements.  For  the  same  reason 
that  the  revolted  moral  sense  deprives  us  of  all  pleasure 
in  the  sincerity  of  natural  manifestations  as  soon  as  the 
naivete  of  the  perpetrator  leads  to  the  discovery  of  his 
guilt,  the  excited  pity  stifles  every  tendency  to  mischiev 
ous  pleasure;  as  soon  as  we  perceive  the  danger  to  which 
a  person  becomes  exposed  in  consequence  of  his  naivete. 


552 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


moral  pleasure,  but  the  pleasure  is  caused  by  a 
moral  object.  In  either  case,  nature  is  right  in 
speaking  the  truth ;  but  in  the  last-mentioned  case, 
nature  is  not  only  right,  but  the  person  is  at  the 
same  tinre  honored.  Tn  the  first  case  the  sin¬ 
cerity  of  nature  always  redounds  to  the  person’s  dis¬ 
grace,  because  it  is  involuntary;  in  the  second  case, 
it  redounds  to  the  person’s  merit,  even  if  that  which 
is  actually  expressed  should  be  calculated  to  ex¬ 
cite  our  contempt. 

We  attribute  naive  sentiments  to  a  man,  if  his 
judgment  of  things  is  based  upon  simple  nature, 
not  upon  their  artificial  value  and  relations. 
Whatever  can  be  said  of  them  within  the  limits 
of  genuine  nature,  we  expect  him  to  utter,  and 
only  excuse  him  for  not  saying  any  thing  that  im¬ 
plies  an  alienation  from  nature,  be  it  in  the  sphere 
of  thought  or  that  of  emotions. 

When  a  father  tells  his  son  that  a  poor  man  is 
starving,  and  if  the  son  tenders  his  father’s  purse 
to  the  poor  man,  this  act  is  naive ;  for  the  act  was 
prompted  by  the  child’s  unsophisticated  nature, 
and  in  a  society  where  true  nature  rules,  this  act 
would  have  been  perfectly  right.  The  son  thought 
of  nothing  but  the  man’s  want,  and  of  the  nearest 
means  of  relieving  it ;  an  extension  of  the  right  of 
property  which  may  involve  the  ruin  of  a  portion 
of  mankind,  is  not  founded  in  simple  nature.  The 
child’s  act  shames  the  real  world,  and  our  hearts 
confirm  this  sentiment  by  the  delight  which  they 
experience  at  the  child’s  conduct. 

If  a  man  of  good  mind,  but  without  any  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  world,  confesses  his  secrets  to  another 
man  who  deceives  him,  but  who  knows  how  to 
feign  his  part ;  and  if  this  sincerity  furnishes  to 
this  impostor  the  means  of  injuring  his  victim,  we 
designate  the  latter’s  conduct  as  naive.  We  laugh 
at  his  simplicity,  and  yet  we  cannot  help  esteeming 
him  on  this  account.  For  his  confidence  in  the 
other  party  emanates  from  the  loyalty  of  his  own 
sentiments ;  at  any  rate  his  conduct  can  only  be 
considered  naive  in  so  far  as  this  is  the  case. 

Naivete  of  thought  can  never  be  the  property 
of  corrupt  men,  but  appertains  exclusively  to 
children  and  to  childlike  persons  generally. 
These  very  frequently  act  with  naivete  in  the 
midst  of  the  artificial  manners  and  complications 
of  the  fashionable  world ;  the  abundance  of  their 
own  beautiful  humanity  makes  them  forget  that 
they  are  living  in  a  corrupt  world  ;  even  at  royal 
courts  they  act  with  the  ingenuity  and  innocence 
which  is  said  to  have  been  peculiar  to  the  pas¬ 
toral  age. 

However  it  is  rot  always  easy  to  correctly  dis¬ 
criminate  between  childish  and  childlike  inno¬ 
cence,  since  there  are  actions  which  hover  be¬ 
tween  these  two  states  of  the  soul  close  to  the 
confines  of  each,  and  where  we  are  absolutely  left 
in  doubt  whether  we  ought  to  laugh  at  the  absurd 
childishness,  or  esteem  the  noble  simplicity  of 
their  authors.  A  remarkable  instance  of  this  kind 
may  be  read  of  in  the  history  of  Pope  Adrian  YI. 
which  has  been  written  by  Professor  Schroeckh, 
with  the  thoroughness  and  historic  truth  peculiar 
to  this  author.  This  pope,  a  native  Netherlander, 
administered  the  papacy  at  one  of  the  most 
critical  periods  of  the  Roman  See,  when  the  weak¬ 
nesses  of  the  Romish  Church  were  laid  bare  by 


an  intensely  hostile  party  without  mercy,  and  th« 
opposite  party  was  most  deeply  interested  tc 
cover  them  up.  The  question  here  is  not  what  a 
naive  character — if  such  a  character  could  by  anj 
possibility  occupy  the  chair  of  Peter — should  havlB 
done  in  such  an  emergency,  but  how  far  naivete  of 
sentiment  was  compatible  with  the  position  of 
pope.  This  point  never  embarrassed  either 
Adrian’s  predecessors  or  successors.  But  Adrian 
had  preserved  the  loyal  character  of  his  nation,  and 
the  innocence  of  his  former  condition.  From  the 
narrow  sphere  of  a  savant  he  had  been  elevated  to 
his  exalted  office,  and  had  remained  faithful  to  his 
simplicity  even  amid  the  splendors  of  his  new  dig¬ 
nity.  He  was  deeply  moved  by  the  abuses  of  the 
church,  and  he  was  too  honest  to  cover  up  in  public 
by  hypocritical  appearances  what  he  silently  con¬ 
demned.  In  conformity  with  these  sentiments  he 
was  induced  to  admit  facts  in  his  instructions  to 
the  legate  whom  he  sent  to  Germany,  such  as  no 
pope  had  ever  admitted  before,  and  which  were 
diametrically  opposed  to  the  established  policy  of 
the  court  of  Rome.  “  We  know,”  he  said  among 
other  things,  “that  this  See  has  been  stained  for 
years  past  by  many  abominations  ;  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  disease  has  spread  from  the  head  to  the 
members,  from  the  pope  to  the  prelates.”  In 
another  passage  he  makes  these  statements: 
“  We  all  have  swerved  from  the  path  of  duty,  and, 
for  a  long  time  past,  not  one  of  us,  no,  not  one, 
has  done  any  thing  good.”  And  he  instructs  his 
legate  to  declare  “that  he,  Adrian,  should  not 
be  blamed  for  the  sins  which  his  predecessors  had 
committed,  and  that  such  excesses  had  excited  his 
displeasure  even  at  a  time  when  he  was  still  living 
in  his  humble  condition,  &c.”  It  maybe  sup¬ 
posed  how  this  naivete  was  received  by  the  Ro¬ 
man  clergy ;  the  least  accusation  preferred 
against  him  was,  that  he  had  betrayed  the  church 
into  the  hands  of  the  heretics.  This  popish 
indiscretion  would,  however,  be  worthy  of  our 
undivided  esteem  and  admiration,  if  we  could  but 
feel  satisfied  that  it  was  really  prompted  by  nai¬ 
vete  or  a  natural  truthfulness  of  sentiment,  with¬ 
out  any  regard  for  the  possible  consequences,  and 
that  the  pope  would  have  taken  this  step  even  if 
he  had  comprehended  the  impropriety  thereof  in 
its  full  extent.  But  we  have  reason  to  believe 
that  he  did  not  regard  this  step  as  impolitic,  and 
that  in  his  innocence  he  went  so  far  as  to  hope 
that  his  forbearance  toward  his  opponents  would 
gain  important  advantages  for  the  benefit  of  the 
church.  He  not  only  fancied  that  as  an  honest 
man  he  was  bound  to  take  this  step,  but  that  as 
pope  he  might  assume  the  responsibility,  and  for¬ 
getting  that  the  most  artificial  of  all  structures 
could  only  be  preserved  by  a  continued  denial  of 
the  truth,  he  committed  the  unpardonable  blunder 
of  pursuing  a  conduct  which  might  have  proved 
satisfactory  under  ordinary  circumstances,  but 
was  ill  adapted  to  an  opposite  state  of  things. 
These  facts  greatly  alter  our  judgment;  and  al¬ 
though  we  cannot  deny  our  esteem  to  the  honest 
heart  from  which  such  conduct  flowed,  yet  this 
esteem  is  necessarily  impaired  by  the  consideration 
that  in  Adrian’s  case  nature  was  too  feebly  op¬ 
posed  by  art,  and  the  heart  too  feebly  by  the  head. 

True  genius  must  be  characterized  by  naivete,  or 


iESTHETICAL. 


553 


else  it  is  not  genius.  Naivete  makes  it  genius  ; 
it  cannot  repudiate  in  the  moral  sphere  what  it  is 
in  the  sphere  of  intelligence  and  aesthetic  cul¬ 
ture.  Unacquainted  with  rules,  these  crutches 
of  weakness  and  these  disciplining  overseers  of 
perversity ;  guided  only  by  nature  or  instinct 
as  its  guardian-angels,  it  passes  quietly  and 
safely  through  the  mazes  of  false  taste,  in  which 
those  who  are  deficient  in  genius,  are  invariably 
caught,  unless  they  have ’sense  enough  to  avoid 
the  danger  before  it  is  too  late.  It  is  only 
given  to  genius  to  feel  at  home  even  among  stran¬ 
gers  and  strange  scenes,  and  to  enlarge  the  boun¬ 
daries  of  nature  without  transgressing  them. 
Into  this  last  error  even  the  greatest  geniuses 
may  fall  at  times,  but  only  because  they  too  have 
their  fancies,  where  protecting  nature  forsakes 
them,  be  it  because  they  are  carried  away  by  the 
power  of  example  or  misguided  by  the  depraved 
taste  of  their  age. 

The  most  complicated  problems  are  solved  by 
genius  with  unostentatious  simplicity  and  ease  ; 
the  egg  of  Columbus  is  applicable  to  every  mani¬ 
festation  of  ingenuity.  What  stamps  it  as  genius 
is  the  simplicity  by  which  it  triumphs  over  the 
entangled  complications  of  art.  Its  actions  are 
not  guided  by  recognized  principles,  but  by  intui¬ 
tions  and  impressions  ;  but  these  intuitions  are 
the  inspirations  of  a  god  (whatever  is  done  by 
unsophisticated  nature,  bears  the  impress  of  di¬ 
vinity),  they  become  the  laws  of  ages  and  of  suc¬ 
cessive  generations. 

The  childlike  character  which  the  works  of  a 
man  of  genius  reflect,  is  likewise  seen  in  his  private 
life  and  manners.  He  loves  propriety,  because 
nature  always  does ;  but  he  is  no  fashionable 
formulist,  because  only  perverse  natures  can  as¬ 
sume  such  a  part.  He  is  intelligent,  because 
nature  can  never  be  otherwise,  but  he  is  not  art¬ 
ful,  for  only  art  can  be  so.  He  is  true  to  his  cha¬ 
racter  and  inclinations,  but  not  so  much  because 
he  acts  from  principle,  as  because  nature,  in  spite 
of  all  changes  and  oscillations,  always  resumes 
her  genuine  character,  and  recalls  the  original 
necessities.  He  is  modest,  even  timid,  because 
genius  always  remains  a  mystery  to  itself ;  but  he 
is  not  anxious,  for  he  knows  not  the  dangers  of 
the  road  upon  which  he  is  journeying.  We  know 
but  little  of  the  private  life  of  the  greatest  ge¬ 
niuses,  but  our  statement  is  confirmed  even  by 
the  little  which  has  been  preserved  of  the  life  of 
Sophocles,  Archimedes,  Hippocrates,  and  more 
recently  of  Ariosto,  Dante,  Tasso,  Rafaele,  Al¬ 
brecht  Diirer,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  Fielding, 
Sterne,  and  others. 

Yea,  what  seems  still  more  difficult  of  explana¬ 
tion,  even  great  statesmen  and  generals,  whom 
genius  exalts,  will  show  naivete  of  character. 
Among  the  ancients  this  fact  is  illustrated  by 
Epaminondas  and  Julius  Cesar,  among  the  mo¬ 
derns  by  Henry  IV.  of  France,  Gustavus  Adol¬ 
phus  of  Sweden  and  the  Czar  Peter  the  Great. 
This  character  is  likewise  displayed  by  the  Dukes 
of  Marlborough,  Turenne,  Yendome.  In  the 
other  sex  nature  shows  us  the  naivete  o:  charac¬ 
ter  in  its  most  perfect  beauty.  A  woman’s  desire 
to  please  aspires  at  nothing  more  than  at  appear¬ 
ing  naive  or  natural ;  this  would  show,  even  if 


every  other  proof  were  wanting,  that  the  influence 
of  the  sex  is  mainly  owing  to  this  quality.  But 
inasmuch  as  the  ruling  maxims  in  female  educa¬ 
tion  are  everlastingly  conflicting  with  naivete  of 
character,  woman  has  as  much  difficulty  in  moral 
things  as  man  has  in  intellectual,  to  preserve  this 
exquisite  boon  of  nature  intact,  together  with  the 
advantages  of  education  ;  and  the  woman  who 
combines  with  the  manners  of  society  this  naivete 
of  character,  is  as  estimable  as  the  savant  who 
unites  with  the  most  rigid  dogmatism  of  the 
school  the  most  boundless  freedom  of  imaginative 
thought. 

Naivete  of  thought  naturally  leads  to  naivete 
of  expression  in  speech  as  well  as  motion  ;  it  con¬ 
stitutes  the  most  important  element  of  graceful¬ 
ness.  This  natural  gracefulness  or  naivete  of 
style  characterizes  the  most  sublime  and  most 
profound  thoughts  of  genius  ;  they  are  divine  ora¬ 
cles  issuing  from  the  lips  of  childhood.  Whereas 
the  dogmatic  understanding,  always  afraid  of 
mistakes,  tortures  its  words  and  its  conceptions 
by  the  requirements  of  grammar  and  logic  ;  be¬ 
comes  hard  and  rigid  in  order  not  to  be  vague ; 
indulges  in  a  profusion  of  words  to  say  but  little, 
and  diminishes  the  vigor  and  directness  of  thought 
lest  its  sharp  edge  should  prove  too  cutting  for 
the  indiscreet  reader :  genius,  by  a  single  stroke 
of  the  pencil,  imparts  to  its  own  thoughts  a  per¬ 
manent,  fixed,  and  yet  perfectly  free,  form  of  ex¬ 
pression.  Whereas  in  the  former  case,  the  sign 
and  that  which  it  was  intended  to  convey,  remain 
forever  estranged  :  here,  on  the  contrary,  where 
genius  wields  the  language,  it  seems  as  though 
some  internal  necessity  caused  it  to  start  forth 
from  thought,  with  which  it  is  so  completely 
identified  that  the  pure  spirit  may  be  seen  as  if 
divested  of  its  material  envelope.  It  is  such  a 
form  of  expression  where  the  sign  and  the  repre¬ 
sented  idea  are  completely  one,  and  where  the 
language  still  allows  us  to  perceive  the  naked 
thought  as  it  were,  wrhereas  the  dogmatic  form 
conceals  thought  rather  than  expresses  it :  that 
the  appellation  of  genial  and  intellectually-bril- 
liant  is  more  especially  applied  to. 

Freely  and  naturally,  like  genius  in  the  pro¬ 
ductions  of  mind,  the  heart’s  innocence  reveals 
itself  in  social  intercourse.  It  is  well  known  that 
in  social  life  we  have  receded  from  the  simplicity 
and  rigid  truth  of  expression  in  the  same  ratio  as 
we  have  abandoned  the  simplicity  of  sentiment ; 
and  the  consciousness  of  guilt  which  is  so  easily 
hurt,  as  well  as  the  readily-seduced  imagination 
have  rendered  an  anxious  propriety  necessary. 
Without  being  false  we  frequently  talk  differently 
from  what  we  think  ;  we  have  to  resort  to  circuitous 
forms  of  expression  in  order  to  say  things  which 
only  hurt  a  morbid  self-love  and  only  endanger  a 
perverse  fancy.  Ignorance  of  these  conventional 
laws,  accompanied  with  natural  sincerity,  which 
despises  crooked  ways  and  false  appearances  (not 
rudeness,  which  treats  the  forms  of  social  inter¬ 
course  slightingly  because  they  are  troublesome 
to  all  rude  persons),  engenders  a  certain  naivete 
of  expression  which  consists  in  designating  by 
their  true  name  things  that  should  only  be 
alluded  to  indirectly  or  not  at  all.  To  this  class 
belong  the  ordinary  appellations  used  by  children. 


554 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


The  contrast  between  such  names  and  the  cus¬ 
tomary  forms  of  speech  excites  our  laughter ; 
nevertheless  we  have  to  admit  in  our  hearts  that 
the  child  is  right. 

Naivete  of  sentiment  can,  it  is  true,  only  be  at¬ 
tributed  to  man  as  a  being  which  is  not  under  the 
absolute  control  of  nature,  although  it  can  be 
done  only  in  so  far  as  genuine  nature  is  still  active 
in  him  ;  but  a  poetizing  imagination  frequently 
transfers  naivete  from  rational  to  irrational  be¬ 
ings.  We  frequently  attribute  to  animals,  land¬ 
scapes,  edifices,  even  to  nature  herself,  a  character 
of  naivete  in  opposition  to  man’s  arbitrary  dis¬ 
positions  and  fanciful  notions.  This  renders  it 
necessary  that  we  should  suppose  volition  inhe¬ 
rent  in  that  which  in  our  thoughts  is  without  will, 
and  that  we  should  rigidly  cause  it  to  conform  to 
the  law  of  necessity.  The  dissatisfaction  which 
we  experience  at  our  own  abuse  of  our  moral 
liberty,  and  at  the  want  of  moral  harmony  in  our 
actions,  is  apt  to  induce  a  state  of  mind  where  we 
address  an  irrational  object  like  a  personality, 
envying  its  calm  appearance  and  praising  its  per¬ 
petual  uniformity  as  though  it  had  actually  been 
tempted  to  realize  a  contrary  state.  At  such 
times  it  is  befitting  that  we  should  look  upon  the 
prerogative  of  reason  as  a  curse  and  an  evil,  and 
that  the  intense  consciousness  of  the  imperfection 
of  our  actual  performances  should  make  us  forget 
our  moral  faculties  and  our  destiny. 

In  such  a  case  we  regard  irrational  nature  as 
a  fortunate  sister  who  remained  behind  in  her 
mother’s  home,  out  of  which  the  exuberant  en¬ 
joyment  of  freedom  had  driven  us  into  foreign 
lands.  With  painful  longings  w?e  desire  to  return 
to  our  old  home,  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  feel  the 
oppressive  weight  of  culture,  and  in  the  foreign 
abode  of  art  hear  the  mother’s  touching  voice. 
As  long  as  we  lived  as  the  simple  children  of  na¬ 
ture,  we  were  happy  and  perfect;  now  we  have  be¬ 
come  emancipated,  losing  both  happiness  and 
perfection  as  a  consequence  of  our  freedom.  This 
begets  a  double  and  exceedingly  unequal  longing 
for  nature,  a  longing  for  her  bliss,  and  a  longing 
for  her  perfection.  The  loss  of  the  former  is 
only  complained  of  by  the  sensual  man  ;  only  the 
moral  man  mourns  the  loss  of  the  latter. 

Ask  thyself,  sensitive  friend  of  nature,  whether 
thy  indolence  is  languishing  after  her  repose, 
whether  thy  offended  morality  is  languishing  after 
her  accord.  Ask  thyself  very  carefully,  when  art 
disgusts  thee,  and  the  abuses  of  society  drive 
thee  to  the  solitude  of  inanimate  nature,  whether 
it  is  the  privations,  the  burdens,  the  fatigues  of 
social  life  from  which  thou  wishest  to  escape,  or 
whether  it  is  the  moral  anarchy,  the  despotic 
regulations  and  disorders  of  society  which  thou 
loathest.  Into  the  former  thou  shouldst  rush  with 
courageous  boldness,  and  the  liberty  from  which 
these  evils  flow,  should  be  thy  indemnification. 
Thou  mayest  indeed  set  up  the  quiet  happiness  of 
nature  as  thy  distant  aim,  but  the  happiness 
should  be  the  reward  of  thy  own  worthiness. 
Away  with  all  complaints  about  the  hardships 
of  life,  about  the  inequality  of  conditions,  about 
the  oppression  of  circumstances,  the  precarious¬ 
ness  of  possession,  about  ingratitude,  oppression, 
persecution  ;  thou  shouldst  freely  and  resignedly 


submit  to  all  the  evils  of  culture ;  thou  shouldst 
respect  them  as  the  natural  conditions  of  true 
goodness  ;  it  is  only  the  depravity  of  culture  which 
thou  shouldst  lament,  but  not  with  idle  tears.  On 
the  contrary,  see  to  it  that  thou  remainest  pure 
in  the  midst  of  those  profanations,  free  in  the 
midst  of  bondage,  constant  in  spite  of  these  ca¬ 
pricious  changes,  and  that  thou  actest  according 
to  law  in  the  midst  of  that  anarchy.  Fear  not 
the  confusion  outside  of  thee,  but  the  confusion 
within  ;  aspire  at  unity,  but  do  not  expect  to  find 
it  in  uniformity ;  aspire  at  repose,  but  only 
through  equilibrium,  not  by  arresting  thy  ac¬ 
tivity.  Yonder  nature  which  thou  enviest  in  ir¬ 
rational  things,  is  unworthy  of  thy  respect,  or  of 
thy  aspirations.  She  is  behind  thee,  and  will  ever 
be  behind  thee.  Abandoned  by  the  ladder  which 
carried  thee  upward,  thou  hast  no  choice  left  ex¬ 
cept  to  accept  the  law  with  a  free  conscience  and 
will,  or  else  to  sink  hopelessly  into  a  bottomless 
abyss. 

But.  after  consoling  thvself  for  the  loss  of  na- 

O  v 

ture’s  happiness,  let  her  perfection  serve  as  a 
model  to  thy  heart.  On  stepping  out  of  thy  circle 
of  artificial  life;  when  beholding  her  in  her  great 
tranquillity,  in  her  simple  beauty,  in  her  child¬ 
like  innocence,  dwell  upon  this  image,  nurse  this 
sentiment  which  is  worthy  of  thy  most  exalted 
humanity.  Never  dream  of  exchanging  thy  lot 
for  hers,  but  receive  her  into  thy  being,  strive  tc 
ally  her  infinite  advantages  with  thy  own  infinite 
prerogative,  and  to  bring  forth  divine  fruit  by 
means  of  this  union.  Let  her  surround  thee  like 
a  sweet  idyl  where  thou  mayest  ever  find  thyself 
back  again  amid  the  aberrations  of  art,  where 
thou  mayest  find  courage  and  new  confidence  for 
the  race,  and  where  thou  mayest  anew  kindle  in 
thy  heart  the  flame  of  the  ideal  which  is  so  easily 
extinguished  by  the  storms  of  life. 

If  we  recollect  the  beautiful  nature  which  sur¬ 
rounded  the  ancient  Greeks  ;  if  we  reflect  in  what 
intimacy  this  people  lived  under  its  happy  sky 
with  free  nature,  how  much  nearer  to  simple 
nature  rvere  its  conceptions,  sensations,  and  cus¬ 
toms,  and  how  faithfully  she  is  pictured  in  its 
poems,  it  must  seem  strange  that  so  few  traces 
of  sentimental  interest,  with  which  we  moderns 
cling  to  natural  scenes  and  natural  characters, 
are  found  among  the  Greeks.  The  Greek  is  emi¬ 
nently  correct,  true  and  circumstantial  in  his  de¬ 
scriptions  of  nature,  but  no  more  so,  nor  wflth 
any  more  cordial  interest  than  he  manifests  in  the 
description  of  a  costume,  a  shield,  a  cuirass,  a 
piece  of  furniture,  or  some  other  mechanical  pro¬ 
duct.  In  his  affection  for  the  object  he  does  not 
seem  to  discriminate  between  that  which  is  self- 
created,  and  that  which  owes  its  origin  to  art  and 
the  human  will.  Nature  seems  to  interest  his 
understanding  and  his  desire  of  knowledge  more 
than  his  moral  sentiment ;  he  is  not  like  the 
modern,  attached  to  nature  with  an  intense  sen¬ 
sitiveness  and  a  sweet  emotion.  Nay,  by  person¬ 
ifying  and  deifying  her  isolated  phenomena,  and 
by  representing  her  effects  as  the  actions  of  free 
beings,  he  neutralizes  the  calm  necessity  in 
her  interior  mechanism,  through  which  she  be¬ 
comes  so  attractive  to  us.  His  impatient  phan¬ 
tasy  carries  him  far  beyond  her  to  the  drama  of 


JESTHETICAL. 


555 


human  life.  It  is  only  the  living  and  the  free, 
only  characters,  actions,  adventures,  and  customs 
that  satisfy  him,  and  whereas  ive  may  be  induced, 
in  certain  moral  states  of  the  mind,  to  desire  to 
give  up  the  privilege  of  our  free  will,  which  ex¬ 
poses  us  to  so  many  struggles  against  ourselves, 
to  so  many  anxieties  and  errors,  for  the  inevitable 
but  calm  necessity  of  irrational  creatures :  the 
phantasy  of  the  Greeks,  on  the  contrary,  is  intent 
upon  commencing  the  play  of  human  nature  even 
in  the  empire  of  inanimate  matter,  and  to  accord 
to  the  will  an  influence  in  spheres  where  a  blind 
necessity  rules. 

Whence  these  mental  differences?  How  hap¬ 
pens  it  that  we  who  are  so  greatly  surpassed  by 
the  ancients  in  every  thing  concerning  nature,  do 
homage  to  nature  with  a  more  exalted  spirit,  are 
attached  to  her  with  the  intensity  of  love,  and 
even  embrace  inanimate  creation  with  the  warmth 
of  emotion  ?  It  is  because  with  us  nature  has 
disappeared  among  men,  and  we  meet  her  in  her 
truth  only  outside  of  us.  in  the  inanimate  king¬ 
doms  of  matter.  Not  a  greater*  agreement  with 
nature ,  on  the  contrary,  the  unnaturalness  of  our 
social  relations,  conditions  and  customs,  impels 
us  to  seek  for  the  awakening  impulses  of  truth 
and  simplicity,  which,  like  the  moral  capacity 
from  which  they  emanate,  remain  incorruptible 
and  inextinguishable  in  all  human  hearts,  a  grati¬ 
fication  in  the  physical  world  which  they  are  no 
longer  able  to  obtain  in  the  moral.  For  this 
reason  it  is  that  the  feeling  with  which  we  cling 
to  nature,  is  so  nearly  akin  to  the  feeling  with 
which  we  mourn  over  the  past  age  of  childhood 
and  childlike  innocence.  Our  childhood  is  the 
only  unmutilated  nature  which  we  still  meet  with 
among  cultivated  mankind;  hence  it  is  no  wonder 
that  every  trace  of  nature  outside  of  us  should 
lead  us  back  to  our  childish  days. 

It  was  very  different  among  the  ancient  Greeks.* 
Among  them  culture  did  not  degenerate  to  an 
extent  which  caused  them  to  forget  nature.  The 
whole  structure  of  their  social  life  was  built  upon 
natural  emotions,  not  upon  the  artificial  founda¬ 
tions  of  art;  their  mythology  itself  was  the  inspi¬ 
ration  of  a  naive  sentiment,  the  outbirth  of  a  buoy¬ 
ant  imagination,  not  of  scrutinizing  reason  like 
the  dogmatic  faith  of  modern  nations.  Hence 
the  Greek,  not  having  lost  nature  in  humanity, 
could  not  be  surprised  by  her  outside  of  himself, 
nor  could  he  feel  such  a  pressing  desire  for  objects 
in  which  he  found  his  own  nature  represented.  In 

*  Only  among  the  Greeks:  for  the  intensity  of  move¬ 
ment,  and  the  fullness  of  life  which  surrounded  the 
Greeks,  were  required,  in  order  to  infuse  life  into  inani¬ 
mate  nature,  and  to  pursue  the  image  of  humanity  with 
go  much  zeal.  Ossian’s  human  world  was  scanty  and 
monotonous,  but  inanimate  nature  around  him  was  vast, 
colossal,  mighty,  imposing  and  maintaining  her  rights 
over  man.  In  the  songs  of  this  poet,  inanimate  nature 
(as  contrasted  with  man)  is  much  more  prominent  as  an 
object  of  our  emotions.  However,  even  Ossian  complains 
of  a  decay  of  humanity,  and  how  restricted  soever  the  ex¬ 
tent  of  culture  and  depravity  was  among  his  people,  yet 
the  reality  was  felt  with  sufficient  intensity  and  penetra¬ 
ting  force,  to  frighten  the  sensitive  moral  poe.t  back  to 
inanimate  nature,  and  to  spread  over  his  songs  the  ele¬ 
giac  mantle  which  makes  them  so  touching  and  so  at¬ 
tractive  to  the  present  age. 


accord  with  himself,  and  happy  in  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  his  humanity,  he  necessarily  regarded  it 
as  the  acme  of  perfection,  and  endeavored  to  ap¬ 
proximate  every  thing  else  to  it,  whereas  we,  in 
disharmony  with  ourselves,  and  unfortunate  in  our 
experience  of  mankind,  know  of  nothing  more 
urgent  than  to  flee  from  human  society,  and  to 
remove  such  an  imperfect  form  from  our  sight. 

The  feeling  to  which  I  allude,  is  not  the  same 
which  the  ancients  had,  but  is  rather  akin  to  that 
which  we  have  for  the  ancients.  Their  feelings 
were  natural;  we  have  a  feeling  for  the  natural. 
The  feeling  which  moved  Homer’s  soul  when  he 
caused  his  divine  sowherd  to  treat  Ulysses,  differed 
undoubtedly  from  that  which  moved  the  soul  of 
young  Werther  when  reading  this  song  after  the 
breaking  up  of  a  fatiguing  party.  Our  feeling  for 
nature  resembles  the  feeling  which  a  sick  person 
experiences  for  health. 

In  proportion  as  nature  disappeared  from  hu¬ 
man  life  as  an  actuality,  and,  as  the  active  and 
sentient  subject,  we  see  her  rise  in  the  world  of 
poetry,  as  an  idea  and  an  obiect.  The  nation 
which  had  receded  furthest  from  tne  path  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  had  reflected  on  this  deviation  more  than 
any  other,  had  to  be  the  first  that  was  most  pow¬ 
erfully  moved  by  the  phenomenon  of  naivete,  and 
had  to  confer  upon  it  its  present  appellation.  This 
nation  was  the  French,  as  far  as  I  know.  But  the 
sentiment  of  naivete,  and  the  interest  which  it  in¬ 
spires,  is  much  more  remote,  and  dates  from  the 
beginning  of  moral  and  aesthetic  culture.  This 
change  in  the  emotions  is  already  strikingly  per¬ 
ceptible  in  Euripides,  if  we  contrast  this  author 
with  his  predecessors,  iEschylus,  for  instance  ; 
and  yet  the  former  was  the  favorite  of  his  age. 
A  similar  revolution  took  place  among  the  old 
historians.  Horace,  the  poet  of  a  cultivated  and 
depraved  age,  praises  the  calm  bliss  of  his  Tibur  ; 
he  might  be  called  the  true  founder  of  this  style 
of  poetry,  where  he  still  is  an  unsurpassed  model. 
In  Propertius,  Virgil,  and  others,  we  likewise  dis¬ 
cover  traces  of  this  style  of  feeling,  less  in  Ovid, 
who  was  too  deficient  in  fullness  of  heart,  and 
who  laments  in  his  exile  at  Tomi,  the  loss  of  a 
bliss,  which  Horace  was  so  willing  to  do  without 
in  his  Tibur. 

Poets  are  by  their  calling  the  preservers  of  na¬ 
ture.  Where  they  are  no  longer  able  to  preserve 
nature,  and  where  they  have  experienced  in  their 
own  persons  the  destructive  influence  of  conven¬ 
tional  forms,  or  have  had  to  contend  against  it, 
they  will  rise  up  as  the  witnesses  and  avengers  of 
nature.  Either  they  will  therefore  be  nature,  or 
seek  nature  after  it  had  bpen  lose.  Hence  arise 
two  entirely  difl'erent  forms  of  poetry,  which  en¬ 
compass  and  exhaust  the  whole  domain  of  this 
art.  All  poets,  if  they  are  naturally  called  to  be 
poets,  will  either  belong  to  the  naive ,  or  to  the 
sentimental  class,  according  as  is  the  character 
of  the  age  in  which  they  flourish,  or  according  as 
accidental  circumstances  have  an  influence  upon 
their  general  culture  and  upon  their  passing  mood. 

The  poet  of  a  naive  and  intelleetually-brilliant 
epoch  in  the  youth  of  humanity,  as  well  as  he  who 
is  nearest  to  him  in  the  age  of  artificial  culture., 
is  severe  and  rigid  like  the  virginal  Diana  in  her 
forests ;  without  any  familiarity  he  flees  from  the 


55  6 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


heart  that  seeks  him,  or  from  t ne  desire  that 
wants  to  encompass  him.  The  dry  truth  with 
which  he  treats  the  subject,  does  not  infrequently 
seem  an  insensibility.  The  object  has  entire  pos¬ 
session  of  him  ;  his  heart  is  not,  like  a  base  metal, 
situated  directly  under  the  surface,  but,  like  the 
gold,  it  is  deeply  hidden  from  the  light.  Like 
God  behind  the  universe,  he  stands  behind  his 
work  ;  he  is  the  work,  and  the  work  is  he  ;  one 
must  be  unworthy,  or  incapable,  or  no  longer  in 
want  of  the  work,  in  order  even  to  inquire  after 
its  author. 

This  is  the  character  of  Homer  among  the  an¬ 
cients,  and  of  Shakespeare  among  the  moderns  ; 
two  very  different  natures  separated  by  the  im¬ 
measurable  distance  of  ages,  but  completely  iden¬ 
tified  by  this  single  feature  of  their  characters. 
When  I  first  became  acquainted  with  the  last- 
named  poet  at  a  very  early  period  of  my  life,  I 
felt  indignant  at  his  coldness  and  insensibility 
which  permitted  him  to  jest  in  the  midst  of  the 
sublimest  pathos,  to  disturb  the  heart-rending 
scenes  in  Macbeth,  in’ Hamlet,  in  King  Lear,  &c., 
by  a  fool ;  which  at  times  kept  him  chained 
where  my  own  emotions  were  rushing  onward,  and 
at  times  carried  him  unmoved  from  a  scene  upon 
which  my  heart  would  have  desired  to  dwell.  Be¬ 
guiled  by  my  acquaintance  with  modern  poets  into 
looking  for  the  poet  in  his  work,  meeting  his 
heart,  reflecting  vrith  him  in  common  upon  his 
subject,  in  one  word,  into  looking  for  the  subject 
in  the  poet’s  personality,  it  seemed  intolerable 
that  I  could  not  grasp  the  author  anywhere,  and 
that  I  was  debarred  of  the  pleasure  of  inter¬ 
rogating  him.  For  several  years  I  had  wor¬ 
shiped  and  studied  him,  before  I  was  able  to  con¬ 
ceive  any  love  for  his  individuality.  I  was  not 
yet  capable  of  reading  the  book  of  nature  in  the 
original  language.  I  was  only  able  to  bear  her 
image  as  reflected  by  the  understanding  and  con¬ 
trived  by  rule,  and  to  this  purpose  the  sentimental 
poets  of  the  French  and  Germans,  of  the  years 
1750  to  1780,  were  admirably  adapted.  For  the 
matter  of  that,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  puerile 
judgment  since  a  similar  judgment  was  enun¬ 
ciated  by  experienced  critics,  whom  their  naivete 
beguiled  into  proclaiming  it  to  the  world. 

The  same  thing  happened  to  me  in  regard  to 
Homer,  whom  I  learned  to  comprehend  at  a  later 
period.  I  remember  the  celebrated  passage  in 
the  sixth  book  of  the  Iliad,  where  Glaucus  and 
Diomedes  meet  during  the  battle,  and,  having  re¬ 
cognized  each  other  as  hosts,  offer  presents  to 
each  other.  This  touching  instance  of  the  piety 
with  which  the  laws  of  hospitality  were  observed 
even  in  war,  may  be  accompanied  by  a  picture  of 
chivalric  generosity  in  Ariosto,  where  two  knights 
and  rivals,  Ferrau  and  Rinaldo,  the  latter  a  Chris¬ 
tian  and  the  former  a  Saracen,  concluded  a  peace 
after  a  violent  combat,  in  which  they  were  both 
dreadfully  wounded,  and  mounting  the  same  steed, 
hasten  after  the  fugitive  Angelica.  Both  in¬ 
stances,  however  much  they  may  differ  from  each 
other,  have  almost  the  same  effect  upon  our 
hearts,  since  both  picture  the  beautiful  victory  of 
morality  over  passion,  and  touch  us  by  the  naivete 
of  the  sentiment  displayed  by  all  parties.  But 
how  differently  is  the  subject  treated  by  the  two 


poets  !  Ariosto,  living  in  a  -world  whose  morals 
had  lost  a  great  deal  of  their  primitive  simplicity, 
cannot  refrain  from  expressing  his  amazement  and 
his  emotion  on  relating  this  event.  He  is  over¬ 
powered  by  the  contrast  between  the  ancient  loy¬ 
alty  and  the  depravity  which  characterizes  his 
own  age.  Suddenly,  interrupting  the  description 
of  the  scene,  he  expresses  his  personal  feelings 
in  the  beautiful  stanza  which  has  been  so  uni¬ 
versally  admired,  and  where  he  describes  the 
rivals  who  were  enemies  in  faith,  and  were  still 
suffering  acute  pain  from  the  wounds  with  which 
their  bodies  had  been  covered  in  the  bitter  strife, 
as  free  from  all  suspicion,  and  riding  along  the 
dark  and  sinuous  path  ;  the  horse,  pricked  by 
their  four  spurs,  hastening  onward  to  a  point 
where  the  road  became  divided.* 

Now  read  old  Homer!  No  sooner  Diomedes 
is  apprised  by  his  antagonist  Glaucus  that  his 
ancestors  have  ever  been  united  with  the  family 
of  the  former  in  the  bonds  of  hospitality,  when  he 
plants  his  spear  in  the  ground,  addresses  Glaucus 
with  kind  words,  and  agrees  with  him  that  hereafter 
they  will  avoid  each  other  in  combat.  But  hear 
Homer’s  own  words: 

“  I  am  thy  host  now  in  Argos,  thou  in  Lycia 
My  host,  if  ever  I  visit  that  country. 

Let  us  therefore  avoid  the  shock  of  our  lances  in  battle. 
There  are  plenty  of  Trojans,  and  plenty  of  valiant 
helpers, 

I  may  kill  in  this  war,  if  the  gods  and  ipy  coursers 
permit. 

And  many  Achaians  whom  thou,  too,  mayst  kill  if 
thou  choosest; 

But  let  us  exchange  our  armors,  that  others  may  see. 
How  proudly  we  cherish  old  hospitality’s  rights. 

Thus  they  spoke,  and  flung  themselves  down  from  their 
chariots, 

Grasping  each  other’s  hands,  and  vowing  eternal 
friendship.” 

No  modern  poet  (one  wlio  is  a  poet  in  the  moral 
acceptation  of  the  term)  would  probably  have 
waited  thus  far,  to  express  his  delight  at  this  act. 
We  would  excuse  him  the  rather  since  our  heart 
likewise  feels  disposed  while  reading  this  scene, 
to  lose  sight  of  the  object,  and  to  look  into  its 
own  interior.  There  is  no  trace  of  all  this  in 
Homer;  as  though  he  were  relating  an  everyday 
occurrence,  or  even  as  though  no  heart  were  beat¬ 
ing  in  his  bosom,  he  continues  in  his  imperturb¬ 
able  truthfulness  : 

“  Glaucus  was  moved  by  Zeus,  and  he  exchanged  with 
his  friend, 

Without  thought,  his  armor  of  gold  for  one  made  of 
common  brass, 

One  worth  a  hundred,  the  other  nine  talents,  no 
more.’T 

Poets  of  this  naive  character  are  hardly  any 
longer  in  their  places  in  an  affected  age  like  our 
own.  Nor  are  they  any  longer  possible,  cer¬ 
tainly  not  in  any  other  manner  than  by  absolving 
themselves  from  all  the  shackles  of  conventional¬ 
ism  and  by  remaining  intact  under  the  fostering 
3are  of  destiny  from  the  mutilating  influences  of 

*  Rolando  Furioso.  First  canto,  verse  52. 

|  Homer’s  Iliad. 


A2STHETICAL. 


557 


their  age.  Such  poets  can  never  emanate  from 
the  midst  of  society.  They  sometimes  make 
their  appearance  outside  of  the  social  body,  but 
rather  as  strangers  who  are  stared  at,  and  as  de¬ 
generate  sons  of  nature  who  vex  the  rulers  of 
taste.  As  beneficent  as  their  appearance  is  for 
the  artist  who  studies  them,  and  for  the  true 
connoisseur  who  knows  how  to  appreciate  them, 
as  little  success  they  will  meet  with  in  society 
and  in  their  age.  A  monarchical  seal  is  im¬ 
pressed  upon  their  brow ;  we  on  the  contrary 
wish  to  be  rocked  by,  and  carried  in  the  arms  of, 
the  Muses.  The  critics,  these  fence-watchers  of 
taste,  hate  them  as  border-disturbers  whom  they 
would  like  to  see  suppressed;  even  Homer  is 
probably  indebted  to  the  imprescriptible  legiti¬ 
macy  of  his  ancient  power  for  the  respect  with 
which  these  self-appointed  critics  still  treat  him  ; 
they  find  it  hard  work  to  maintain  their  rules 
against  his  example,  and  his  example  against 
their  rules. 

SENTIMENTAL  POETS. 

I  have  said  that  a  poet  either  is  nature  or  else 
will  seek  her.  The  former  makes  him  a  naive,  the 
latter  a  sentimental  poet. 

The  poetical  spirit  is  immortal  and  will  never  be 
lost  in  humanity  ;  it  could  only  be  lost,  if  humanity 
itself  or  the  capacity  for  human  feelings,  should  be 
lost.  For  although  man,  in  consequence  of  the  free¬ 
dom  inherent  in  his  imagination  and  understanding, 
recedes  from  the  simplicity,  truth,  aud  uniform  re¬ 
gularity  of  nature,  yet  the  road  to  nature  not  only 
remains  open  to  him,  but  a  powerful  and  inextin¬ 
guishable  impulse,  which  is  the  moral  impulse, 
stimulates  him  unceasingly  to  return  to  nature  ;  it 
is  with  this  impulse  that  the  poetic  faculty  is  in 
the  closest  relation.  Hence  this  faculty  does  not 
become  extinct  at  the  same  time  that  the  original 
simplicity  is  lost,  it  only  becomes  active  in  another 
direction. 

Even  now  nature  is  the  sole  flame  that  kindles 
and  warms  the  poetic  spirit ;  from  her  alone  it  de¬ 
rives  all  its  power,  to  her  alone  it  speaks  in  man 
-  journeying  onward  on  the  path  of  civilization. 
Any  other  mode  of  manifesting  its  activity,  is 
foreign  to  the  poetic  spirit ;  hence  it  may  be  ob¬ 
served  enpassaiit  that  it  is  wrong  to  apply  the  ap¬ 
pellation  of  poetic  to  any  of  the  so-called  produc¬ 
tions  of  wit,  although  the  authority  which  French 
literature  enjoys,  has  induced  us  for  a  long  time 
past  to  range  them  in  this  category.  I  repeat  that 
even  now,  in  the  present  condition  of  human  Civili¬ 
zation,  it  is  still  nature  which  powerfully  rouses  the 
poetic  spirit,  except  that  its  relation  to  her  is  of  a 
different  order. 

As  long  as  man  continues  to  be  pure  nature 
with  which  we  should  not  confound  raw  or 
savage  nature,  he  acts  as  an  undivided  sensual 
unit  and  harmonious  whole.  The  senses  and  rea¬ 
son,  the  recipient  and  self-acting  powers  of  his 
nature,  have  not  yet  become  at  variance  in  the  per¬ 
formance  of  their  functions,  much  less  are  they  an¬ 
tagonistic  to  each  other.  His  sensations  are  not 
the  shapeless  play  of  chance,  his  thoughts  are  not 
the  meaningless  play  of  the  imaginative  faculty  ; 
the  former  are  the  necessary  results  of  impres¬ 


sions ,  the  latter  emanate  from  the  actuality  of 
things.  If  man  enters  upon  the  path  of  civiliza¬ 
tion,  if  art  begins  to  mould  him,  the  harmony  of 
the  senses  ceases,  and  he  can  only  aspire  at  moral 
unity,  and  manifest  himself  as  such.  The  agree¬ 
ment  between  his  sensations  and  thoughts  which 
was  a  reality  during  his  sensual  state,  now  only  ex¬ 
ists  in  idea  ;  it  exists  no  longer  in  him,  but  out¬ 
side  of  him,  as  a  thought  which  first  has  to  be 
realized,  not  as  a  reality  of  his  existence. 

Applying  the  idea  of  poetry,  which  is  nothing 
else  than  giving  to  humanity  its  most  complete 
expression,  to  those  two  states,  we  find  that  in  the 
former  state  of  natural  simplicity,  where  man  acts 
as  an  harmonious  unity  with  all  his  powers,  where 
his  whole  nature  is  consequently  expressed  in  the 
outer  life,  poetry  consists  in  the  completest  possi¬ 
ble  imitation  of  the  actual ;  and  that  in  the  state 
of  culture,  where  the  harmonious  activity  of  his 
nature  is  a  mere  idea,  poetry  consists  in  the  eleva¬ 
tion  of  the  real  to  the  ideal,  or,  which  means  the 
same  thing,  in  the  representation  or  exhibition  of 
the  ideal.  These  are  the  only  two  possible  modes 
in  which  the  poetic  genius  may  manifest  itself. 
They  evidently  differ  greatly  from  each  other  ;  but 
there  is  a  higher  idea  in  which  both  are  compre¬ 
hended,  and  it  cannot  appear  strange  that  this 
idea  should  coincide  with  the  idea  of  humanity. 

This  is  not  the  place  where  this  idea — which 
can  only  be  fully  elucidated  in  a  special 
treatise — can  be  developed.  Any  one,  however, 
who  knows  how  to  contrast  ancient  and  modern 
poets*  according  to  their  spirit,  not  merely  ac¬ 
cording  to  accidental  forms,  will  soon  become  con¬ 
vinced  of  the  truth  of  my  statement.  Poets  of 
the  first  class  touch  us  by  nature,  by  sensual 
truth,  by  the  living  presence  ;  poets  of  the  second 
class  move  us  by  ideas. 

The  road  upon  which  modern  poets  are  travel¬ 
ing,  is  the  same  upon  which  man  should  travel 
both  individually  and  collectively.  Nature  make3 
him  a  unit,  art  divides  and  disunites  him,  the  ideal 
restores  his  unity.  But  inasmuch  as  the  ideal  is 
something  infinite,  which  man  never  reaches,  the 
cultivated  man  can  never  become  perfect  in  his 
culture,  whereas  the  sensual  man  may  become  a 
perfect  work  of  nature.  Hence  the  former  would 
be  infinitely  less  perfect  than  the  latter,  if  we  only 
consider  the  relation  which  both  of  them  occupy 
to  their  respective  classes  and  to  their  maximum 
of  development.  On  the  contrary,  it  we  compare 
the  two  classes,  we  shall  find  that  the  ideal  end 
which  man  strivesto  realize  by  nature,  is  infinitely 
higher  than  that  which  he  actually  does  realize  by 
the  senses.  One  derives  his  worth  from  the  actual 
attainment  of  a  finite,  the  other  from  the  endless 
approximation  to  an  infinite  greatness.  Inasmuch 

It  may  not  be  superfluous  to  remark  that  if  modern 
poets  are  to  be  contrasted  with  those  of  antiquity,  we 
should  not  only  keep  in  view  the  difference  of  time,  but 
also  that  of  style.  Even  in  recent  times,  and  in  the 
most  recent  period  we  have  had  naive  poetry  of  e^  ery 
variety,  although  not  perfectly  pure  ;  and  among  the  La¬ 
tin,  and  even  among  the  Greek  poets,  sentimental  poetry 
is  not  wanting.  Not  only  in  the  same  poet,  but  also  in 
the  same  work  both  species  are  frequently  found  com¬ 
bined,  as  in  Werther's  Sorrows;  and  it  is  productions  of 
this  character  that  will  always  create  the  greatest  sensa¬ 
tion. 


558 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


as  the  latter  alone  has  degrees  and  admits  of  pro¬ 
gress ,  it  follows  that  the  relative  worth  of  a  man 
who  is  pursuing  the  path  of  culture,  can  never  be 
positively  determined,  although  certain  stages  of 
culture,  if  isolatedly  considered,  may  seem  inferior 
to  a  state  of  development  where  nature  acts  in  all 
her  perfection.  In  so  far  as  the  final  aim  of  hu¬ 
manity  can  only  be  reached  through  progress,  and 
the  sensual  man  cannot  progress  except  by  enter¬ 
ing  unoti  the  path  of  culture,  it  becomes  evident 
that  the  latter,  so  far  as  the  final  destiny  is  con¬ 
cerned,  is  infinitely  superior  to  a  state  of  nature. 

What  is  said  here  of  the  two  different  forms  of 
humanity,  may  likewise  be  applied  to  the  two  cor¬ 
responding  classes  of  poets. 

On  this  account,  ancient  and  modern — naive 
and  sentimental — poets  should  either  not  have 
been  contrasted  at  all,  or  only  under  a  general 
idea  of  a  higher  order.  Indeed  after  having  first 
abstracted  a  one-sided  definition  of  poetry  from 
the  ancient  poets,  nothing  becomes  easier,  but  at 
the’ same  time  nothing  more  trivial  than  to  con¬ 
trast  them  with  modern  poets  to  the  disadvantage 
of  the  latter.  If  we  call  poetry  only  that  which 
has  reference  to  simple  nature,  we  shall  necessa¬ 
rily  have  to  refuse  that  appellation  to  the  works 
of  our  modern  poets  in  their  sublimest  and  special 
province,  since  they  address  more  particularly  the 
pupil  of  art  and  have  but  little  to  say  to  simple 
nature.*  To  him  whose  mind  is  not  prepared  to 
pass  from  the  world  of  actualities  into  the  sphere 
of  ideas,  the  richest  substance  will  appear  like 
hollow  appearance,  and  the  highest  poetical  flight 
mere  extravagance.  No  reasonable  man  will 
think  of  ranging  a  modern  poet  side  by  side  with 
Homer,  in  a  sphere  where  this  poet  is  truly  great, 
and  it  is  absurd  to  designate  Milton  or  Klopstock 
as  modern  Homers,  which  has  actually  been  at¬ 
tempted.  On  the  other  hand,  no  ancient  poet, 
not  even  Homer,  will  stand  a  comparison  with 
modern  poets  in  the  sphere  where  these  excel. 
I  should  say  that  the  power  of  the  former  is 
founded  upon  finite,  and  that  of  the  latter  upon 
infinite  art. 

The  fact  that  the  vigor  of  the  ancient  artist — 
for  what  has  been  said  of  poetry  applies  with 
equal  force  to  the  other  fine  arts,  making  due  al¬ 
lowance,  of  course,  for  the  characteristic  peculi¬ 
arities  of  each,  and  the  modifications  suggested 
thereby  in  our  general  statements, — depends  upon 
the  finiteness  of  his  art,  accounts  for  the  eminent 
superiority  which  the  plastic  arts  of  antiquity  still 
maintain  over  those  of  our  age,  and  in  general  for 

*  In  hb  capacity  as  naive  poet,  Moliere  may  have 
Been  privileged  to  allow  his  servant-maid  to  decide  what 
might  remain  and  what  should  be  omitted  in  his  come¬ 
dies;  it  would  have  been  well,  if  the  masters  of  the 
French  stage,  had  occasionally  instituted  a  similar  expe¬ 
riment  with  their  tragedies.  But  I  would  not  advise  to 
subject  Klopstock’s  Odes,  or  the  most  beautiful  passages 
in  the  Messiad,  in  Paradise  Lost,  in  Nathan  the  Sage, 
and  in  many  other  works,  to  similar  trials.  But  what 
do  I  say  ?  The  trial  has  indeed  been  made,  and  Moliere’s 
servant-maid  in  our  Magazines,  in  philosophical  and 
literary  Annals  and  Travels,  indulges  in  random  criti¬ 
cisms  of  poetry,  art,  and  the  like,  except  that  these 
criticisms  become  much  more  absurd  when  transferred 
from  French  to  German  soil,  or  from  the  parlor  of 
Moliere’s  maid  to  the  lackey-room  of  German  critics. 


I  the  relation  of  inferiority  which  modern  poetry 
and  modern  plastic  art  occupy  toward  correspond¬ 
ing  species  of  art  among  the  ancients.  A  work 
which  is  only  intended  for  the  eye,  finds  its  per¬ 
fection  in  the  definiteness  of  its  forms  ;  a  work 
intended  for  the  imagination  may  acquire  perfec¬ 
tion  by  its  infiniteness.  In  plastic  works  the 
modern  artist  is  not  much  favored  by  the  superi¬ 
ority  of  his  ideas  ;  here  he  is  compelled  to  assign 
definite  limits  in  space  to  the  work  of  his  imagina¬ 
tion,  and  to  measure  his  strength  with  the  ancient 
artist  in  the  very  sphere  where  the  latter  enjoys 
undoubted  advantages.  In  poetical  works  the 
case  is  different ;  and  if  even  here  the  ancient 
poets  triumph  by  the  simplicity  of  their  forms  and 
in  those  subjects  which  are  represented  to  the 
senses,  the  modern  poet  surpasses  them,  in  his  turn, 
by  the  abundance  of  substance,  by  that  which  is 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  plastic  art  and  sensual 
representation,  in  short,  by  that  which  in  works  of 
art  is  designated  as  the  expression  of  intelligence. 
Since  the  naive  poet  has  no  other  model  beside 
simple  nature  and  sensation,  and  confines  himself 
to  the  imitation  of  the  actual,  he  can  only  occupy 
a  single  relation  to  his  subject,  and,  in  this  re¬ 
spect,'  he  has  no  choice  in  its  treatment.  The 
different  degrees  of  impression  which  poems  of  the 
naive  sort  make  upon  us  (provided  we  remove 
from  our  thoughts  every  thing  purely  and  simply 
appertaining  to  the  subject,  and  regard  the  im¬ 
pression  as  the  simple  result  of  the  poetic  treat¬ 
ment)  depend  upon  the  different  degrees  of  one 
and  the  same  quality  of  sensation  ;  even  the  differ¬ 
ences  in  the  external  form  cannot  effect  any  modi¬ 
fications  in  the  quality  of  that  aesthetic  impression. 
Let  the  form  be  lyrical  or  epic,  dramatic  or  de¬ 
scriptive  ;  we  may  be  moved  more  or  less  power¬ 
fully,  but,  (provided  we  remove  our  thoughts  from 
the  subject)  never  differently.  Our  emotion  is 
throughout, the  same,  homogeneous,  so  that  no 
differences  among  the  constituent  elements  can  be 
observed.  Even  the  differences  of  language  and 
age,  are  without  any  influence  in  this  respect,  for 
this  absolute  unity  of  origin  and  effect  is  the  char¬ 
acteristic  of  naive  poetry. 

The  case  is  quite  different  in  regard  to  the  sen¬ 
timental  poet.  This  poet  reflects  upon  the  im¬ 
pression  which  objects  make  upon  him,  and  it  is 
upon  this  reflection  that  the  emotion  which  is 
kindled  in  his  soul,  and  which  he  kindles  in  our 
own,  is  based.  The  object  is  viewed  with  refer¬ 
ence  to  an  idea,  and  it  is  upon  this  relation  to  an 
idea  that  the  power  of  its  poetic  impression  de¬ 
pends.  The  sentimental  poet  always  deals  with 
two  contending  sensations  and  orders  of  ideas, 
with  the  actual  as  the  finite,  and  with  his  idea  as 
the  infinite,  and  the  mixed  emotion  which  he  gives 
rise  to,  will  always  bear  the  impress  of  this  double 
source.*  Inasmuch  as  more  than  one  principle 

*  Any  one  who  heeds  the  impression  which  naive 
poetry  makes  upon  him,  and  is  capable  of  separating  the 
interest  which  falls  to  the  subject,  will  find  this  impres¬ 
sion,  even  in  pathetic  subjects,  cheerful,  pure,  calm  ;  in 
sentimental  poetry,  the  impression  will  always  be  some¬ 
what  sober  and  accompanied  with  mental  tension.  The 
reason  is  because  in  the  naive  form  of  poetry,  be  its 
subject  what  it  will,  we  derive  delight  from  the  truth, 
from  the  living  presence  of  the  object  in  our  imagination, 


JESTHETICAL. 


559 


is  here  involved,  the  question  is  which  will  prevail 
in  the  poet’s  emotion  and  in  his  exhibition  of  the 
subject,  whence  the  possibility  of  a  difference  in 
the  treatment  may  result.  For  now  the  question 
occurs  whether  he  will  dwell  more  upon  the  real  ! 
or  the  ideal,  whether  he  expects  to  treat  the 
former  as  an  object  of  dislike,  or  the  latter  as  an 
object  of  his  affection.  His  composition  will 
therefore  either  be  satirical  or  (in  a  more  extended 
application  of  the  term,  which  we  shall  define 
hereafter)  elegiac ;  every  sentimental  poet  will 
attacli  himself  to  one  of  these  two  orders  of 
poetry. 

SATIRICAL  POETRY. 

We  call  a  poet  satirical,  if  he  makes  the  devia¬ 
tion  from  nature,  and  the  antagonism  between  the 
actual  and  the  ideal  (so  far  as  the  effect  upon  the 
mind  is  concerned,  either  may  be  chosen),  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  his  composition.  He  may  accomplish 
this  in  a  serious  and  feeling,  as  well  as  in  a  joking 
and  pleasant  manner,  according  as  his  inspirations 
are  derived  from  the  sphere  of  the  will  or  from 
that  of  the  understanding.  The  former  kind  of 
satire  we  designate  as  punishing  or  pathetic ,  the 
latter  as  playful. 

Strictly  speaking  the  purpose  of  poetry  is  in¬ 
compatible  either  with  the  tone  of  punishment  or 
that,  of  amusement.  The  former  is  too  serious  for 
play,  which  should  always  be  the  character  of 
poesy;  the  latter  is  too  frivolous  for  earnestness 
which  should  constitute  the  basis  of  all  poetic 
play.  Moral  contradictions  necessarily  interest 
our  heart,  and  consequently  deprive  the  mind  of 
its  freedom  ;  yet  all  personal  interest,  all  reference 
to  a  personal  necessity  should  be  banished  from 
poetic  emotions.  Mental  contradictions,  on  the 
contrary,  leave  the  heart  indifferent,  yet  the  poet 
deals  with  the  heart’s  highest  interests — nature 
and  the  ideal.  Hence  it  is  no  trifling  problem  for 
him,  in  the  pathetic  satire  not  to  violate  the 
poetic  form  which  consists  in  the  freedom  of  move¬ 
ment,  or  in  playful  satire  to  miss  the  poetic  es¬ 
sence  which  should  be  the  infinite.  This  problem 
can  only  be  solved  in  one  way.  The  pathetic 
satire  acquires  poetic  freedom  by  assuming,  the 
character  of  the  sublime  and  the  playful  satire 
acquires  poetic  substance  by  investing  its  subject 
with  beauty. 

In  satire  the  actual  as  a  state  of  want  is  op¬ 
posed  to  the  ideal  as  a  state  of  the  highest  reality. 
For  all  that,  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  ideal 
should  be  specially  enunciated,  provided  the  poet 
knows  how  to  awaken  the  perception  thereof  in 
the  reader’s  mind;  this  he  should  know  howto 
accomplish,  or  else  he  will  not  produce  any  poetic 
effect.  Here,  therefore,  the  actual  is  a  necessary 
object  of  aversion  ;  but  it  is  of  paramount  impor¬ 
tance  that  this  aversion  should  arise  from  the 
opposite  ideal.  It  might  arise  from  a  purely  sen¬ 
sual  source  and  be  founded  in  a  want  whose  grati¬ 
fication  is  opposed  by  the  reality  of  circum¬ 
stances  ;  it  frequently  happens  that  we  experience 

nor  do  we  look  for  any  thing  more  than  truth;  whereas 
in  sentimental  poetry  we  have  to  combine  the  ideas  con¬ 
ceived  by  the  imagination  with  a  rational  conception, 
and  are  hovering  between  two  totally  different  states  of 
the  mind. 


a  moral  indignation  at  the  wrorld,  whereas  it  is 
the  opposition  of  society  to  our  inclination  which 
embitters  our  feelings.  It  is  this  material  interest 
which  a  common  satirist  brings  into  play,  and 
!  since  he  is  sure  to  move  our  hearts  by  this  means, 
he  fancies  that  he  controls  our  emotions  and  is  a 
master  of  pathos.  But  pathos  emanating  from 
this  source  is  unworthy  of  poesy  which  should 
move  us  only  through  ideas  and  should  reach  our 
hearts  only  through  reason.  This  impure  and 
material  pathos  will  always  manifest  itself  by  aD 
excess  of  suffering  and  by  a  painful  embarrass 
ment  of  the  mind,  whereas  the  truly  poetic  pathos 
is  recognizable  by  an  excess  of  independent  ac¬ 
tivity  and  by  a  mental  freedom  which  is  not  even 
interrupted  by  the  movements  of  passion.  If  the 
emotion  arises  from  the  opposition  of  the  ideal  to 
the  real,  the  exalted  character  of  the  former  re¬ 
moves  every  contracting  feeling,  and  the  great¬ 
ness  of  the  idea  which  fills  our  minds,  elevates  us 
above  the  limits  of  experience.  In  exhibiting 
the  repulsive  form  of  the  actual,  success  depends 
upon  physical  necessity  being  the  basis  upon 
which  the  poet  or  narrator  builds  his  structure, 
and  upon  his  knowledge  and  capacity  of  enlisting 
our  minds  for  ideas.  Provided  we  occupy  a  high 
position  as  critics,  it  matters  not  whether  the  object 
remains  below  us.  When  the  historian  Tacitus 
describes  to  us  the  degradation  of  the  Romans  of 
the  first  century,  it  is  an  exalted  spirit  that  looks 
down  upon  this  baseness,  and  a  truly  poetic  mood 
is  excited  in  us  because  it  is  only  the  height  from 
which  he  was  looking  down,  and  to  which  we  have 
to  elevate  ourselves,  that  imparted  to  his  subject 
this  appearance  of  baseness. 

Pathetic  satire  has  therefore  at  all  times  to 
emanate  from  a  mind  which  is  vividly  penetrated 
by  the  ideal.  Only  a  ruling  impulse  toward  har¬ 
mony  can  and  ought  to  engender  that  profound 
sense  of  moral  antagonism,  and  that  burning  in¬ 
dignation  against  moral  perverseness,  which  as¬ 
sumed  all  the  intensity  of  enthusiasm  in  Juvenal, 
Swift,  Rousseau,  Haller,  and  others.  The  same 
poets^ould  have  been  equally  successful  in  the 
tender  and  touching  forms  of  poetry,  if  accidental 
circumstances  had  not  at  an  early  age  pressed 
their  minds  into  other  channels  ;  indeed  some  of 
them  have  successfully  attempted  these  forms  of 
poetry.  The  poets  whom  I  have  here  named, 
either  lived  in  a  degenerate  age,  and  had  a  horrid 
illustration  of  moral  perversity  before  them,  or 
else  personal  misfortunes  had  filled  their  souls 
with  bitterness.  The  philosophical  mind  likewise, 
when  separating  with  inexorable  severity  mere 
appearances  from  the  substance  ot  things,  and 
penetrating  into  their  depths,  inclines  to  the  rigid 
austerity  with  which  Rousseau,  Haller,  and  others, 
paint  the  actual.  But  these  external  and  acci¬ 
dental  influences  which  always  act  restrainingly, 
should  at  most  only  determine  the  direction  of 
the  enthusiasm,  but  should  not  furnish  the  mate¬ 
rial  for  it.  The  substance  should  ever  be  the 
same,  free  from  every  external  incentive,  and 
should  emanate  from  a  burning  impulse  for  the 
ideal,  which  constitutes  the  only  true  claim  to 
satirical  poetry,  and  to  sentimental  poetry  gene 
rally. 

Whereas  pathetic  satire  is  only  befitting  for 


560 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


elevated  souls,  playful  satire  can  only  be  success¬ 
fully  accomplished  by  a  beautiful  heart.  The 
former  is  protected  from  frivolity  by  the  gravity 
of  the  subject  ;  but  the  latter  form  of  satire  which 
should  only  treat  of  subjects  of  a  morally-insig- 
nificant  character,  would  inevitably  assume  a 
frivolous  form,  and  would  lose  all  poetic  dignity, 
if  the  form  did  not  ennoble  the  substance,  if  the 
poet’s  personal  worth  did  not  make  up  for  the  in¬ 
feriority  of  the  subject.  It  is  only  given  to  the 
beautiful  heart,  independently  of  any  external  ob¬ 
ject  of  its  activity,  to  express  a  perfect  image  of 
its  own  nature  in  all  its  manifestations.  An  ele¬ 
vated  character  can  only  show  itself  in  isolated 
triumphs  over  the  resistance  of  the  senses,  in  mo¬ 
mentary  paroxysms  of  exalted  feeling  and  action  ; 
in  a  beautiful  soul,  on  the  contrary,  the  ideal  acts 
as  nature,  uniformly,  and  may  therefore  manifest 
itself  in  a  state  of  repose.  The  deep  ocean  looks 
most  sublime  when  agitated  by  storms,  the  limpid 
brook  appears  most  beautiful  when  quietly  rippling 
onward  on  its  course. 

Several  times  the  question  has  arisen  which  of 
the  two,  comedy  or  tragedy,  deserves  a  preference. 
If  this  question  is  simply  asked  with  reference  to 
their  respective  subjects,  the  latter  undoubtedly 
has  the  advantage  ;  but,  if  we  desire  to  determine 
which  claims  the  more  important  personality,  the 
decision  will  most  probably  be  in  favor  of  comedy. 
In  tragedy,  a  good  deal  is  accomplished  by  the 
subject  of  the  play  ;  in  comedy,  the  subject  is  of 
trifling  importance,  the  poet  has  almost  all  the 
work  to  do.  Inasmuch  as  an  aesthetic  judgment 
is  not  enunciated  with  reference  to  the  subject, 
the  aesthetic  value  of  these  two  kinds  of  artistic 
productions  must  be  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  their 
material  importance.  The  tragic  poet  is  sustained 
by  the  subject,  the  comic  poet,  on  the  contrary, 
has  to  maintain  the  aesthetic  character  of  his  sub¬ 
ject  by  his  own  personal  power.  The  former  may 
take  a  flight  which  is  no  very  difficult  matter;  the 
latter  has  to  remain  the  same,  has  to  be  in  the 
high  regions  of  art,  where  he  has  to  be  at  home, 
but  whither  the  tragic  poet  has  to  be  carried  with 
a  bound.  And  it  is  precisely  this  which  distin¬ 
guishes  the  beautiful  character  from  the  elevated. 
In  the  former,  every  form  of  greatness  is  already 
contained,  it  flows  freely  and  easily  from  the  depths 
of  his  nature  ;  potentially  he  is  like  an  infinite 
power  at  every  point  of  his  course ;  the  elevated 
character  may  elevate  himself  by  a  powerful  ten¬ 
sion  of  his  faculties  to  any  height,  by  the  force  of 
his  will  he  may  elevate  himself  beyond  the  limits 
of  any  state.  The  latter  is  free  only  by  fits  and 
starts  and  with  an  effort ;  the  former  is  always  free 
and  without  an  effort. 

It  is  the  beautiful  task  of  comedy  to  produce 
and  to  foster  this  feeling  of  mental  ease  in  us ; 
whereas  tragedy  is  destined  to  aid  by  aesthetic 
means  in  the  restoration  of  mental  freedom  and 
ease,  after  it  had  been  interrupted  by  some  vio¬ 
lent  paroxysm  of  passion.  In  tragedy  the  free¬ 
dom  of  mind  has  to  be  interrupted  by  artificial 
means  and  experimentally,  because  it  is  in  the 
restoration  of  moral  freedom  that  tragedy  displays 
its  greatest  power  ;  in  comedy,  on  the  contrary, 
care  must  be  had  to  preserve  the  moral  liberty 
undisturbed.  Hence  it  is,  that  the  tragic  poet 


always  treats  his  subject  practically,  the  comic 
poet  theoretically,  even  if  the  former  (like  Lessing 
in  his  Nathan)  should  have  the  curious  idea  of 
selecting  a  theoretical,  and  the  latter,  of  selecting 
a  practical  subject  for  his  composition.  Not  the 
sphere  from  which  the  subject  is  drawn,  but  the 
forum,  before  which  it  is  treated,  makes  a  piece 
either  tragedy  or  comedy.  A  tragic  poet  should 
never  indulge  in  calm  reasonings,  and  should 
always  interest  the  heart;  a  comic  poet  should 
guard  against  pathos,  and  should  always  entertain 
the  understanding.  The  former  shows  his  art  by 
continually  exciting,  the  latter,  by  continually 
subduing  passion  ;  and  naturally  enough,  this  art 
is  the  greater  on  either  side,  the  more  the  subject 
of  the  one  poet  is  of  an  abstract,  and  that  of  the 
other  of  a  pathetic  character.*  If,  therefore,  tra¬ 
gedy  starts  from  a  more  important  point,  we  must 
on  the  other  hand,  confess  that  comedy  aims  at  a 
more  important  purpose  ;  and,  that  it  would  render 
all  tragedy  superfluous  and  impossible,  if  this  pur¬ 
pose  could  be  attained.  The  object  of  comedy  is 
identical  with  man’s  highest  destiny,  which  is  to  1 
free  himself  from  violent  passions,  to  cast  ever 
clear  and  calm  looks  around  him  and  into  his  own 
being,  to  see  everywhere  accident  rather  than 
fate,  and  to  laugh  at  absurdities  rather  than  to  , 
weep  or  become  wrathy  at  man’s  wickedness. 

As  in  life,  so  in  poetical  exhibitions,  ease  of 
imagination,  pleasantness  of  talent,  good-natured 
mirthfulness  are  very  frequently  confounded 
with  beauty  of  soul,  and  since  the  public  taste 
scarcely  ever  rises  above  the  agreeable,  such 
elegant  authors  find  it  easy  to  usurp  a  glory  which 
it  is  so  difficult  to  earn.  But  there  is  an  infalli¬ 
ble  touchstone,  by  means  of  which  a  natural  ease 
of  manner  may  be  distinguished  from  ideal  gen¬ 
tleness,  and  mere  natural  virtue  from  genuine  mo¬ 
rality  of  character;  let  both  be  tried  by  a  difficult 
and  great  opportunity.  In  such  a  case  the  neat 
genius  infallibly  descends  to  platitudes,  and  the 
virtue  of  temperament  to  the  material  plane;  a 
truly  beautiful  soul,  on  the  contrary,  is  elevated 
to  the  higher  regions  of  feeling. 

As  long  as  Lucian  simply  chastises  absurdity, 
as  in  his  Wishes,  in  the  Lapithoe,  in  Jupiter 
Tragcedus,  &c.,  he  remains  a  jester,  and  delights 
us  by  his  mirthful  humor  ;  but  he  is  a  far  different 
man  in  many  passages  of  his  Nigrinus,  his  Tim  on, 
his  Alexander,  where  his  satire  hits  the  moral 
depravity.  “  Wretch,”  with  these  words  he  com¬ 
mences  in  his  Nigrinus  the  revolting  picture  of 
the  Roman  morals  of  that  period,  “  why  didst  thou 
leave  Greece,  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  that  happy 
life  of  freedom  ?  Why  earnest  thou  hither  into 

®  This  is  not  the  case  in  Nathan  the  Sage,  where  the 
chilling  nature  of  the  subject  spread's  a  coolness  over 
the  whole  production.  But  Lessing  knew  that  he  was 
not  writing  a  tragedy,  he  only  forgot  in  his  case  his  own 
dramaturgical  precept :  that  no  poet  is  authorized  to  em¬ 
ploy  the  tragic  form  for  any  other  than  tragic  purposes. 
Without  making  essential  alterations,  it  would  not  have 
been  possible  to  transform  this  dramatic  poem  into  a 
good  tragedy;  but  by  means  of  a  few  accidental  changes 
a  good  comedy  might  have  been  made  out  of  it.  To  tha 
latter  end,  the  pathetic,  and  to  the  former,  the  argumen¬ 
tative  portions  would  have  to  have  been  sacrificed  ;  but 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  beauty  of  the  poem 
depends  upon  these  very  features. 


JSSTHETICAL. 


561 


this  tnmult  of  magnificent  servility,  of  attendance 
and  feasts,  of  sycophants,  flatterers,  poisoners, 
orphan-spoilers,  false  friends?”  On  such  and 
similar  occasions,  the  exalted  earnestness  of  feel¬ 
ing  should  manifest  itself  which  has  to  be  the 
foundation  of  all  playful  art,  if  a  poetical  charac¬ 
ter.  is  to  be  claimed  for  it.  Even  beneath  the 
malicious  pleasantry  with  which  both  Lucian  and 
Aristophanes  pursue  Socrates,  a  sober  reason 
may  be  seen  hidden,  which  avenges  truth  against 
sophistry,  and  battles  for  an  ideal  which  is  not 
always  expressly  indicated.  The  former  has  jus¬ 
tified  this  character  in  his  Diogenes  and  Demonax 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt ;  among  the  mod¬ 
erns,  what  a  great  and  beautiful  character  Cer¬ 
vantes  delineates  on  every  occasion,  in  his  Don 
Quixote  !  What  a  magnificent  ideal  had  to  fill 
the  soul  of  a  poet  who  created  a  Tom  Jones  and 
a  Sophia  !  How  grandly  and  powerfully  does  the 
jester  Yorick  move  our  hearts  whenever  he 
pleases!  In  our  own  Wieland,  I  likewise  realize 
this  earnestness  of  feeling  ;  even  the  wanton  play¬ 
fulness  of  his  humor  is  ennobled  and  inspired  by 
the  graciousness  of  his  heart ;  it  stamps  even  the 
rhythm  of  his  song,  and  he  is  never  wanting  in 
elastic  power  whenever  he  wishes  to  carry  us 
upward  to  the  highest  regions  of  beauty  and 
thought. 

No  such  opinion  can  be  expressed  of  Voltaire’s 
satire.  In  his  case  it  is  likewise  the  truth  and 
simplicity  of  nature  by  which  he  sometimes  ex¬ 
cites  in  us  poetical  emotions,  be  it  because  he 
really  attains  the  ideal  in  one  of  his  naive  char¬ 
acters,  as  occasionally  happens  in  his  Ingenu,  or 
because  he  seeks  and  avenges  nature,  as  in  his 
Candide.  Where  neither  happens,  he  may  indeed 
amuse  us  by  his  wit,  but  he  does  not  move  us  by 
his  poetry.  But  his  jesting  has  no  serious  foun¬ 
dation,  and  his  vocation  as  a  poet  is  therefore 
suspected  of  illegitimacy.  Everywhere  we  meet 
his  understanding,  not  his  feelings.  We  see  no 
ideal  beneath  this  airy  exterior,  there  is  hardly 
any  thing  fixed  in  his  movements.  His  marvel¬ 
ous  variety  in  external  forms,  so  far  from  proving 
any  thing  in  favor  of  the  internal  fullness  of  his 
mind,  on  the  contrary  testifies  against  it  with 
considerable  force  ;  for  in  spite  of  all  these  forms 
he  has  not  discovered  one  in  which  he  could  have 
left  the  imprint  of  his  heart.  There  seems  reason 
to  apprehend  that  it  is  the  poverty  of  the  heart 
which  constitutes  the  highest  claim  of  this  rich 
genius  to  satire.  If  it  were  not  so,  he  ought  to 
have  stepped  out  of  his  narrow  course  at  some 
point  of  his  career.  But  in  spite  of  ever  so  great 
a  variety  of  material,  and  of  external  forms,  we 
behold  the  inner  form  ever  returning  with  the  same 
sombre  and  scanty  monotony,  so  that  notwith¬ 
standing  the  many  volumes  he  has  published,  he 
lias  not  fulfilled  in  his  own  person  the  circle  of 
humanity  which  the  above-mentioned  satirists 
have  so  brilliantly  completed  to  our  great  joy. 

ELEGIAC  POETRY. 

If  a  poet  opposes  nature  to  art  and  the  ideal  to 
the  real  in  such  a  manner  that  the  former  is  pic¬ 
tured  in  the  more  striking  colors  and  that  the  de¬ 
light  which  it  causes  becomes  the  ruling  emotion, 
Vol.  II.— 36 


I  call  him  an  elegist.  As  there  are  two  classes 
of  satire,  so  there  are  two  kinds  of  elegy.  Either 
nature  and  the  ideal  constitute  objects  of  regret, 
in  case  the  former  is  lost  and  the  latter  is  repre¬ 
sented  as  unattainable.  Or  both  are  objects  of 
joy,  when  they  are  represented  as  real.  The 
former  is  elegy  in  a  more  particular  acceptation 
of  the  term,  the  latter  constitutes  the  idyl  in  a 
more  general  sense.* 

As  indignation  in  the  pathetic  and  ridicule  in 
the  playful  satire,  so  should  sadness  in  elegy 
emanate  from  an  enthusiasm  which  the  ideal  has 
roused.  By  this  alone  the  elegy  acquires  poetic 
value,  and  any  other  source  of  this  species  of 
poetical  composition  is  completely  beneath  the 
dignity  of  poetry.  An  elegist  seeks  nature,  but 
in  her  beauty,  not  merely  in  her  pleasantness  ;  in 
her  accord  with  ideas,  not  merely  in  her  accom¬ 
modating  disposition  toward  sensual  wants.  Sad¬ 
ness  at  the  loss  of  joys,  lamentations  over  the  dis¬ 
appearance  of  the  golden  age  from  the  world,  over 
the  past  happiness  of  youth  and  love,  &c.,  can 
only  become  the  subject  of  elegiac  poetry,  if  these 
states  of  sensual  peace  can  at  the  same  time  be 

*  Among  readers  who  penetrate  more  deeply  into  this 
matter,  I  shall  hardly  be  obliged  to  apologize  tor  employ¬ 
ing  the  terms  satire,  elegy,  and  idyl  in  a  more  general 
sense  than  is  generally  the  case.  In  doing  this,  my  in¬ 
tention  is  not  to  change  the  boundaries  which  past  usage 
has  fixed  for  satire,  elegy,  and  idyl;  I  simply  regard  the 
quality  of  the  emotions  which  is  characteristic  of  these 
kinds  of  poetry;  and  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  these 
cannot  be  circumscribed  within  those  narrow  limits. 
Elegiac  emotions  are  not  only  excited  by  poems  which 
are  exclusively  termed  elegies;  the  dramatic  and  the  epic 
poets  may  likewise  produce  this  effect  in  us.  In  the  Mes- 
siad,  in  Thomson’s  Seasons,  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  in  the 
Jerusalem  Delivered,  we  meet  with  several  descriptions 
which  are  generally  peculiar  only  to  the  idyl,  the  elegy, 
or  the  satire.  This  occurs  likewise  more  or  less  in  every 
pathetic  poem.  With  a  better  show  of  justice  I  may  be 
called  upon  for  an  explanation  of  the  motives  which  have 
prompted  me  to  range  the  idyl  itself  in  the  category  of 
elegiac  poetry.  Be  it  remembered  that  I  here  refer  to 
the  kind  of  idyl  which  constitutes  a  species  of  sentimental 
poetry,  the  essence  of  which  consists  in  nature  being 
opposed,  to  art  and  the  ideal  to  the  real.  Even  if  this 
opposition  is  not  expressly  enunciated  by  the  poet;  if  he 
places  the  picture  of  uncorrupted  nature  or  of  the  com¬ 
pleted  ideal  before  our  eyes,  the  opposition  must  have 
been  felt  in  his  heart,  and  will  be  betrayed  by  every 
stroke  of  his  pen.  Even  if  this  were  not  so,  the  language 
of  which  he  has  to  avail  himself,  and  upon  which  the 
spirit  of  his  age  has  to  impress  the  seal  of  art,  would  re¬ 
mind  us  of  the  reality  and  its  limits,  of  culture  and  its 
affectation;  nay,  our  own  hearts  would  contrast  the  ex¬ 
isting  perverseness  with  that  image  of  pure  nature,  and 
this  contrast  would  excite  elegiac  emotions  in  us,  even  if 
the  poet  had  not  designed  it.  This  last-mentioned  result 
is  so  unavoidable  that  even  the  highest  enjoyment  which 
the  most  beautiful  ancient  as  well  as  modern  works  of  the 
naive  kind  afford  to  a  cultivated  mind,  does  not  long  re¬ 
main  unmixed,  but  will  sooner  or  later  be  accompanied 
by  an  elegiac  emotion.  In  conclusion  I  would  observe 
that  the  classification  which  I  have  adopted,  andwhi'h 
I  have  based  upon  differences  in  the  quality  of  the  emo¬ 
tions,  is  not  intended  to  serve  as  a  determining  principle 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  poems  themselves  and  in  the 
derivation  of  poetic  forms;  for  inasmuch  as  the  poet  is 
not  bound,  even  in  the  same  poem,  to  be  guided  by  the 
same  order  of  emotions,  the  division  of  poetry  into 
different  classes  cannot  be  determined  by  such  an  acci¬ 
dental  circumstance,  but  has  to  be  derived  from  the  form 
of  the  work. 


562 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


represented  as  subjects  of  moral  harmony.  For 
this  reason  I  cannot  regard  as  a  poetic  work  the 
plaintive  songs  of  Ovid,  which  he  sent  across  from 
his  place  of  banishment  on  the  Black  Sea,  were 
they  otherwise  ever  so  touching  and  did  thty  con¬ 
tain  ever  so  many  poetical  passages.  There  is 
too  little  energy,  too  little  spirit  and  nobility  in 
his  emotions.  These  lamentations  show  a  want 
of  strength,  not  enthusiasm  ;  if  they  do  not  reflect 
the  traces  of  a  vulgar  soul,  they  reflect  the  low 
sensibility  of  a  noble  spirit  that  has  been  crushed 
into  the  dust  by  his  fate.  Indeed  if  we  recollect 
that  it  is  Rome,  the  Augustinian  Rome,  for  which 
he  is  moaning,  we  pardon  the  mistake  which  this 
son  of  pleasure  is  committing;  but  even  magni¬ 
ficent  Rome,  unless  exalted  by  the  imagination,  is 
only  a  finite  greatness,  hence  an  unworthy  subject 
for  poetry  which,  elevated  above  every  feature  of 
the  actual,  should  only  mourn  over  the  infinite. 

The  subject  of  poetic  complaint  cannot,  there¬ 
fore,  ever  be  taken  from  the  outer  world,  but  has 
to  belong  to  the  internal  ideal  world  ;  even  if  a  loss 
which  occurred  in  the  actual  world,  is  lamented 
over,  it  has  first  to  be  transformed  into  an  ideal 
occurrence.  It  is  in  this  transformation  of  the 
finite  into  something  infinite  that  the  poetic  treat¬ 
ment  of  a  subject  really  consists.  Hence  the  ex¬ 
ternal  subject  of  itself  is  of  not  much  importance, 
since  poesy  can  never  use  it  in  its  natural  form, 
but  has  to  impart  poetic  dignity  to  it  in  the  man¬ 
ner  in  which  it  is  managed.  An  elegist  seeks  na¬ 
ture,  but  as  an  ideal,  and  endowed  with  a  perfec¬ 
tion  which  she  has  never  been  known  to  possess, 
although  he  deplores  this  perfection  as  something 
that  has  existed,  but  has  been  lost.  When  Ossian 
sings  to  us  of  the  days  that  are  no  more,  or  of  the 
heroes  who  have  disappeared,  his  poetic  virtue  has 
already  transformed  those  pictures  of  the  past  into 
ideal  states,  and  those  heroes  into  gods.  The 
sensations  of  a  definite  loss  have  expanded  into  the 
idea  of  the  universal  perishableness  of  things,  and 
the  tenderly-moved  bard,  pursued  by  the  image  of 
the  universal  ruin,  soars  heavenward  and  beholds 
in  the  course  of  the  sun  a  symbol  of  the  eternal.* 

Let  me  at  once  address  myself  to  our  modern 
elegists.  Rousseau,  as  poet  or  philosopher,  has  no 
other  object  in  view  than  either  to  seek  nature,  or 
to  avenge  her  against  art.  According  as  his  feel¬ 
ings  dwell  upon  the  one  or  the  other,  we  now  find 
him  filled  with’  elegiac  emotions,  now  inspired  by 
the  genius  of  Juvenalian  satire,  and  then  again,  as 
in  his  Julia,  carried  into  the  enchanting  regions  of 
the  idyl.  His  poetry  is  full  of  poetic  worth,  for  it 
treats  of  an  ideal ;  only  he  does  not  know  how  to 
manage  his  subject  in  a  poetic  fashion.  His  ear¬ 
nest  character  always  prevents  him  from  lowering 
himself  to  a  frivolous  style,  but  on  the  other  hand 
does  not  permit  him  to  soar  to  the  spheres  of  po¬ 
etic  playfulness.  Excited  by  passion,  or  else  in  a 
state  of  abstract  mental  tension,  he  rarelv  or 
never  reaches  the  aesthetic  freedom  which  the  poet 
should  always  maintain  over  his  subject,  and 
should  impart  to  his  reader.  He  is  either  con¬ 
trolled  by  a  morbid  sensitiveness,  and  his  feelings 
are  painfully  roused  ;  or  else  his  imagination  is 

*  Read,  for  instance,  the  excellent  poem  entitled: 
Carthon. 


fettered  by  his  thinking  intellect,  and  the  loveli¬ 
ness  of  the  picture  is  destroyed  by  the  metaphysi¬ 
cal  rigidity  of  his  ideas.  The  two  attributes  whose 
reciprocal  action  and  intimate  union  constitute 
the  true  poet,  are  met  with  in  this  author  in  an  ex¬ 
traordinary  degree,  and  nothing  is  wanting,  except 
that  they  should  be  manifested  as  an  harmoni¬ 
ous  unity,  that  his  moral  freedom  should  be  more 
active  in  his  emotions,  and  that  his  emotional 
powers  should  manifest  a  larger  share  of  activity 
in  his  thoughts.  Hence  it  is  that  in  the  ideal 
which  he  presents  to  us  of  humanity,  he  lays  too 
much  stress  upon  the  inherent  limits  of  human 
nature,  whose  powers  he  values  too  little,  and  that 
the  want  of  physical  rest  is  more  distinctly  seen  in 
his  pictures  of  humanity  than  the  longing  for  moral 
accord.  Owing  to  his  passionate  sensitiveness  he 
would  rather  have  man,  in  order  to  see  the  conflict 
which  is  now  raging  in  his  heart  settled  as  speedily 
as  possible,  led  back  to  the  dull  monotony  of  his 
primitive  state,  than  to  terminate  the  struggle  by 
the  harmony  of  a  thoroughly-completed  culture  ; 
he  had  rather  suppress  art  than  to  have  to  wait  for 
her  fulfillment;  he  shortens  the  distance  to  the 
goal  and  lowers  the  ideal  in  order  to  reach  it  so 
much  more  speedily  and  safely. 

Among  the  German  poets  of  this  class,  I  mention 
Haller,  Kleist,  and  Klopstock.  The  character  of 
their  poems  is  sentimental  ;  they  move  us  by  ideas, 
not  by  sensual  truth ;  not  so  much  because 
they  themselves  are  nature,  but  because  they  wish 
to  excite  our  enthusiasm  for  nature.  However, 
what  is  generally  true  of  the  character  of  these 
as  well  as  of  that  of  all  sentimental  poets,  does 
not  prevent  their  power  of  moving  the  soul  by  the 
natural  simplicity  of  their  sentiments  in  particular 
things;  else  they  would  be  no  poets.  But  it  is 
not  their  particular  and  ruling  character,  to  receive 
impressions  in  a  calm,  simple,  and  easy  mood,  and 
to  convey  them  to  others  in  a  similar  manner.  In¬ 
voluntarily  the  imagination  overpowers  the  per¬ 
ceptions,  and  the  intellect  the  emotions,  and  we 
close  our  eyes  and  ears  in  order  to  bury  ourselves 
in  our  own  meditations.  No  impression  can  be 
made  upon  the  mind  without  causing  it  to  contem¬ 
plate  its  own  movement,  and  to  behold  its  own  in¬ 
ternal  states  as  objective  realities.  By  this  means 
we  never  obtain  possession  of  the  subject,  we  only 
know  what  the  poet’s  own  reflections  have  made 
of  the  subject ;  even  if  the  poet  is  his  own  subject, 
if  he  wishes  to  describe  his  own  emotions  to  us, 
we  are  not  made  acquainted  with  his  state  by  di¬ 
rect  revelation  but  through  the  reflections  which 
the  state  excites  in  the  poet’s  own  mind.  When 
Haller  mourns  over  the  loss  of  his  wife  (every 
body  is  acquainted  with  this  beautiful  song),  and 
commences  with  the  following  strain  : 

<(Am  I  to  sing  of  Mariana’s  death, 

Oh  Mariana,  what  a  mournful  song! 

My  words  are  vanishing  my  sighs  beneath, 

And  grief  dissolves  the  mind’s  ideal  throng,”  etc. 

We  find  this  description  strictly  correct ;  but  we 
likewise  feel  that  the  poet  does  not  communicate 
to  us  his  emotions,  but  rather  the  reflections  with 
which  these  emotions  inspired  him.  For  this  rea-. 
son,  he  moves  us  much  more  feebly,  for  his  own 
emotions  must  necessarily  have  cooled  down 


JESTHETICAL. 


563 


considerably  to  permit  him  to  be  a  spectator 
thereof. 

•  Haller’s,  and,  in  part,  Klopstock’s  poems  lose 
their  character  as  naive  productions  of  art  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  the  metaphysical  nature  of  their  con¬ 
tents  ;  hence  considering  that  the  subject  of  their 
poems  could  not  assume  a  corporeal  nature  and 
could  not  become  an  object  of  sensual  perception 
• — if  it  was  to  be  treated  poetically,  it  had  to  be 
grafted  upon  the  infinite,  and  had  to  be  made  an 
object  of  intellectual  contemplation.  It  is  only 
in  this  sense  that  didactic  poetry  can  be  conceived 
■without  contradicting  itself.  For  let  me  repeat: 
poetry  has  only  two  spheres,  the  world  of  sense 
and  the  ideal  world  ;  the  sphere  of  the  understand¬ 
ing  or  analysis  is  no  home  for  poetry.  As  yet,  I 
admit,  I  know  of  no  poem  of  this  class,  either  in 
ancient  or  modern  literature  which  has  succeeded 
in  purely  and  simply  individualizing  or  else  ideal¬ 
izing  the  subject  of  which  it  treats.  Generally, 
provided  the  poet  is  tolerably  successful,  there  is 
an  alternate  change  from  one  to  the  other  whilst 
the  subject  is  treated  abstractly  ;  and  th.e  imagina¬ 
tion  which  ought  to  rule  in  poetry,  is  simply  al¬ 
lowed  to  wait  upon  the  understanding.  A  didac¬ 
tic  poem  in  which  thought  itself  has  a  poetical 
character  and  preserves  it  throughout,  has  not  yet 
made  its  appearance. 

What  is  said  here  of  didactic  poems  generally, 
applies  to  Haller’s  poems  in  particular.  The  sub¬ 
ject  itself  is  not  poetical,  but  the  execution  may 
assume  a  poetical  form,  either  through  the  use 
of  figures,  or  at  other  times  through  ideal  flights. 
It  is  only  the  soaring  nature  of  the  ideas  that  as¬ 
signs  to  his  poems  a  place  in  the  class  of  elegiac 
compositions.  Vigor  and  depth,  and  a  pathetic 
earnestness  characterize  this  poet.  His  soul  is 
inflamed  by  an  ideal,  and  his  ardent  love  of  truth 
seeks  in  the  quiet  valleys  of  the  Alps  the  inno¬ 
cence  which  has  disappeared  from  the  world. 
His  plaintive  verses  deeply  move  the  heart;  with 
an  energetic  and  almost  bitter  satire  he  delineates 
the  aberrations  of  the  understanding  and  of  the 
heart,  and  with  an  enthusiastic  love  he  describes 
the  beautiful  simplicity  of  nature.  But  the  con¬ 
ceptions  of  reflective  reason  predominate  in  his 
pictures,  and  the  intellect  overpowers  his  soul’s 
own  emotions.  This  is  the  reason  why  he  teaches 
rather  than  'paints  and  describes ,  and  describes 
throughout  with  vigorous  rather  than  with  gentle 
and  lovely  traits.  He  is  great,  bold,  ardent,  and 
sublime ;  but  he  has  never  or  but  rarely  risen  to 
the  spheres  of  beauty. 

As  regards  richness  of  ideas  and  depth  of 
mind,  Ivleist  is  far  below  this  poet;  lie  may  be 
said  to  surpass  the  latter  in  loveliness  and  sweet¬ 
ness  of  form,  provided  this  statement  is  not  to  be 
understood,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  as  though  a 
deficiency  on  the  one  hand  were  to  be  imputed 
to  the  other  as  a  claim  to  vigor  and  intensity. 
Kleist’s  sensitive  soul  loves  to  revel  in  the  as¬ 
pect  of  rural  scenes  and  manners.  He  is  anx¬ 
ious  to  flee  from  the  hollow  tumult  of  society, 
and  finds  in  the  bosom  of  inanimate  nature 
the  harmony  and  peace  which  he  misses  in  the 
moral  world.  How  touching  his  longing  for  rest ! 
how  true  and  full  of  feeling  this  strain  : 


“  0  world !  thou  art  tho  grave  of  all  true  life  j 

To  virtue’s  holy  shrine  I  oft  retire, 

And  tears  roll  down  my  cheeks  in  this  hard  strife  ; 

Example  triumphs,  and  youth’s  raging  fire; 

These  tears  dry  up  and  leave  no  trace  behind  ; 

'  To  be  a  man  one  has  to  leave  mankind.” 

But  after  his  poetic  impulse  has  led  him  out 
of  the  narrow  circle  of  the  actual  into  the  spirit- 
quickening  solitude  of  nature,  he  is  still  anxiously 
pursued  by  the  image  of  his  age,  and  is  still 
chained  by  its  fetters.  What  he  flees  from,  is 
within  him  ;  what  he  is  seeking,  is  ever  without 
him  ;  he  can  never  dissipate  the  bad  influence  of 
his  century.  Though  his  heart  is  sufficiently  ar¬ 
dent,  and  his  phantasy  sufficiently  vigorous  to  vi¬ 
talize  the  inanimate  creations  of  the  understand¬ 
ing  by  a  brilliant  delineation  of  the  form,  yet  the 
chilling  thought  as  frequently  extinguishes  the 
living  warmth  of  poetic  genius,  and  reflection 
disturbs  the  secret  play  of  the  emotions.  His 
poetry  is  checkered  and  brilliant  like  the  spring- 
season  which  he  sang ;  his  imagination  is  active 
and  stirring;  yet  it  is  rather  changeable  than 
rich,  rather  playful  than  creative,  restlessly-pro¬ 
gressing  rather  than  collecting  and  combining. 
Swiftly  and  luxuriantly  trait  follows  trait,  but 
without  being  united  into  a  distinct  individuality, 
without  becoming  a  living  and  rounded  form.  As 
long  as  he  adheres  to  lyrical  poetry,  and  paints 
rural  scenery,  we  overlook  his  deficiency,  partly 
because  of  the  greater  freedom  of  the  lyrical  form, 
partly  because  of  the  greater  variety  and  choice 
of  matter  ;  moreover,  we  expect  the  poet  to  paint 
his  own  feelings  rather  than  to  describe  the  ob¬ 
ject  which  he  has  chosen  as  the  subject  of  his 
verse.  But  the  deficiency  becomes  quite  glaring 
if  he  undertakes,  as  in  his  Cissides  and  Baches, 
and  in  his  Seneca,  to  delineate  men  and  their  ac¬ 
tions,  for  here  the  imagination  is  confined  within 
fixed  and  necessary  boundaries,  and  the  poetic 
effect  has  to  emanate  from  the  subject  of  the 
work.  Here  he  becomes  indigent,  tedious,,  un¬ 
substantial  and  chilling;  a  warning  example  to 
all  who,  without  being  called  by  the  internal 
voice  of  the  spirit,  pass  from  the  field  of  musical 
poesy  into  the  domain  of  plastic  verse.  Thom¬ 
son,  a  kindred  genius,  is  afflicted  with  the  same 
human  weakness. 

Among  the  sentimental  poets,  and  more  espe¬ 
cially  among  those  who  have  cultivated  the  ele¬ 
giac  form  of  verse,  few  among  the  modern,  and 
still  fewer  among  the  ancient  poets  can  be  cc  m- 
pared  to  our  own  Klopstock.  Whatever  can  be 
achieved  in  the  ideal  range  outside  of  the  limits 
of  the  living  form,  and  outside  of  the  domain  of 
individuality,  has  been  achieved  by  this  musical 
poet.*  We  should  indeed  wrong  him  greatly,  if 

*  I  use  the  term  musical  in  order  to  allude  to  tho 
double  affinity  of  poesy  to  music  and  the  plastic  arts. 
According  as’ poesy  imitates  some  definite  object,  as  is 
done  by  the  plastic  arts  ;  or  as  long  as,  like  music,  it 
simply  produces  an  emotional  state,  without  requiring  a 
definite  object  for  such  a  purpose,  it  may  be  designated 
as  plastic  or  as  musical.  Hence  this  last  expression  not 
only  refers  to  that  element  which,  in  poetry,  is  really 
and  substantially  music,  but  in  general  to  all  such  effects 
as  poetry  is  capable  of  producing  without  confining  the 


564 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


we  would  deny  him  every  individual  truth  and 
living1  intensity  with  which  the  naive  poet  de¬ 
scribes  the  subject  of  his  verses.  In  many  of  his 
odes,  in  several  passages  of  his  dramatic  writings, 
and  in  his  Messiad,  the  object  is  delineated  with 
striking  truth  and  with  beautiful  outlines;  espe¬ 
cially  if  the  object  of  his  subjective  efforts  hap¬ 
pens  to  be  his  own  heart,  he  has  often  displayed 
a  great  nature  and  a  charming  naivete.  But  this 
feature  does  not  constitute  his  strength,  this  qua¬ 
lity  is  not  visible  throughout  his  poetic  sphere. 
However  magnificent  a  creation  the  Messiad  may 
be  as  a  musical  poem,  yet  it  leaves  much  to  be 
desired  as  a  plastic  work,  where  we  expect  to  see 
determinate  forms.  The  persons  in  this  poem 
are  perhaps  sufficiently  defined,  but  not  for  the 
intuitively-percipient  sense;  the  abstract  intel¬ 
lect  has  created  them,  and  it  is  only  the  abstract 
intellect  that  is  capable  of  distinguishing  them. 
They  furnish  excellent  illustrations  of  abstract 
conceptions,  but  they  are  no  individualities,  no 
living  forms.  Imagination,  to  which  the  poet 
should  address  himself,  and  which  he  ^should  di¬ 
rect  throughout  his  work  by  the  positiveness  of 
his  forms,  is  allowed  too  much  liberty  in  deter¬ 
mining  in  what  manner  these  men  and  these  an¬ 
gels,  these  gods  and  these  satans,  this  heaven  and 
this  hell  are  to  become  objects  of  sense.  Out¬ 
lines  are  given,  within  which  the  understanding 
has  to  think  of  them,  but  no  boundaries  are  fixed 
within  which  the  imagination  should  present 
them  as  definite  and  living  forms.  What  I  have 
here  said  of  the  persons,  applies  to  every  thing 
which  in  this  poem  is,  or  is  intended  to  be,  life 
and  action,  and  not  only  in  this  epopee,  but  like¬ 
wise  in  the  dramatic  poems  of  our  author.  The 
understanding  is  always  furnished  with  well-de¬ 
fined  and  satisfactorily  precise  indications,  (I 
quote  his  Judas,  his  Pilate,  his  Philo,  his  Salomo 
in  the  tragedy  bearing  this  name;)  but  the  imagi¬ 
nation  is  not  checked  by  any  determinate  bounda¬ 
ries  of  form,  and  I  confess  that  in  this  respect  this 
poet  seems  to  me  out  of  his  sphere. 

His  sphere  is  the  ideal  world  ;  whatever  subject 
he  selects  for  his  poems,  he  manages  to*  graft 
upon  the  infinite.  He  may  be  said  to  remove 
the  body  from  every  thing  he  treats  of,  in  order 
to  transform  it  into  pure  spirit,  whereas  other 
poets  clothe  every  thing  spiritual  with  a  body. 
Almost  every  enjoyment  which  we  derive  from 
his  poems,  has  to  be  obtained  by  an  effort  of 
the  intellect ;  all  the  emotions  which  he  excites  in 
us  with  so  much  power  and  intensity,  emanate 
from  super-sensual  sources.  Hence  this  earnestness, 
this  vigor,  these  soaring  flights,  this  depth,  which 
characterize  all  his  productions  ;  hence  this  un¬ 
ceasing  tension  of  the  mind  which  the  reading  of 
his  works  requires  and  sustains  in  us.  No  poet 
(except  perhaps  Young,  who  in  this  respect,  ex¬ 
pects  more  of  us  than  Klopstock,  without  com¬ 
pensating  us  for  the  effort  as  the  latter  does),  is 
perhaps  less  fit  to  become  a  favorite  and  a  com¬ 
panion  through  life  than  Klopstock,  who  removes 
us  from  the  sphere  of  life  and  calls  the  mind  to 

imagination  to  some  determinate  object ;  it  is  in  this 
sense  that  I  call  Klopstock,  above  all  others,  a  musical 
poet. 


arms  without  refreshing  the  senses  by  th,?  calm 
presence  of  an  external  object.  His  poetic  muse 
is  chaste,  super-sensual,  immaterial  and  holy  as* 
his  religion,  and  we  must  admiringly  admit  that 
he  has  never  fallen  from  these  ethereal  heights, 
although  he  occasionally  loses  his  way  during  his 
ascension.  I  confess  with  perfect  frankness  that  I 
feel  somewhat  concerned  for  the  head  of  a  reader 
who  undertakes  without  affectation  to  make  the 
works  of  this  poet  his  favorite  entertainment;  who 
can  accommodate  himself  to  the  spirit  of  these 
works  in  /  every  situation  of  life,  and  return  to 
them  from  any  situation  ;  I  feel  assured  that  the 
dangerous  consequences  of  this  poet’s  supreme 
power  have  been  sufficiently  evident  in  Germany. 
It  is  only  in  certain  states  of  mental  exaltation 
that  he  can  be  enjoyed  and  felt  ;  for  this  reason 
he  is  the  idol,  though  not  the  most  fortunate  se¬ 
lection  of  youth.  Youth  which  always  seeks  to 
go  beyond  the  limits  of  the  actual,  which  avoids 
form  and  repudiates  all  restrictions,  revels  in  the 
endless  space  which  this  poet  has  disclosed  to 
our  view.  After  the  young  man  is  fully  matured 
and  returns  from  his  ideal  abode  to  the  common 
reality  of  things,  a  very  great  deal  of  this  enthu¬ 
siastic  love  disappears,  but  there  is  no  diminution 
of  the  esteem  which  is  due  to  such  an  uncommon 
phenomenon,  to  such  an  extraordinary  genius,  to 
such  an  ennobling  influence,  and  which  the  Ger¬ 
man  especially  owes  to  such  an  exalted  merit. 

I  have  called  this  poet  great  as  an  elegist,  and 
it  will,  hardly  be  necessary  to  justify  such  an 
opinion.  Capable  of  every  energy  of  determina¬ 
tion,  and  master  of  the  whole  domain  of  sentimen¬ 
tal  poetry,  he  now  moves  our  souls  by  the  most 
exalted  pathos,  now  he  softens  the  heart  by 
sweetly-enchanting  emotions  ;  but  he  overwhelm¬ 
ingly  inclines  to  a  high  order  of  spiritual  sadness; 
however  sublime  the  sounds  of  his  lyre  may  be, 
the  melting  tones  of  his  lute  always  sound  more 
truthfully,  more  penetratingly,  more  touchingly. 
1  appeal  to  every  pure-minded  reader  whether  he 
would  not  rather  sacrifice  all  the  boldness  and 
strength,  all  the  fictions,  all  the  splendid  descrip¬ 
tions,  all  the  oratorical  eloquence  of  the  Messiad, 
all  the  fascinating  figures  of  language  in  which 
our  poet  excels,  than  to  give  up  tbe  tender  emo¬ 
tions  which  breathe  in  the  “Elegy  to  Ebert,”  in 
the  magnificent  poem,  “  Bardale,”  in  the  “  Early 
Tombs,”  the  “  Summer-Night,”  the  “  Lake  of  Zu¬ 
rich,”  and  in  several  other  compositions  of  this 
class.  Thus  I  cherish  the  Messiad  as  a  treasure 
of  elegiac  emotions  and  ideal  descriptions,  how¬ 
soever  little  its  epic  merit  and  its  character  as 
a  descriptive  poem  may  satisfy  my  judgment. 

Before  leaving  this  subject  I  ought  perhaps  to 
recall  the  merit  of  Uz,  Denis,  Gessner  (in  his 
“Death  of  Abel”),  Jacobi,  Gerstenberg,  Hcelty, 
Goeckingk,  and  several  others  of  the  same  class, 
all  of  whom  move  us  by  the  power  of  ideas,  and 
have  produced  sentimental  poetry  according  to 
our  definition  of  the  term.  But  it  is  not  my  ob¬ 
ject  to  write  a  history  of  German  poetry,  but 
merely  to  illustrate  my  general  statements  by  a 
few  examples  taken  from  our  literature.  My  in¬ 
tention  has  been  to  indicate  the  different  roads 
by  which  ancient  and  modern,  naive  and  senti- 
i  mental  poets  reach  the  same  goal,  and  to  show 


JESTHETICAL. 


565 


(hat  whereas  the  former  excite  onr  emotions 
through  the  medium  of  nature,  individuality,  and 
the  living  objects  of  sense,  the  latter  exercise  an 
equally  great,  although  less  extensive  power,  over 
our  minds  through  the  medium  of  ideas  and  a 
high  order  of  intellectuality. 

We  have  seen  by  the  preceding  examples  how 
the  sentimental  poet  treats  a  natural  subject; 
now  we  may  feel  interested  to  know  how  the  naive 
poet  treats  a  subject  of  the  sentimental  order. 
This  problem  seems  to  be  quite  novel  and  pecu¬ 
liarly  difficult,  since  in  the  ancient  world  of  naive 
poetry,  th 3  subject  was  wanting,  whereas  among 
the  moderns,  the  poet  might  be  found  wanting. 
Nevertheless,  genius  has  proposed  this  problem 
to  itself,  and  has  solved  it  in  a  remarkably  happy 
manner.  A  character  which  embraces  an  ideal 
with  ardent  feelings,  and  flees  from  the  real  in 
order  to  strive  after  an  unsubstantial  infinite; 
which  unceasingly  seeks  outside  of  itself  what  it 
is  ever  endeavoring  to  destroy  in  its  own  nature; 
to  which  its  own  dreams  constitute  the  only  thing 
real,  and  its  own  experiences  nothing  but  bar¬ 
riers  ;  which  looks  upon  its  own  existence  as  a 
barrier  which  it  likewise  seems  justified  in  pulling 
down  in  order  to  penetrate  to  absolute  reality — 
this  dangerous  extreme  of  a  sentimental  charac¬ 
ter  has  become  the  subject  of  a  poet  in  whom 
nature  acts  more  faithfully  and  purely  than  in 
any  other,  and  who  deviates  perhaps  less  from  tfie 
sensual  truthfulness  of  things  than  any  other 
modern  poet. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  happy 
instinct  every  thing  that  sustains  the  sentimental 
character,  is  crowded  together  in  Werther :  an  en¬ 
thusiastic  but  unfortunate  love,  sensitiveness  for  the 
beauties  of  nature,  religious  sentiment,  philosophi¬ 
cal  spirit  of  contemplation,  and  finally,  in  order  to 
mention  every  thing,  the  gloomy,  shapeless,  melan¬ 
choly  world  of  Ossian.  If  we  add  to  this  how  little 
.attractive,  yea,  how  hostile  the  outer  world  seems 
to  the  sufferer,  how  all  things  around  him  conspire 
to  crowd  him  back  again  into  his  ideal  world,  we 
cannot  see  any  possibility  how  such  a  character 
can  save  himself  from  such  a  circle  of  influences. 
In  Goethe’s  Tasso  the  same  opposition  occurs, 
although  the  characters  are  different;  even  in  his 
latest  romance  we  observe  the  same  opposition  as 
in  the  former  between  the  poetizing  spirit  and  the 
sober  cunning  of  the  world,  between  the  ideal 
and  the  real,  between  subjectivity  and  objec¬ 
tivity,  but  with  what  a  difference!  even  in  Faust 
the  same  opposition  strikes  our  view,  of  course, 
agreeably  to  the  exigencies  of  the  subject,  much 
more  palpably  and  in  a  more  material  form  ;  it 
was  well  worth  the  trouble  to  attempt  a  psycholo¬ 
gical  development  of  this  character  which  presents 
itself  in  four  special  forms  so  perfectly  distinct 
one  from  the  other. 

It  has  been  stated  above,  that  an  easy  and 
jovial  temper,  where  an  internal  fullness  of  ideas 
is  not  the  groundwork  of  the  mind,  does  not  con¬ 
stitute  a  claim  to  playful  satire,  howsoever  liber¬ 
ally  this  view  may  prevail  in  ordinary  society; 
nor  does  a  mere  tenderness  of  feeling  or  a  certain 
disposition  to  melancholy  constitute  a  claim  to 
elegiac  poetry.  Both  require  for  a  fullness  of 
poetic  talent,  the  energetic  virtue  which  has  to 


vitalize  the  subject  in  order  to  bring  forth  true 
beauty.  Productions  of  this  tender  character 
can  only  melt  us  without  refreshing  the  heart  or 
occupying  the  mind,  they  only  flatter  the  senses. 
A  continued  disposition  to  this  class  of  emotions 
must  result  in  enervation  of  character,  and  must 
plunge  a  person  into  a  state  of  passivity  from 
which  no  real  good  can  spring  either  for  the  outer 
or  inner  life.  It  was  therefore  perfectly  just  to 
persecute  with  inexorable  derision  the  sentimen¬ 
talism *  and  whining  manner  which  threatened  to 
flood  Germany  some  eighteen  years  ago  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  misapprehension  and  silly  imitation 
of  a  few  excellent  works,  although  the  forbear¬ 
ance  which  is  manifested  toward  the  no  less  re¬ 
prehensible  caricature  of  elegiac  verse  and  senti¬ 
ment,  toward  the  jesting  tone,  the  heartless 
satire,  and  the  meaningless  humorf  of  a  crowd  of 
petty  scribblers,  would  seem  to  show  that  the 
persecution  did  not  originate  in  the  purest  mo¬ 
tives.  In  the  balance  of  true  taste  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  can  have  any  value,  since  both 
classes  of  works  are  deficient  in  the  aesthetic 
value  which  is  solely  determined  by  the  intimate 
union  of  the  mind  with  the  subject,  and  by  the 
relation  of  the  work  to  the  emotional  sense  as 
well  as  to  the  intellectual  faculties. 

“  Siegwart  and  his  Cloister-story”  have  been 
sneered  at,  whereas  the  “  Travels  to  the  South  of 
France ”  are  admired  ;  both  these  productions 
have  equal  claims  to  a  certain  degree  of  apprecia¬ 
tion,  and  as  little  claim  to  absolute  praise.  Gen¬ 
uine  although  extravagant  sentiment  renders  the 
first  of  these  two  romances  estimable ;  light  hu¬ 
mor  and  a  fine  and  sparkling  intelligence  the 
second  ;  but  whereas  the  one  is  deficient  in  the 
sober  earnestness  of  the  understanding,  the  other 
is  deficient  in  aesthetic  dignity.  The  former  be¬ 
comes  somewhat  ridiculous  when  contrasted  with 
experience,  the  latter  rather  contemptible  when 
contrasted  with  an  ideal.  Inasmuch  as  the  truly 
beautiful  should  accord  with  nature  on  the  one, 
and  with  the  ideal  on  the  other  hand,  neither  of 
these  works  can  claim  the  character  of  an 
aesthetic  production.  However  it  is  natural  and 
just  that  Thummel’s  novel  should  be  read  with 
delight.  Since  it  only  disappoints  expectations 
which  are  suggested  by  the  ideal  mind,  and  which 
the  greater  portion  of  readers  either  does  not  en¬ 
tertain  at  all,  or,  even  in  the  case  of  the  better 
class  of  readers,  does  not  entertain  at  the  mo¬ 
ment  when  novels  are  read ;  and  since  this 
work  fulfills  in  a  very  high  degree  all  the  ordinary 
demands  of  mind  aud  body,  it  must  and  will  re- 

&  “A  disposition,”  according  to  Adelung’s  definition, 
“  to  touching  and  gentle  emotions  ■ without  any  rational 
purpose,  and  beyond  proper  bounds.” — Adelung  is  very- 
fortunate,  if  his  emotions  emanate  from  a  purpose,  or 
only  from  a  rational  purpose. 

•j-  It  is  true,  we  should  not  grudge  the  scanty  pleasure 
which  a  certain  class  of  readers  experiences,  and  after 
all,  what  matters  it  to  us,  if  there  are  people  who  are 
edified  and  amused  by  the  dirty  jokes  of  Mr.  Blumauer. 
But  critics  should  refrain  from  mentioning  with  a  sort  of 
respect  productions  whose  very  existence  should  be  ig¬ 
nored  by  good  taste.  They  evince  talent  and  humor,  but 
the  more  is  the  pity  that  these  qualities  are  not  purified 
from  the  dross  of  vulgarity.  I  say  nothing  of  our  Ger¬ 
man  comedies;  poets  paint  the  age  in  which  they  live 


560 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


main  a  favorite  production  as  long  as  aesthetic 
works  are  written  in  order  to  please,  and  read 
only  for  the  purpose  of  affording  amusement. 

But  does  not  classical  literature  exhibit  works 
which  offend  in  a  similar  manner  the  exalted 
purity  of  the  ideal  and  which  by  the  material 
character  of  their  contents,  seem  to  recede  from 
the  spirituality  which  is  demanded  of  every  true 
work  of  art?  What  is  permitted  to  the  poet,  to 
this  chaste  disciple  of  the  muse,  should  this  not 
be  a  privilege  of  a  mere  writer  of  romances  who 
is  his  half-brother,  and  who  is  still  so  near  to  the 
earth?  I  must  ask  this  question  here  all  the 
more  since  we  have  master-pieces  of  the  elegiac, 
as  well  as  the  satirical  class  that  seem  to  seek 
and  commend  a  different  nature  from  that  of 
which  this  essay  treats,  and  to  defend  it  not  so 
much  against  bad,  as  against  good  manners. 
Either  these  poetical  works  have  to  be  rejected, 
or  else  my  definition  of  elegiac  poetry  is  much  too 
arbitrary. 

I  ask  :  should  not  a  mere  writer  in  prose  be 
allowed  the  privileges  which  the-  poet  claims  for 
himself?  The  answer  is  contained  in  the  question  . 
That  which  the  poet  is  allowed  to  do,  proves 
nothing  in  favor  of  him  who  is  not  a  poet.  The 
freedom  which  a  poet  indulges  in,  originates  in 
the  very  conception  of  poet,  a  freedom  that  be¬ 
comes  a  contemptible  license,  unless  it  can  be 
traced  to  the  high  and  noble  ideal  which  consti¬ 
tutes  the  groundwork  of  a  poet’s  soul. 

1  he  laws  of  conventional  life  are  foreign  to  an 
innocent  nature  ;  they  have  originated  in  the  per¬ 
verseness  of  the  actual.  But  if  this  perverseness 
has  become  an  empirical  fact,  and  natural  inno¬ 
cence  has  disappeared  from  the  emotional  and 
sensational  movements  of  human  nature,  conven¬ 
tional  rules  become  sacred  laws  which  no  moral 
being  should  violate.  In  an  artificial  world  they 
are  just  as  authoritative  as  the  laws  of  nature  are 
in  a  world  of  innocence.  What  constitutes  the 
poet  is  his  endeavor  to  extinguish  in  his  being, 
every  movement  that  reminds  him  of  an  artificial 
state  ot  existence,  and  to  restore  nature  in  her 
original  simplicity.  If  he  accomplishes  this  re¬ 
sult,  he  is  absolved  from  all  artificial  rules  by 
which  a  misguided  heart  guards  itself  against  its 
own  aberrations.  He  is  pure,  he  is  innocent, 
and  that  which  it  is  lawful  for  innocent  nature  to 
indulge  in,  is  lawful  for  himself;  if  thou  who 
readest  or  hearest  him,  art  no  longer  guiltless,  or 
canst  not  even  become  so  for  a  few  moments  by 
his  purifying  presence,  it  is  tliy  misfortune,  but 
not  his  fault  ;  thou  forsakest  him,  he  has  not  sung 
for  thee. 

Hence,  with  regard  to  this  class  of  liberties, 
the  following  points  may  be  stipulated  : 

^  First,  they  can  only  be  justified  by  nature. 
They  must  not  be  the  work  of  choice  arid  of  in¬ 
tentional  imitation ;  for  the  will  which  is  al¬ 
ways  judged  in  accordance  with  moral  laws,  can 
never  be  excused  for  favoring  sensual  lust.  Hence 
they  must  not  only  be  natural,  but  genuinely  or 
naively- natural.  That  they  are  so,  we  shall  be 
convinced  of,  if  all  the  other  movements  of  the 
being  bear  the  impress  of  a  pure  nature,  which  is 
always  characterized  by  the  rigid  consistency, 
unity  and  uniformity  of  her  results.  It  is  only  a 


heart  that  is  opposed  to  affectation  generally,  and 
hence  detests  it,  even  where  it  may  be  useful,  which 
we  excuse  if  it  absolves  itself  from  conventional 
rules  whenever  they  become  oppressive  and  inter¬ 
fere  with  personal  freedom  ;  it  is  only  a  heart  that 
acknowledges  the  full  sway  of  nature,  which  we 
permit  to  indulge  in  all  the  freedom  of  her  move¬ 
ments.  All  the  emotions  of  such  a  man’s  soul 
must  necessarily  be  stamped  with  an  air  of  natu¬ 
ralness  ;  he  must  be  true,  simple,  free,  candid,  full 
of  feeling,  straight- forward  ;  dissimulation,  cun¬ 
ning,  arbitrary  caprice,  petty  selfishness  must 
have  vanished  from  his  nature,  all  traces  of  these 
vices  must  have  disappeared  from  his  works. 

Second,  such  liberties  can  only  be  justified  by 
a  beautiful  nature.  Hence  they  must  not  be  the 
exceptional  and  violent  manifestations  of  desire ; 
for  whatever  comes  from  this  source,  is  contempti¬ 
ble.  It  is  from  the  totality  and  fullness  of  human 
nature  that  these  signs  of  sensual  energy  should 
flow.  They  must  constitute  a  circle  of  humanity. 
But  in  order  to  determine  whether  they  are  the 
offspring  of  integral  nature,  not  of  some  ordinary 
and  one-sided  sensual  want,  we  should  look  at 
the  whole  oneness  of  which  they  constitute  single 
features.  Of  themselves,  sensual  emotions  are 
innocent  and  indifferent.  We  dislike  them  in 
man,  because  their  character  is  animal  and  be¬ 
trays  a  want  of  true  and  perfect  humanity  ;  they 
offend  us  in  a  poetical  production,  because  such 
a  work  claims  to  please  us,  and  hence  must  deem 
us  capable  of  such  a  defect.  But  if  the  man  who  in¬ 
dulges  in  such  liberties,  exhibits  the  spirit  of  a  free 
and  full  humanity  in  all  his  acts;  if  the  genuine¬ 
ness  of  human  nature  is  fully  expressed  in  the 
work  where  such  liberties  occur,  all  cause  of  dis¬ 
pleasure  is  removed,  and  wre  can  enjoy  with  an 
unmixed  delight  the  expression  of  a  true  and 
beautiful  humanity.  The  same  poet  who  invites 
us  to  a  participation  in  the  ordinary  feelings  of 
man,  must,  on  the  other  hand,  be  able  to  carry  us 
upward  to  every  thing  that  is  great,  beautiful,  and 
sublime. 

Here  we  have  a  test  to  which  every  poet  who 
makes  free  with  propriety  and  carries  his  freedom 
in  the  exhibition  of  nature  to  this  extreme,  may 
be  safely  submitted.  His  work  is  vulgar,  low, 
and  unqualifiedly  condemnable  the  moment  it  is 
cold  and  empty ,  for  then  it  must  have  originated 
in  some  design,  in  some  common  movement  of 
sensuality,  in  a  flagitious  attempt  to  excite  our 
lust.  On  the  contrary  it  is  beautiful,  noble,  and 
deserving  of  approbation,  irrespective  of  any  ob¬ 
jections  that  may  be  raised  by  a  chilling  conven¬ 
tionalism,  the  moment  we  find  it  pervaded  by  a 
spirit  of  naivete  which  unites  mind  and  heart.* 

If  I  should  be  told  that,  if  submitted  to  this 
standard,  very  few  French  novels,  and  very  few 
of  the  best  German  imitations  of  this  class  of 
literary  works,  would  remain  uncondemned,  and 

*  And  heart ;  for  the  purely  sensual  glow  of  the  pic¬ 
ture,  and  the  exuberance  of  imagination  are  not  suffi¬ 
cient.  For  this  reason  Ardinghello,  in  spite  of  all  sen¬ 
sual  energy,  and  the  fire  of  coloring, remains  a  sensual  cari¬ 
cature  without  truth,  without  aesthetic  worth.  However, 
this. strange  production  will  always  remain  remarkable 
as  an  illustration  of  the  almost  poetical  flight  of  which 
the  merely  sensual  desire  is  capable. 


iESTHETICAL. 


567 


that  this  condemnation  would  even  have  to  be 
pronounced  against  many  productions  of  our 
loveliest  and  most  spiritual  poet,  even  against 
some  of  his  master-pieces,  I  have  no  reply  to 
offer.  This  verdict  is  not  of  recent  date  :  I  am 
simply  indicating  the  reasons  upon  which  the 
opinions  that  persons  of  a  refined  sensibility  have 
expressed  upon  this  subject  long  ago,  are  based. 
These  principles  which  may  seem  too  rigorous 
when  applied  to  that  class  of  works,  may  seem  too 
liberal  when  applied  to  another ;  for  I  do  not  deny 
that  the  same  reasons  on  which  account  I  deem 
the  seductive  pictures  of  the  Roman  as  well  as 
of  the  German  Ovid,  of  Crebillon,  Voltaire,  Mar- 
montel  (who  calls  himself  an  author  of  moral 
tales),  Laclos  and  many  others,  inexcusable,  recon¬ 
cile  me  to  the  Roman  and  to  the  German  Proper¬ 
tius,  and  even  to  many  of  the  decried  productions 
of  Diderot;  for  the  former  are  simply  witty, 
prosy  and  lust-exciting,  the  latter  are  poetic,  hu¬ 
mane  and  naive.* 

IDYL. 

A  few  words  have  to  be  said  on  the  subject  of 
this  third  class  of  sentimental  poetry ;  only  a  few 
words,  for  a  more  detailed  development  of  this 
subject  will  be  reserved  for  a  future  period. f 

*  If  I  name  the  immortal  author  of  Agathon,  Oberon, 
&c.,  in  this  company,  I  must  expressly  declare  that  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  him  confounded  with  it.  His  pictures, 
even  the  most  equivocal  in  this  respect,  have  no  material 
tendency  (as  a  somewhat  indiscreet  critic  has  recently 
permitted  himself  to  state);  the  author  of  “ Love  for 
Love”  and  so  many  other  works  full  of  genuine  nature 
and  genius,  all  of  which  reflect  the  unmistakable  traits 
of  a  beautiful  and  noble  soul,  cannot  have  such  a  ten¬ 
dency.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  he  is  pursued  by  the  pe¬ 
culiar  misfortune  of  having  adopted  a  poetical  pro¬ 
gramme  which  renders  such  pictures  necessary.  The  cold 
understanding  which  arranged  the  design  of  his  poems, 
demanded  these  pictures  of  him;  his  feeling  seems  so 
averse  to  favoring  them  that  it  seems  to  me  the  abstract 
understanding  may  still  be  recognized  in  their  execution. 
The  coldness  which  pervades  them,  hurts  them  in  a 
critical  point  of  view,  because  such  pictures  can  only  be 
justified  aesthetically  as  well  as  morally  by  the  naivete 
of  sentiment  Whether  a  poet  can  be  permitted,  in  con¬ 
triving  his  design,  to  expose  himself  to  so  much  danger 
in  executing  it;  and  whether  a  design  can  at  all  be 
called  poetical  which  cannot  be  executed  (I  may  admit 
this  for  the  present)  without  revolting  the  chaste  feelings 
of  the  reader  as  well  as  of  the  poet,  and  without  com¬ 
pelling  the  two  to  dwell  upon  subjects  from  which  a  re¬ 
fined  sensibility  is  disposed  to  shrink — is  a  point  about 
which  I  am  in  doubt,  and  concerning  which  I  should 
like  to  hear  an  intelligent  critic’s  opinion. 

j-  I  again  state  that  satire,  elegy,  and  idyl,  which  I 
have  named  as  the  three  only  possible  species  of  senti¬ 
mental  poetry,  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  three 
forms  of  verse  which  are  distinguished  by  these  names 
respectively,  except  the  form  of  the  emotions  which  is 
peculiar  to  all.  It  is  easy  from  the  conception  of  senti¬ 
mental  poetry,  to  deduce  the  proof  that  outside  of  the 
limits  of  the  class  of  naive  poems,  there  are  but  three 
classes  of  emotions  and  poetical  forms,  and  that  the  field 
of  sentimental  poetry  is  completely  encompassed  by  this 
classification. 

Sentimental  poetry,  is  distinguished  from  poems  of  the 
naive  class,  by  idealizing  the  reality  which  constitutes 
the  subject  of  the  latter,  and  by  applying  the  ideal  to 
the  real.  Hence  as  has  been  observed  before,  senti¬ 
mental  poetry  deals  with  two  conflicting  objects ;  with  the 


The  poetical  description  of  an  innocent  and 
happy  humanity  is  the  general  idea  of  this  species 
of  poetry.  Because  this  innocence  and  this  hap¬ 
piness  seemed  incompatible  with  the  artificial  re¬ 
lations  of  fashionable  society,  poets  have  trans¬ 
ferred  the  scene  of  the  idyl  from  the  crowds  of 
civil  life  to  the  simple  hut  of  the  shepherd,  and 
have  assigned  to  it  a  place  in  the  childhood  of 
humanity,  previous  to  the  beginning  of  culture. 
It  is  readily  seen  that  these  arrangements  are 
accidental,  that  they  do  not  constitute  the  object 
of  the  idyl,  but  are  simply  to  be  considered  as  the 
most  natural  means  to  the  attainment  of  this  ob¬ 
ject.  The  object  everywhere  is,  to  exhibit  man 
in  a  state  of  innocence  ;  that  is,  in  a  state  of  har¬ 
mony  and  peace  with  himself  and  the  outer  world. 

Such  a  condition  not  only  takes  place  before 
the  commencement  of  culture,  but  it  is  a  state 
which  culture,  if  it  needs  must  have  a  definite  aim, 
regards  as  its  ultimate  purpose.  The  idea  of  this 
state,  and  the  belief  that  the  realization  of  this 
idea  is  possible,  may  reconcile  man  to  all  the  evils 
to  which  he  becomes  subject  on  the  road  to  cul¬ 
ture  ;  if  this  realization  were  purely  chimerical, 
the  complaints  of  those  who  decry  society  and  the 
cultivation  of  the  understanding  as  an  evil,  and 
who  regard  a  state  of  nature  as  man’s  true  destiny, 
would  be  perfectly  founded.  Man  who  is  engaged 
in  accomplishing  the  great  task  of  culture,  is 

ideal  and  the  real  or  empirical,  between  which  the  follow¬ 
ing  three  relations  may  exist.  Either  it  is  the  antagonism 
of  the  real,  or  it  is  its  accord  with  the  ideal  that  principally 
occupies  the  mind,  or  else  this  is  divided  between  both. 
In  the  first  case  the  mind  is  preoccupied  with  the  force 
of  the  internal  struggle,  or  the  eueryetic  movement :  in 
the  second  case,  by  the  harmony  of  the  internal  life, 
or  the  energetic  repose  ;  in  the  third  case,  struggle  alter¬ 
nates  with  harmony,  repose  with  movement.  These  three 
orders  of  emotion  give  rise  to  three  classes  of  poems,  to 
which  the  received  appellations  of  satire,  elegy,  and  idyl 
correspond,  provided  we  have  in  view  only  the  emotions 
which  the  poems  respectively  so  named,  excite  in  the 
mind,  and  provided  we  remove  our  thoughts  from  the 
means  by  which  these  emotions  are  elicited. 

If  any  one  should  ask  me  after  this,  among  which  of 
these  three  classes  I  number  the  epopee,  the  romance, 
the  tragedy  <fcc.,  he  would  not  have  apprehended  my 
meaning.  For  the  definition  of  these  respective  classes 
of  poems  as  special  forms  of  poetical  productions,  is  not 
determined  by  the  form  of  the  emotions  which  they  excite, 
certainly  not  by  that  alone;  it  is  well  known  that  these 
different  poems  may  respectively  excite  more  than  one 
form  of  emotional  state,  and  that  they  may  therefore  be¬ 
long  respectively  to  several  classes  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

In  conclusion  I  have  to  observe  that,  if  there  should 
be  a  disposition  to  regard  sentimental  poetry,  as  is  but 
proper,  as  a  genuine  species  (not  merely  as  a  variety) 
and  as  an  expansion  of  true  poetry,  it  will  have  to  be  in¬ 
cluded  in  determining  the  forms  and  re-organizing  the 
laws  of  poetry,  which  aro  still  based  upon  the  old  classi¬ 
fication  of  poets  into  ancient  and  naive.  The  sentimen¬ 
tal  poet  deviates  in  too  many  essential  respects  from  the 
naive,  to  adopt  without  constraint  and  in  every  instance 
the  forms  which  the  latter  has  introduced.  It  is  indeed 
difficult  to  distinguish  correctly  in  every  instance,  the 
exceptions  which  the  difference  of  the  species  renders 
necessary,  from  the  expedients  which  incapacity  indulges 
in;  but  experience  teaches,  that  in  the  hands  of  senti¬ 
mental  poets  (not  even  of  the  most  distinguished)  not  a 
single  species  of  poetry  has  remained  what  it  was  among 
the  ancients,  and  that  entirely  new  species  have  very 
frequently  been  created  under  cover  of  the  old  names. 

% 


568 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


deeply  interested  in  obtaining  a  sensual  confirma¬ 
tion  of  the  possibility  of  realizing  this  state,  and, 
inasmuch  as  actual  experience,  so  far  from  sus¬ 
taining  this  belief,  refutes  it  on  the  contrary  at  all 
times,  it  is  here,  as  in  so  many  other  cases,  that 
poetical  genius  hastens  to  assist  reason,  in  order 
to  afford  an  intuitive  perception  of  this  idea,  and 
to  realize  it  in  a  single  instance. 

It  is  true  this  innocence  of  the  pastoral  state 
is  likewise  a  poetic  conception,  where  the  imagi¬ 
nation  had  to  manifest  her  creative  power  ;  but 
not  to  mention  the  fact,  that  the  problem  ad¬ 
mitted  of  a  much  easier  and  simpler  solution  in 
that  state  of  the  world,  the  actual  itself  pre¬ 
sented  singly  the  features  which  the  imagina¬ 
tion  had  to  select  and  to  combine  into  a  one. 
Under  a  blissful  sky,  in  the  simplicity  of  a  primi¬ 
tive  state  of  society,  when  knowledge  is  still  lim¬ 
ited,  nature  is  easily  satisfied,  and  man  does  not 
plunge  into  a  savage  life  until  want  begins  to  sting 
him.  Every  nation  that  has  preserved  historical 
records,  has  a  paradise,  a  state  of  innocence,  a 
golden  age  ;  yea,  every  single  man  has  his  para¬ 
dise,  his  golden  age,  which  he  recollects  with 
more  or  less  enthusiasm,  according  as  he  has 
more  or  less  poetry  in  his  composition.  Expe¬ 
rience  itself,  therefore,  offers  sufficient  traits  for 
the  picture  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  pasto¬ 
ral  idyl.  For  all  that,  it  is  a  beautiful  and  eleva¬ 
ting  fiction,  and  poetical  genius  works  for  the 
ideal  in  describing  the  pastoral  life.  For  it  is  of 
great  importance  that  a  man  who  has  deviated 
from  the  simplicity  of  nature,  and  who  has  been 
given  over  to  the  dangerous  guidance  of  his  rea¬ 
son,  should  again  behold  the  laws  of  natural  life 
in  all  their  purity,  and  should  be  taught  by  this 
faithful  mirror  to  purify  himself  from  the  pervert¬ 
ing  influences  of  art.  But  there  is  one  circum¬ 
stance  connected  with  these  idyllic  compositions 
which  very  much  impairs  their  usefulness.  The 
scenes  being  transferred  to  an  age  where  no  cul¬ 
ture  had  begun,  the  exclusion  of  its  disadvan¬ 
tages  implies  likewise  the  exclusion  of  its  advan¬ 
tages  ;  hence  idyllic  fictions  are  essentially  op¬ 
posed  to  culture.  Theoretically  they  lead  us 
backward,  whereas  practically  they  refine  and 
ennoble  us.  Unfortunately  they  place  the  goal 
toward  which  they  profess  to  conduct  us,  behind 
us  ;  hence  they  can  only  afford  us  the  saddening 
feeling  of  a  loss,  not  the  joyful  feeling  of  hope. 
Since  they  only  attain  their  object  by  repudiating 
art  and  simplifying  human  nature,  they  are  of  the 
highest  value  to  the  heart,  but  of  little  value 
to  ‘'.be  mind,  and  their  monotonous  circle  is  very 
speedily  accomplished.  Hence  we  can  only  love 
and  seek  them,  when  we  are  in  need  of  repose, 
not  when  our  powers  crave  activity  and  exercise. 
They  may  afford  a  remedy  to  a  diseased  mind,  but 
no  food  to  a  sound  one;  they  cannot  animate, 
only  soften.  This  inherent  defect  of  idyllic  poems 
has  never  been  remedied  by  the  art  of  poets. 
It  is  true  this  species  of  poetry  has  likewise  its 
enthusiastic  admirers,  and  there  are  readers  who 
prefer  Amyntas  or  a  Daphnis  to  the  greatest  epic 
or  dramatic  master-pieces  ;  but  among  such  read¬ 
ers  it  is  not  taste  but  individual  want  which  sits 
in  judgment  upon  works  of  art  ;  whose  opinion, 
therefore,  cannot  be  regarded  as  of  any  import- 


I  ance  in  a  matter  of  this  kind.  An  intelligent  and 
feeling  reader  indeed  does  not  underrate  the  worth 
of  such  fictions,  but  he  feels  less  frequently  at 
tracted  by  them,  and  is  more  speedily  wearied  by 
this  kind  of  literature.  At  the  moment  when  a 
want  for  them  is  truly  felt,  idyllic  poems  have  a 
great  effect;  but  the  truly  beautiful  in  art  should 
never  have  to  wait  for  such  a  moment,  which 
should,  on  the  contrary,  be  produced  by  it. 

This  censure  of  the  pastoral  idyl  only  applies 
to  the  sentimental  order  ;  for  the  naive  composi¬ 
tions  of  this  class  can  never  be  deficient  in  worth, 
since  the  form  itself  constitutes  their  claim  t.o  it. 
Poetry  should  represent  the  infinite  ;  this  it  is 
that  makes  it  poetry  ;  but  this  character  may  be 
realized  in  two  different  ways.  Poetry  may  re¬ 
present  the  infinite  of  form  by  exhibiting  all  the 
boundaries  of  its  subject,  by  individualizing  it; 
or  it  may  represent  the  infinite  of  the  absolute 
idea,  by  removing  all  boundaries  from  its  subject, 
by  idealizing  it.  The  former  method  is  pursued 
by  the  naive,  the  latter  by  the  sentimental  poet. 
The  former  cannot  miss  his  road  provided  he 
adheres  faithfully  to  nature  whose  boundaries 
are  absolute,  or  in  other  words,  whose  form  is  in¬ 
finite.  The  latter,  on  the  contrary,  is  embar¬ 
rassed  by  the  boundaries  of  nature,  for  his  object 
is  to  treat  his  subject  with  reference  to  the  abso¬ 
lute,  in  other  words,  to  present  his  ideas  as  a 
form  or  conception  of  the  absolute.  Hence  the 
sentimental  poet  would  miss  his  advantage,  if  he 
were  to  borrow  subjects  for  his  verse  from  his 
naive  brother,  for  these  subjects  are  indifferent  in 
themselves,  and  only  become  poetical  by  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  managed.  In  doing  so 
he  confines  himself  within  the  limits  of  naive 
poetry  without  being  able  to  adhere  to  them  per¬ 
fectly,  and  to  emulate  his  rival  in  regard  to  the 
absolute  definiteness  of  his  subject ;  hence  it  is 
precisely  the  subject  which  should  distinguish  sen¬ 
timental  poetry  from  the  naive,  since  the  advantages 
of  form  enjoyed  by  the  latter,  can  only  be  compen¬ 
sated  to  the  former  by  the  superiority  of  the  subject. 

Applying  these  remarks  to  the  pastoral  idyl 
of  sentimental  poets,  wre  have  an  explanation 
why  these  poems  are  so  little  satisfactory  to  the 
heart  in  spite  of  the  expenditure  of  genius  and 
art  made  by  their  authors.  In  presenting  an 
ideal,  they  confine  themselves  to  the  narrow 
bounds  of  pastoral  indigence,  whereas  they  should 
either  select  another  world  for  their  ideal,  or 
else  another  form  for  the  exhibition  of  pastoral 
life.  They  idealize  just  enough  to  weaken  the 
individual  truth  of  the  picture,  and  they  indivi¬ 
dualize  enough  to  impair  its  ideal  value.  A 
Gessnerian  shepherd,  for  instance,  does  not  charm 
us  as  a  natural  thing,  by  his  truthful  imitation, 
for  he  is  too  ideal  a  being  for  any  such  purpose  ; 
he  satisfies  us  no  more  as  an  ideal  being  by  the 
infinite  of  thought,  for  his  mental  condition  is 
too  limited  for  that.  Hence  he  may  please  all 
classes  of  readers  up  to  a  certain  point,  inasmuch 
as  he  endeavors  to  combine  the  naive  and  the 
sentimental,  and  by  this  means  fulfills  to  a  cer¬ 
tain  extent  the  two  opposite  demands  which  can 
be  made  of  a  poem  ;  but  since  this  very  course 
prevents  the  poet  from  doing  full  justice  to  the 
character  of  either  class,  his  productions  beiug 


-ZESTHETICAL. 


569 


neither  fully  one  thin"  nor  another:  he  does  not 
come  up  to  the  requirements  of  a  severe  taste 
which  cannot  be  satisfied  with  partial  success. 
It  is  strange  that  this  half-way  method  should 
extend  even  to  the  language  of  this  poet  which 
vibrates  indefinitely  between  poetry  and  prose, 
as  if  the  poet  feared  lest  his  verse  should  lead  him 
too  far  from  nature,  or  lest  his  prose  should  be 
deficient  in  poetic  flights.  A  much  higher  satis¬ 
faction  is  afforded  by  Milton’s  splendid  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  first  human  pair,  and  of  their  state 
of  innocence  in  paradise  ;  the  most  beautiful  idyl 
of  the  sentimental  class  that  I  know  of.  Here 
nature  is  noble,  full  of  intellectuality,  full  of 
simplicity,  and  yet  full  of  depth;  the  most  ex¬ 
alted  dignity  of  human  nature,  clothed  in  the 
most  lovely  and  graceful  forms. 

In  the  idyl,  as  in  all  other  poetical  composi¬ 
tions,  we  shall  therefore  have  to  choose  between 
individuality  and  ideality;  for  as  long  as  we  have 
not  arrived  at  the  goal  of  perfection,  the  surest 
way  of  missing  both,  is  to  attempt  to  comply 
with  the  laws  of  each.  If  a  modern  poet,  who  is 
not  deterred  by  the  incongeniality  of  his  subject, 
feels  sufficiently  inspired  with  Greek  genius  to 
struggle  with  these  ancient  masters  in  their  own 
domain,  in  the  domain  of  naive  poetry,  let  him 
enter  the  list  wholly,  without  regarding  the  claims 
of  the  ruling  taste  of  the  age.  He  may  find  it 
■  difficult  to  reach  his  models,  the  most  fortunate 
imitator  will  still  leave  a  sensible  distance  be¬ 
tween  himself  and  his  original ;  but  by  pursuing 
this  course  he  may  at  least  be  certain  of  pro¬ 
ducing  a  truly  poetical  work.*  On  the  contrary, 
should  the  impulse  of  sentimental  poetry  drive 
him  into  the  regions  of  the  ideal,  let  him  seek  it 
wholly,  in  all  its  purity,  without  inquiring  whether 
the  actual  will  follow  him.  Let  him  repudiate 
the  unworthy  expedient  of  deteriorating  the  char¬ 
acter  of  the  ideal  for  the  purpose  of  adapting  it 
to  the  narrowness  of  the  existing  perceptions  of 
the  age ;  let  him  not  exclude  the  highest  order 
of  intellectuality  for  the  purpose  of  impressing 
the  more  easily  his  reader’s  heart.  Let  him  not 
lead  us  backward  to  our  childhood  in  order  to 
induce  us  to  sacrifice  the  most  precious  acquisi¬ 
tions  of  the  understanding,  for  the  purpose  of 
purchasing  a  repose  which  cannot  last  longer 
than  the  slumber  of  our  mental  faculties ;  but  let 
him  lead  us  onward  to  a  fullness  of  selfhood, 
where  we  may  taste  the  higher  harmony  which 
rewards  the  champion  and  affords  happiness  to 
the  conqueror.  Let  him  endeavor  to  execute  an 
idyl  which  shows  pastoral  innocence  as  an  attri¬ 
bute  of  a  state  of  culture,  of  all  the  stages  of  an 
active  and  ardent  social  life,  of  the  most  compre¬ 
hensive  intellectuality,  the  most  refined  art ;  as 

*  A  short  time  ago,  Voss  not  only  enriched,  but  ex¬ 
panded  the  boundaries  of  German*  literature  with  such 
a  work.  This  idyl,  although  not  entirely  free  from  sen¬ 
timental  influences,  belongs  altogether  to  the  naive 
class,  and  on  account  of  its  individual  truthfulness  and 
purity  of  nature  may  be  regarded  as  an  exquisitely 
successful  imitation  of  the  best  Greek  models.  What 
constitutes  the  glory  of  this  poem  is,  that  no  modern 
productions  of  this  kind  can  be  compared  with  it,  but 
that  it  has  to  be  contrasted  with  Greek  models,  with 
which  it  shares  the  rare  privilege  of  affording  us  a 
pure,  well-defined  and  never-flagging  enjoyment. 


inherent  in  the  highest  cultivation  of  manners 
and  taste;  in  one  word,  which  conducts  man, 
against  whom  the  return  road  to  Arcadia  is  closed 
henceforth  and  forever,  to  the  spheres  of  Elysium. 

The  conception  of  this  idyl  implies  the  total 
cessation  of  struggle  in  the  individual  man,  as  well 
as  in  society,  a  free  union  of  inclination  and  law, 
the  elevation  of  human  nature  to  the  highest  moral 
dignity  ;  such  an  idyl,  in  its  essence,  is  the  ideal  of 
beauty  applied  to  real  life.  The  character  of  an 
idyl  consists  in  the  neutralization  of  the  antagon¬ 
ism  between  the  actual  and  the  ideal ,  which  con¬ 
stitutes  the  subject  of  satiric  and  elegiac  poetry, 
after  which  all  passional  conflicts  in  human  nature 
cease.  Repose  must  therefore  be  the  prevailing 
impression  which  this  class  of  poems  produces  in 
us,  but  it  is  the  repose  of  completeness,  not  that 
of  indolence  ;  a  repose  emanating  from  the  equi¬ 
librium,  not  from  the  stagnation  of  our  powers  ; 
resulting  from  fullness,  not  from  vacuity,  and  ac¬ 
companied  by  a  feeling  of  endless  energy.  But,  for 
the  very  reason  that  all  resistance  ceases,  it  is 
much  more  difficult  in  the  idyl  than  it  is  in  satire 
or  elegy,  to  produce  and  sustain  movement ,  with 
out  which  no  poetical  effect  is  possible  anywhere. 
There  should  be  perfect  unity,  without,  however, 
interfering  with  the  variety  of  form  ;  the  mind 
should  be  gratified,  without  its  energetic  expan¬ 
siveness  being  impaired.  It  is  the  solution  of  this 
problem  which  constitutes  the  peculiar  province 
of  the  idyl. 

Concerning  the  relation  of  both  species  of 
poetry  to  each  other  and  to  the  poetic  ideal,  . the 
following  points  have  been  established. 

The  naive  poet  has  been  favored  by  nature 
with  the  faculty  of  always  acting  with  a  spirit  of 
undivided  unity,  of  constituting  at  all  times  a  self- 
existing  and  complete  whole,  and  of  representing 
humanity  as  it  exists,  in  all  the  fullness  of  a  living 
reality.  To  the  sentimental  poet,  nature  has  ac¬ 
corded  the  power,  or  rather  she  has  inspired  him 
with  an  intense  and  impelling  desire,  of  restoring 
out  of  his  own  depths,  the  unity  which  had  been 
dissolved  in  him  by  abstraction,  of  completing  hu¬ 
manity  within  himself,  and  of  passing  from  a  finite 
into  an  infinite  state.*  Both,  however,  have  to 
achieve  the  task  of  realizing  the  complete  expres¬ 
sion  of  human  nature,  otherwise  they  would  not 
be  called  poets ;  but  the  naive  poet  has  the  ad¬ 
vantage  over  the  sentimental  poet  of  dealing  in 
sensual  realities,  and  of  executing  as  a  real  fact, 
what  the  other  simply  aspires  at.  This  impres- 

*  For  the  benefit  of  those  who  examine  things  scien¬ 
tifically,  I  may  remark  that  both  these  forms  of  emotion, 
if  conceived  in  their  highest  beauty,  are  related  to  each 
other  as  the  first  class  is  to  the  third,  since  the  last  class 
always  arises  from  the  first  class  being  combined  with 
its  direct  opposite.  The  opposite  of  naive  sentiment  is 
the  reflecting  understanding,  and  the  sentimental  mood 
is  the  result  of  an  endeavor  to  restore  the  naivete  of  sen¬ 
timent,  as  a  substantial  state,  through  the  medium  of  re¬ 
flection.  This  is  to  be  accomplished  by  the  realization  of 
the  ideal,  where  art  and  nature  again  meet.  In  review¬ 
ing  these  three  conceptions  in  their  categorical  order, 
nature  and  the  corresponding  naivete  of  sentiment  will 
always  be  found  in  the  first  category  ;  art,  as  a  substitu¬ 
tion  for  nature,  through  the  free-acting  understanding  in 
the  second;  and  the  ideal,  where  perfect  art  returns  to 
nature,  in  the  third. 


570 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sion  is  experienced  by  every  one  who  abandons1 
himself  to  the  enjoyment  of  naive  poetry.  At 
such  a  time  he  feels  that  all  his  human  powers  are 
active,  he  is  not  in  need  of  any  thing,  he  is  a 
whole  within  himself;  without  perceiving  differ¬ 
ences  in  his  emotional  state,  he  enjoys  at  one  and 
the  same  time  his  mental  activity  and  his  sensual 
life.  The  mood  into  which  the  sentimental  poet 
transports  him,  is  quite  different.  Here  he  is  stim¬ 
ulated  by  a  living  impulse  to  bring  forth  the  har¬ 
mony  which  he  actually  felt  while  communing  with 
the  naive  poet ;  he  desires  to  transform  himself 
into  a  perfect  unit,  to  realize  the  fullest  expres¬ 
sion  of  humanity  in  his  person.  Hence,  when 
reading  sentimental  poetry,  the  mind  is  set  in 
motion,  it  is  in  a  state  of  tension,  it  is  oscillat¬ 
ing  between  contending  emotions,  whereas  naive 
poetry  induces  tranquillity  of  mind,  a  feeling  of 
relaxation  and  repose,  accord  of  sentiment,  and 
perfect  satisfaction. 

Whereas  the  naive  poet  deals  in  more  living  re¬ 
alities  than  the  sentimental,  and  actualizes  as 
things  of  real  life,  the  feelings  and  desires  which 
only  exist  as  potential  aspirations  in  the  mind  of 
the  latter  poet ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  sentimental 
poet  enjoys  the  great  advantage  over  the  former 
of  being  able  to  present  a  higher  object  to  the 
idealizing  impulse,  than  the  naive  poet  is  able  to 
do.  We  know  that  the  real  always  remains  be¬ 
hind  the  ideal;  every  existing  thing  is  bounded, 
but  thought  is  boundless.  From  these  restrictions 
to  which  all  sensual  things  are  liable,  the  naive 
poet  necessarily  suffers,  whereas  the  sentimental 
poet  is  favored  by  an' absolute  freedom  of  ideas. 
The  former  fulfills  his  task,  but  it  is  limited;  the 
latter  does  not  fulfill  his  task  entirely,  but  it  is  in¬ 
finite.  Concerning  this  subject,  every  reader  may 
likewise  be  taught  by  his  own  experience.  From 
the  naive  poet  we  turn  with  a  lively  and  cheerful 
spirit  to  the  actual  ;  the  sentimental  poet  indis¬ 
poses  us  against  real  life,  at  least  for  a  few  mo¬ 
ments.  The  reason  is,  because  the  infinite  ideal  has 
expanded  the  mind  beyond  its  natural  proportions, 
so  that  the  actual  cannot  penetrate  it.  We  prefer 
indulging  in  the  luxury  of  being  absorbed  by  our 
own  thoughts  which  have  been  stimulated  by  our 
ideal  aspirations,  whereas  the  naive  poet  causes 
us  to  grasp  at  sensual  objects  outside  of  ourselves. 
Sentimental  poetry  is  the  offspring  of  abstraction 
and  retirement,  to  which  it  invites  in  its  turn  ;  naive 
poetry  is  the  child  of  life,  and  leads  us  back  to  life. 

I  have  called  naive  poetry  a  favor  of  nature,  by 
which  I  desire  to  imply  that  reflection  has  no  part 
in  it.  It  is  like  a  fortunate  cast  of  the  dice,  not 
requiring  the  least  improvement  if  successful,  but 
on  the  other  hand  incapable  of  improvement  if  the 
work  should  fail.  The  whole  of  this  work  revolves 
within  the  sphere  of  sentiment ;  here  it  is,  where  the 
genius  of  naivete  may  show  its  strength  and  its 
limits.  If  the  sentiment  is  not  poetical  from  the 
start,  if  it  does  not  flow  from  the  inmost  depths 
of  human  nature,  the  deficiency  cannot  be  reme¬ 
died  by  art.  Criticism  may  reveal  the  defect,  but 
cannot  substitute  beauty  in  its,  place.  The  naive 
poet  has  to  accomplish  every  thing  by  the  truth¬ 
fulness  of  his  genius,  he  cannot  effect  much  by  his 
personal  energy  ;  nor  will  he  fail  in  the  conception 
of  naive  poetry,  provided  nature  acts  in  him  in  ac¬ 


cordance  with  an  internal  necesi/ty.  "Every  thing, 
indeed,  is  necessary,  that  occurs  through  the  ope¬ 
ration  of  natural  causes;  so  is  every  unfortunate 
production  of  the  genius  of  naive  poetry  which  is 
opposed  to  nothing  more  than  to  the  voluntary 
determinations  of  the  idealizing  mind  ;  but  it  is  one 
thing  to  be  subject  to  the  necessity  of  the  moment, 
and  it  is  quite  another  thing,  to  be  bound  by  the 
internal  necessity  of  the  whole.  Regarded  as  a 
whole,  nature  is  self-existing  and  infinite  ;  but  as 
regards  any  of  her  single  effects,  she  is  circum¬ 
scribed  and  deficient.  This  likewise  applies  to 
the  poet’s  nature.  Even  the  most  favorable  mo¬ 
ment  in  which  the  poet  may  be  placed,  is  depend¬ 
ent  upon  the  moment  that  precedes  it ;  hence, 
only  a  conditional  necessity  can  be  imputed  to 
it.  Now  it  happens  to  be  the  poet’s  task,  to  treat 
a  single  state,  or  feature  of  human  nature,  as  he 
would  the  totality  of  its  mechanism,  and  to  make 
it  appear  as  though  the  part  constituted  an  abso¬ 
lute  and  self-existing  unit.  Every  trace  of  physi¬ 
cal  necessity  must  remain  excluded  from  the  sacred 
hour  of  inspiration,  and  the  subject,  be  it  ever  so 
limited,  should  not  restrain  the  genius  of  the  poet. 
Evidently  this  is  possible  only  so  far  as  the  poet 
is  possessed  of  moral  independence  and  intellectual 
power,  and  of  the  most  exalted  sympathies  and 
aspirations  of  the  soul  for  universal  nature  and 
humanity.  This  nobleness  of  sentiment  can  only 
be  developed  in  him  by  the  world  in  which  he 
lives,  and  with  which  he  is  placed  in  imme¬ 
diate  relations.  Hence  we  see  that  naive  ge¬ 
nius  is  overshadowed  by  a  dependence  upon 
experience  which  is  unknown  to  genius  of  the 
sentimental  order.  We  know  that  the  spheie 
of  the  latter  commences  where  that  of  the  former 
terminates  ;  the  power  of  the  former  consists  in 
supplying,  out  of  its  own  resources ,  the  deficien¬ 
cies  of  a  subject,  and  to  transport  itself  by  its  own 
power  from  a  limited  sphere  into-  the  infinite  of 
thought.  The  naive  poet  requires  assistance  from 
without,  whereas  a  poet  of  the  sentimental  order 
sustains  and  perfects  himself  by  his  own  inherent 
power;  the  former  has  to  behold  around  him  a 
nature  full  of  forms,  a  poetic  world,  a  humanity 
whose  nature  is  untainted,  for  the  world  of  sense 
bounds  the  aspirations  of  his  genius.  If  this  ex¬ 
ternal  aid  is  wanting,  if  he  is  surrounded  by 
uninspiring  material,  one  of  twc  things  must  hap¬ 
pen.  If  the  genius  of  poetry  generally  prevails  in 
him,  he  will  step  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his 
speciality,  and  will  become  sentimental  in  order  to 
be  a  poet;  or  else,  if  the  tendency  to  his  speciality 
is  all-powerful,  he  will  lower  himself  beneath  the 
level  of  his  art,  and  will  assume  the  forms  of  a 
vulgar  nature,  in  order  to  preserve  a  natural  ap¬ 
pearance.  The  former  conclusion  applies  to  the 
principal  sentimental  poets  of  Roman  antiquity, 
and  of  our  own  agg.  Born  in  another  age,  trans¬ 
planted  beneath  a  different  sky,  poets  who  now 
interest  us  by  their  ideal  flights  would  then  have 
charmed  us  by  their  individual  truthfulness  and 
natural  beauty.  The  second  conclusion  will  pro¬ 
bably  apply  to  any  poet  who,  when  surrounded  by 
common  objects,  is  not  possessed  of  sufficient 
power  to  elevate  himself  above  the  actual. 

This  is  meant  of  practical  nature  as  actualized 
in  life,  from  which  true  nature,  which  constitutes 


iESTHETICAL. 


571 


the  subject  of  naive  poetry,  cannot  be  distin¬ 
guished  with  sufficient  care.  Practical  or  actual¬ 
ized  nature  is  everywhere  ;  true  nature  is  seen  so 
much  less  frequently,  for  it  is  dependent  upon  the 
internal  necessities  of  the  constitution.  Every 
Vehement  eruption  of  passion  is  an  instance  of  ac¬ 
tual  nature,  and  may  even  be  true  nature,  but  it  is 
not  truly  human  ;  for  to  be  human,  the  personal 
will  must  participate  in  every  manifestation  of 
natural  power,,  and  such  a  manifestation  always 
bears  the  impress  of  dignity.  Every  act  of  moral 
depravity  constitutes  an  actualization  of  human 
nature,  but  it  is  not  true  human  nature,  for  this 
can  only  be  noble.  There  is  no  overlooking 
the  absurdities  to  which  the  confounding  of  ac¬ 
tual  with  true  human  nature  has  led  critics  as 
well  as  practical  artists.  What  trivialities  are 
permitted  and  even  praised  in  poetry,  because, 
alas,  they  are  real  nature !  what  joy  is  expe¬ 
rienced  at  seeing  caricatures  which  frighten  one 
out  of  the  real  world,  carefully  preserved  in  the 
world  of  poesy  as  faithful  imitations  of  real  life  ! 
It  Is  true,  a  poet  may  imitate  depraved  nature,  this 
sort  of  imitation  constitutes  the  object  of  satire  ; 
but  in  such  a  case  his  own  beautiful  nature  should 
remain  above  the  subject,  and  should  handle  and 
carry  it  from  scene  to  scene  as  something  foreign 
to  his  own  mind.  Provided  he  is  a  true  man,  at 
any  rate  whilst  he  is  drawing  his  picture,  it  mat¬ 
ters  not  what  the  subject  of  his  picture  is  ;  it  is 
undoubtedly  true  that  a  faithful  picture  of  the 
reality  proves  acceptable  only  tvhen  executed  by 
such  an  artist.  Woe  unto  the  reader  ,f  a  cari¬ 
cature  reflects  the  personal  grievances  of  its 
author;  if  the  lash  of  satire  is  applied  by  hands 
which  were  destined  by  nature  to  brandish  a  more 
real  and  a  coarser  whip  ;  if  men  who  are  utterly 
devoid  of  all  genuine  poetic  spirit,  only  possess 
the  spurious  talent  of  vulgar  imitation,  and  prac¬ 
tice  it  in  a  frightful  and  horrid  manner  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  our  taste  ! 

But  even  to  the  truly  naive  poet  vulgar  in¬ 
stincts  and  habits  may  prove  a  source  of  danger; 
for  after  all,  the  beautiful  accord  between  sensa¬ 
tion  and  thought  which  constitutes  the  character 
of  such  a  poet,  is  only  an  idea  that  is  never 
wholly  realized  in  the  actual  ;  even  among  the 
purest  geniuses  of  this  order  the  susceptibilities 
of  sensual  nature  will  be  found  to  preponderate  to 
some  extent  over  their  moral  independence. 
These  susceptibilities  being  more  or  less  depend¬ 
ent  upon  the  external  impression,  it  is  only  a 
continued  activity  of  the  productive  powers  of 
the  mind,  such  as  cannot  be  expected  of  human 
nature,  that  could  prevent  at  all  times  the  exer¬ 
cise  of  a  blind  influence  on  the  part  of  the  mate¬ 
rial  subject  over  the  susceptibilities  of  sentient 
nature.  Whenever  this  takes  place,  the  poetic 
sentiment  is  degraded  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary 
sensation.* 

*  To  what  an  extent  the  naive  poet  is  dependent  upon 
his  subject,  and  how  much,  or  -ather,  how  ever}'  thing 
depends  upon  his  own  sensations,  is  best  elucidated  by 
ancient  poetry.  As  far  as  their  own  nature  and  their 
surroundings  are  beautiful,  their  poetry  is  stamped  with 
beauty  ;  on  the  contrary,  if  nature  becomes  vulgar,  the 
spirit  of  beauty  departs  from  their  works.  In  their  por^ 
traiture  of  female  nature,  for  instance,  of  the  relation  of 


No  genius  of  the  naive  order,  ftvni  Homer  down 
to  Bodmer,  has  avoided  this  cliff  entirely ;  of 
course  it  is  most  dangerous  to  those  who  have  to 
struggle  against  external  vulgarity,  or  who  have 
lost  their  internal  refinement  in  consequence  of  a 
want  of  discipline.  The  first-mentioned  difficulty 
is  the  cause  why  even  cultivated  authors  do  not 
always  remain  free  from  platitudes — a  circumstance 
which  has  prevented  many  a  splendid  talent  from 
taking  possession  of  the  place  to  which  nature  had 
called  it.  A  comic  poet  whose  genius  is  mostly 
sustained  by  the  scenes  of  real  life,  is  on  this  ac¬ 
count  more  exposed  to  the  danger  of  contracting 
vulgar  habits  of  style  and  expression,  as  is  shown 
by  the  example  of  Aristophanes,  Plautus,  and  of 
all  the  subsequent  poets  who  have  followed  in 
their  wake.  How  deeply  does  not  even  the  ex¬ 
alted  Shakespeare  allow  us  to  fall  now  and  then! 
With  what  trivialities  do  not  Lopez  de  Vega, 
Moliere,  Regnard,  Goldoni,  torment  us !  How 
Holberg  drags  us  through  the  mire!  Schlegel, 
one  of  the  most  ingenious  poets  of  Germany, 
whose  genius  was  sufficiently  ample  to  elevate  him 
to  the  highest  place  among  the  poets  of  this  order; 
Gellert,  this  truly  naive  poet ;  Rabener,  even 
Lessing,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  mention  his 
name  in  this  category,  this  cultivated  pupil  of 
Criticism,  this  watchful  judge  of  his  own  genius — 
how  they  all  suffer  more  or  less  by  the  platitudes 
and  uninspired  movements  of  the  natures  which 
they  selected  as  the  subjects  of  their  satire  !  As 
regards  the  most  recent  authors  of  this  class,  I  do 
not  mention  any,  since  I  cannot  except  any  of 
them. 

Not  only  is  the  genius  of  naive  poetry  exposed 
to  the  danger  of  approximating  too  closely  the 
common  realities  of  life  ;  the  facilitv  with  which  it 
manifests  itself,  and  this  closer  approximation  to 

the  sexes,  and  particularly  of  love,  every  reader  of  deli¬ 
cate  sensibility  must  experience  a  sensation  of  emptiness 
and  loathing  which  no  truthfulness  of  delineation  can 
banish.  Without  advocating  an  enthusiastic  affectation 
which  does  not  ennoble,  but  forsakes  nature,  we  may  cer¬ 
tainly  admit  that  the  relation  of  the  sexes,  and  more  es¬ 
pecially  the  nature  of  love  may  be  represented  in  much 
nobler  forms  than  has  been  done  by  ancient  authors;  we 
are  well  acquainted  with  the  accidental  circumstances 
which  prevented  the  development  of  nobler  sentiments 
among  the  ancients.  That  it  was  an  accidental  limita¬ 
tion,  not  a  necessity  of  the  inner  being  which  kept  the* 
ancients-,  in  this  respect,  in  a  low  state  of  culture,  is 
shown  by  the  example  of  modern  poets  who  have  gone 
much  further  than  their  predecessors,  without  transgress¬ 
ing  nature.  The  question  is  not,  how  this  subject  has 
been  managed  by  sentimental  poets,  for  they  step  beyond 
the  actual  into  the  domain  of  the  ideal,  and  their  exam¬ 
ple  cannot  be  adduced  as  testimony  against  the  ancients ; 
the  question  is  how  the  same  subject  has  been  treated  by 
truly  naive  poets,  for  instance,  in  the  Salcontala,  in  the 
Minnesoenyers,  in  the  various  romances  and  epopees  of 
chivalry,  by  Shakespeare,  Fielding,  and  many  other,  even 
Germau  poets.  Here  it  became  the  duty  of  the  ancients 
to  etherealize  an  object  of  a  naturally  coarse  exterior,  by 
their  own  subjective  aspirations  of  beauty  and  loveliness, 
to  supply  by  their  own  reflection  the  poetic  worth  in 
which  their  sensations  were  deficient,  to  complete  the 
real  by  the  ideal,  in  one  word  to  convert  a  limited  ob¬ 
ject  into  a  subject  of  infinite  contemplation  by  the 
genius  of  sentimental  poetry.  But  the  ancient  poets  be¬ 
longed  to  the  naive,  not  to  the  sentimental  order;  hence 
their  works  were  bounded  by  emotions  emanating  from 
the  world  of  sense. 


572 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  actual,  encourages  the  common  imitator  to 
attempt  poetry.  Sentimental  poetry,  which  too, 
has  its  dangers  as  I  shall  show  in  the  course  of 
this  dissertation,  has  at  least  the  advantage  of 
keeping  off  this  crowd,  for  it  is  not  every  body’s 
business  to  elevate  himself  to  the  sphere  of  ideas  ; 
whereas  naive  poetry  induces  them  to  believe  that 
a  mere  sensation,  mere  humor,  the  mere  imitation 
of  real  nature  constitute  all  the  attributes  of  a 
poet.  Yet  nothing  is  more  repulsive  than  the  at¬ 
tempts  which  a  vulgar  nature  makes  at  amiability 
and  natural  simplicity,  whereas  it  should  avail 
itself  of  all  the  resources  of  art  in  order  to  conceal 
its  ugliness.  Hence  the  innumerable  vulgarities 
which  the  Germans  permit  to  be  sung  into  their 
ears  under  the  title  of  naive  and  playful  songs, 
and  which  afford  them  infinite  amusement  while 
they  are  regaling  themselves  with  the  luxuries  of 
a  well-garnished  table.  These  miserable  produc¬ 
tions  are  tolerated  under  the  false  pretense  of 
humor,  of  sentiment ;  yet  it  is  a  humor  that  can¬ 
not  be  banished  with  sufficient  severity.  The 
Muses  that  rule  on  the  banks  of  the  Pleisse,  form 
more  particularly  a  lamentable  chorus,  and  are 
responded  to  in  equally  unfortunate  strains,  by 
the  Muses  of  the  Leine  and  Elbe.*  These  jokes  are 
as  insipid  as  the  exhibitions  of  passion  upon  our 
tragic  stage  are  pitiable,  which,  so  far  from  imi¬ 
tating  genuine  nature,  only  copy  the  barren  and 
ignoble  nature  of  real  life,  so  that  at  the  conclu¬ 
sion  of  such  a  feast  of  tears,  we  feel  very  nearly 
as  we  do  after  a  visit  to  the  hospital  or  after  read¬ 
ing  Salzman’s  “Human  Misery.”  These  condem¬ 
natory  remarks  apply  with  much  more  force  to 
satirical  poetry  and  comic  novels,  which,  by  their 
very  nature,  are  in  close  contact  with  real  life, 
and,  on  this  account  should  be  intrusted  lil&  every 
other  out-post,  to  the  very  best  hands.  He  who 
is  the  creature  and  the  caricature  of  his  age,  is 
certainly  not  called  to  become  its  painter ;  but  in¬ 
asmuch  as  it  is  such  an  easy  business  to  hunt  up 
among  one’s  acquaintances  some  comic  object, 
were  it  only  a  big  man ,  and  to  sketch  the  coarse 
outlines  of  the  mask  upon  paper,  even  the  sworn 
enemies  of  all  poetic  taste  will  sometimes  experi¬ 
ence  an  itching  for  bungling  in  this  business,  and 
entertaining  a  circle  of  worthy  companions  with 
jtheir  admirable  caricatures.  A  pure  mind  will  of 
course  run  no  risk  of  ever  confounding  the  pro¬ 
ductions  of  vulgar  natures  with  the  soul-quicken¬ 
ing  offspring  of  true  genius  ;  but  it  is  this  purity 
of  sentiment  which  is  wanting,  and  all  that  is  ex¬ 
pected  in  most  cases  is  to  have  a  mere  want 

*  These  excellent  friends  have  been  very  much  dis¬ 
pleased  with  what  a  critic  in  the  Alleg.  Lit.  Zeit.  cen¬ 
sured  some  years  ago  in  BUrger’s  poems;  the  wrath 
with  which  they  are  chafing  under  the  strokes  of  this 
lash,  induces  the  belief  that  in  taking  up  the  cudgels  for 
this  poet,  they  seek  to  defend  their  own  cause.  That 
criticism  could  only  have  been  provoked  by  a  true  poeti¬ 
cal  genius,  who  has  been  abundantly  endowed  by  nature, 
but  has  neglected  to  perfect  his  rare  gifts  by  self-culture. 
Such  a  poet  has  to  be  measured  by  the  highest  standard 
of  art,  since  he  is  possessed  of  sufficient  power  to  fulfill 
her  most  rigid  requirements,  if  he  desires  to  do  so;  but 
it  would  be  both  absurd  and  cruel,  to  apply  a  similar 
proceeding  to  persons  whom  nature  never  thought  of,  and 
who  exhibit  a  testimonium  paupertatii  in  every  work  which 
they  offer  for  sale  in  the  public  mart. 


gratified  without  the  mind  being  interested  it.  the 
matter.  The  falsely  apprehended  not]  ;>n  although 
true  in  itself,  that  works  of  the  class  of  belles- 
lettres  should  afford  recreation,  has  undoubtedly 
contributed  its  share  to  this  indulgence,  if  it  be 
otherwise  proper  to  call  indulgence  the  absence 
of  all  higher  inspirations,  which  is  equally  con¬ 
venient  to  both  author  and  reader.  A  vulgar 
nature,  after  making  an  exertion,  can  only  find 
recreation  in  emptiness,  and  even  a  high  degree  of 
intelligence,  which  is  not  supported  by  an  equal 
degree  of  culture  in  the  sensational  sphere,  only 
finds  recreation  from  its  labors  in  a  brainless  en¬ 
joyment  of  the  senses. 

Although  the  poetic  genius,  in  order  to  reach 
the  absolute  energies  of  human  nature,  should  be 
able  to  elevate  itself  by  the  free  use  of  its  powers 
beyond  all  accidental  barriers  which  are  insepara¬ 
ble  from  every  determinate  condition,  yet  it  should 
not,  on  the  other  hand,  transgress  the  necessary 
limits  which  the  idea  of  human  nature  implies; 
for  the  absolute  within  the  limits  of  humanity 
is  the  poet’s  task  and  sphere.  We  have  seen  that 
naive  genius  is  in  no  danger  of  transgressing  this 
sphere,  but  may  not  altogether  fill  it,  if  the  essen¬ 
tial  character  of  the  work  is  sacrificed  to  an  ex¬ 
ternal  necessity  or  to  the  accidental  requirements 
of  the  moment.  Sentimental  genius,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  in  its  endeavor  to  remove  all  barriers,  is  ex¬ 
posed  to  che  danger  of  annulling  human  nature  ; 
and  not  only,  in  accordance  with  its  right  and 
duty,  elevating  itself  beyond  every  determinate 
and  limited  reality  to  the  sphere  of  the  absolutely 
possible—  or  of  idealizing — but  of  transgressing 
even  the  boundaries  of  the  possible — or  roving  in 
the  world  of  fancies.  Extravagant  fancy  is 
founded  in  the  peculiarity  of  its  method  as  much  as 
laxness  is  founded  in  the  peculiar  method  of  naive 
genius.  The  latter  allows  itself  to  be  swayed  by 
nature,  and  inasmuch  as  her'isolated  manifesta¬ 
tions  in  the  world  of  sense  show  dependence  and 
poverty,  naive  genius  will  not  always  remain  suffi¬ 
ciently  elevated  to  resist  the  accidental  determi¬ 
nations  of  the  present.  Sentimental  genius,  on 
the  contrary,  leaves  the  world  of  reality  in  order  to 
elevate  itself  to  the  sphere  of  ideas,  and  rule  its 
subject  with  a  free  exercise  of  intellectual  power  ; 
but  inasmuch  as  reason  is  possessed  of  an  in¬ 
herent  tendency  to  seek  the  absolute,  sentimental 
genius  will  not  always  remain  sufficiently  practical 
to  move  uninterruptedly  and  uniformly  within  the 
limits  of  human  nature,  which  reason  should 
never  transgress  even  in  the  freest  exercise  of 
her  powers.  This  inconvenience  can  only  be  pre¬ 
vented  by  the  counterbalancing  influence  of  a 
certain  amount  of  sensual  susceptibility  which, 
however,  is  kept  down  in  sentimental  geniuses  by 
the  free  activity  of  the  intellect  as  much  as 
in  geniuses  of  the  naive  order  it  prepon¬ 
derates  over  the  independence  of  the  mental 
powers.  Hence,  whereas  we  sometimes  discover 
a  want  of  intelligence  in  the  works  of  naive 
geniuses,  geniuses  of  the  sentimental  order  some¬ 
times  seem  to  lose  sight  of  their  subject.  Both 
therefore  incur  the  reproach  of  emptiness ;  for 
a  subject  treated  without  intelligence,  and  mere 
intellectuality  without  a  subject  are  equally  not 
any  thing  in  an  aesthetic  sense. 


JESTHETICAL. 


573 


All  poets  who  take  their  subject  from  the 
world  of  thought  and  who  are  impelled  to  poetic 
fictions  by  an  internal  fullness  of  ideas  rather 
than  by  the  impulse  of  their  internal  sensibili¬ 
ties,  are  more  or  less  in  danger  of  falling  into  this 
error.  In  her  creations  reason  is  too  prone  to 
lose  sight  of  the  boundaries  of  the  world  of  sense, 
and  thought  is  carried  further  than  experience  is 
able  to  follow  it.  But  if  thought  is  carried  so 
far  that  any  known  experience  is  not  only  any 
longer  adequate  to  it,  (for  ideal  beauty  should  and 
may  ascend  to  this  height),  but  that  it  is  alto¬ 
gether  contrary  to  the  conditions  of  all  possible 
experience  and  that  in  order  to  realize  it,  human 
nature  would  have  to  be  abandoned,  in  such  a 
case  it  is  no  longer  a  poetic  but  an  extravagant 
thought,  provided  the  poet  has  uttered  it  as  a 
poetic  conception  and  in  a  tangible  and  definite 
form  ;  if  this  should  not  be  the  case,  we  need  not 
trouble  ourselves  about  his  thought,  provided  it 
does  not  contradict  itself.  If  it  contradicts  itself, 
it  ceases  to  be  extravagance,  but  becomes  an  ab¬ 
surdity.  If  the  thought  does  not  present  itself 
to  the  imagination  as  an  objective  reality,  it  can¬ 
not  be  called  extravagant  ;  for  mere  thought  is 
unlimited,  and  that  which  has  no  limits,  cannot 
transgress  any.  The  term  extravagance  can, 
therefore,  apply  only  to  that  which  does  not  vio¬ 
late  logical  but  sensual  truth,  to  which  it  never¬ 
theless  lays  claim.  If,  therefore},  a  poet  should 
conceive  the  unhappy  idea  of  selecting  natures 
which  are  superhuman  and  shoxdd  be  represented 
as  such,  as  the  subject  of  his  delineations,  he  can 
only  avoid  extravagance  by  abandoning  the  po¬ 
etical  form  and  by  giving  up  all  attempts  to  exe¬ 
cute  his  subject  as  a  work  of  the  imagination. 
In  the  opposite  case  the  imagination  would  either 
apply  its  owm  limits  to  the  subject,  and  would 
transform  the  absolute  into  something  human  and 
finite  (which  is  the  case  with  all  the  Greek 
deities,  and  should  be  so),  or  else  the  subject 
would  transgress  the  boundaries  of  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  in  other  words,  would  nullify  it,  in  which  ex¬ 
travagance  consists. 

Extravagance  of  sentiment  should  be  distin¬ 
guished  from  extravagance  of  delineation  ;  we 
speak  of  the  former.  The  object  of  the  sentiment 
may  be  unnatural,  but  the  sentiment  itself  is  na¬ 
tural,  and  should  therefore  be  expressed  in  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  nature.  Whereas  extravagant  senti¬ 
ments  may  flow  from  a  warm  heart,  and  a  truly 
poetic  disposition,  extravagance  .of  delineation 
always  shows  coldness  of  heart,  and  very  fre¬ 
quently  a  want  of  poetic  capacity.  This  is  no 
defect  of  which  a  poetic  genius  need  be  warned  ; 
it  only  threatens  the  uncalled  imitator,  who  does 
not  scorn  the  use  of  barren  platitudes  and  even 
vulgarities.  Extravagant  sentiment  is  not  with¬ 
out  truth,  for  all  sentiment  must  have  an  object 
in  the  real  world.  Being  a  thing  of  nature  it  ad¬ 
mits  of  simplicity  of  language,  and  coming  from 
the  heart  it  will  go  to  the  heart.  But  the  object 
of  the  sentiment  not  having  been  taken  from  .na¬ 
ture,  but  being  a  one-sided  and  artificial  product 
of  the  understanding,  it  only  exists  as  a  logical 
reality,  and  the  sentiment  is  not  purely  human. 
It  is  no  illusion  which  Heloise  feels  for  Abelard, 
Petrarch  for  his  Laura,  St.  Preux  for  Julia, 


Werther  for  his  Charlotte,  Agathon,  Phanias, 
Peregrinus  Proteus  (Wieland’s,  I  mean)  for  their 
ideals;  the  sentiment  is  true,  only  the  object  is 
artificial,  beyond  the  boundaries  of  human  nature. 
If  the  sentiment  had  strictly  adhered  to  the  sen¬ 
sual  reality  of  the  object,  it  could  not  have  taken 
this  flight ;  on  the  other  hand  an  arbitrary  play 
of  the  imagination,  without  any  internal  worth, 
would  have  been  unable  to  move  the  heart,  for 
the  heart  is  only  moved  by  reason.  This  species 
of  extravagance  may  be  reproved  and  corrected, 
but  should  not  be  despised  ;  and  he  who  sneers 
at  it,  had  better  inquire  of  himself  whether  his 
discretion  does  not  emanate  from  heartlessness, 
or  his  sense  from  a  deficient  rationality.  The  ex¬ 
travagant  delicacy  in  matters  of  gallantry  and 
honor  which  characterizes  the  romances  of 
chivalry,  especially  those  of  Spanish  authors  ; 
the  scrupulous  nicety  of  the  best  French  and  En¬ 
glish  romances,  which  is  often  carried  to  extrava¬ 
gant  prudery,  is  not  only  subjectively  true,  but 
not  without  objective  value  ;  they  are  genuine 
sentiments  flowing  from  a  moral  source,  and  ob¬ 
jectionable  only  because  they  transgress  the 
boundaries  of  human  truth.  How  could  they  be 
communicated  witlyso  much  intensity  and  genuine 
force,  as  we  know  they  are,  if  the  sentiments  which 
they  describe,  were  not  possessed  of  a  character 
of  reality.  The  same  remark  applies  to  moral 
and  religious  enthusiasm,  and  to  an  exalted  love 
of  liberty  and  country.  The  objects  of  these 
sentiments  being  ideas,  and  not  being  objectively 
perceptible  (for  the  political  enthusiast,  for  in¬ 
stance,  is  not  moved  by  that  which  he  sees  but  by 
that  which  he  thinks),  the  self-active  imagination 
enjoys  a  dangerous  freedom,  and  cannot,  as  may 
be  done  in  other  cases,  be  reduced  to  its  proper 
bounds  by  the  physical  presence  of  the  object. 
But  neither  man  generally,  nor  the  poet  in  par¬ 
ticular  should  withdraw  himself  from  the  govern¬ 
ment  of  nature  except  for  the  purpose  of  placing 
himself  under  the  dominion  of  reason  ;  it  is  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  ideal  that  he  should  forsake  the 
actual,  for  liberty  must  be  fastened  to  one  of  these 
two  anchors.  But  the  road  from  the  real  to  the  ideal 
is  very  long,  and  leads  through  the  dominions  of 
fancy  with  her  unbridled  and  lawless  rovings.  It 
is  therefore  unavoidable  that  man  in  general  and 
the  poet  in  particular,  if  the  free  understanding 
leads  them  to  withdraw  from  the  control  of  senti¬ 
ment  without  being  moved  to  this  step  by  the 
laws  of  reason,  in  other  words,  if  they  leave  na¬ 
ture  from  no  other  motive  than  the  blind  impulse 
of  liberty,  should  remain  for  the  time  being  with¬ 
out  any  law ,  and  should  therefore  become  a  prey 
to  the  wild  imaginings  of  the  fancy. 

Experience  shows  that  whole  nations,  as  well  as 
single  individuals,  who  have  left  the  safe  guidance 
of  nature,  are  really  in  this  case,  and,  that  poets 
have  fallen  into  similar  aberrations.  Inasmuch  as 
the  true  genius  of  sentimental  poetry,  if  it  wants 
to  elevate  itself  to  the  sphere  of  the  ideal,  has  to 
pass  beyond  the  boundaries  of  actual  nature,  spuri¬ 
ous  genius  transgresses  all  boundaries  indiscrimi¬ 
nately,  persuading  itself  that  the  wild  play  of  the 
imagination  is  poetic  enthusiasm.  This  can  never 
happen  to  a  true  poetical  genius  who  abandons 
the  real  only  for  the  sake  of  the  ideal,  or,  it  cau 


574 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


only  happen  in  a  moment  when  he  had  lost  or  for¬ 
gotten  himself;  whereas  his  essential  tendencies 
may  mislead  him  to  extravagances  in  the  sensa¬ 
tional  sphere.  But  his  example  may  plunge  others 
into  the  vortex  of  wild  fancies,  because  readers  of 
an  active  imagination  and  feeble  intelligence  only 
notice  the  liberties  which  he  takes  with  actual  na¬ 
ture,  without  being  able  to  imitate  the  exalted  ne¬ 
cessities  of  his  internal  being.  The  sentimental 
genius  in  this  respect  labors  under  the  same  in¬ 
conveniences  that  beset  a  genius  of  the  naive  order. 
Because  one  of  this  class  performs  every  work  in 
obedience  to  the  free  and  spontaneous  movements 
of  his  nature,  his  common  imitator  is  unwilling  to 
regard  his  own  nature  as  a  worse  guide.  Hence 
it  is  that  master-pieces  of  naive  poetry  are  gene¬ 
rally  succeeded  by  a  host  of  flat  and  dirty  impres¬ 
sions,  and  master-pieces  of  the  sentimental  order 
by  fanciful  productions,  as  may  be  readily  shown 
by  looking  at  the  literature  of  a  people. 

In  regard  to  poetry,  two  maxims  are  in  vogue 
which  are  perfectly  correct  in  themselves,  but 
neutralize  each  other  in  the  sense  in  which  they 
are  generally  understood.  Of  the  first  maxim, 
“  that  poetry  serves  as  a  means  of  amusement  and 
recreation,”  we  have  already  mentioned  previously 
that  it  is  not  a  little  favorable  to  emptiness  and 
platitudes  in  poetical  fictions  ;  the  other  maxim, 
“  that  poetry  serves  as  a  means  of  the  moral  ad¬ 
vancement  of  man,”  takes  extravagant  ideas  under 
its  patronizing  wing.  It  may  not  be  superfluous 
to  examine  more  closely  these  two  principles  which 
are  so  frequently  talked  about,  and  often  so  incor¬ 
rectly  interpreted  and  so  improperly  applied. 

By  the  term  recreation,  we  designate  the  transi¬ 
tion  from  a  state  of  violence  to  one  which  is  natural 
to  us.  The  main  question  now  is  to  find  out  what 
we  call  a  natural  state,  and  what  we  understand 
by  a  state  of  violence.  If  we  understand  by  a 
natural  state  every  unimpeded  exercise  of  our 
physical  powers,  and  the  delivery  from  every  spe¬ 
cies  of  constraint,  then  every  state  of  rationality, 
inasmuch  as  it  exercises  a  power  of  resistance 
against  the  senses,  is  a  state  of  violence  which  is 
inflicted  upon  us,  and  mental  repose  accompanied 
by  sensual  enjoyment,  is  the  very  ideal  of  recrea¬ 
tion.  On  the  contrary,  if  we  understand  by  a  state 
of  nature  an  unlimited  capacity  for  every  mani¬ 
festation  of  human  power,  and  the  faculty  of  dis¬ 
posing  of  all  our  capacities  with  equal  freedom, 
then  every  separation  and  isolation  of  these  capa¬ 
cities  becomes  a  state  of  violence,  and  the  ideal  of 
recreation  consists  in  the  restoration  of  our  na¬ 
tural  integrity  after  a  state  of  one-sided  develop¬ 
ments  of  power.  The  first  ideal  is  set  up  exclusively 
by  the  wants  of  man’s  sensual  nature,  the  second 
by  the  self-activity  of  the  whole  of  human  nature. 
Theoretically,  there  can  be  no  question  which  of 
these  two  kinds  of  recreation  is  and  should  be 
sanctioned  by  poetry ;  for  nobody  would  like  to 
appear  as  though  he  preferred  the  ideal  of  ani¬ 
mality  to  that  of  humanity.  For  all  that,  the 
claims  which  the  practical  man  entertains  of  po¬ 
etical  works,  are  principally  based  upon  the  sen¬ 
sual  ideal,  and  it  is  this  which  in  most  cases,  if  it 
does  not  determine  the  degree  of  respect  which  we 
entertain  for  this  class  of  works,  at  least  gives  a 
direction  to  the  inclination  which  becomes  the 


most  cherished  taste  of  the  heart.  The  mental 
condition  of  most  men  on  the  one  hand  is  fatiguing 
and  exhausting  labor ,  on  the  other  hand  a  relaxing 
enjoyment.  We  know  that  the  former  renders  the 
sensual  want  of  mental  repose  infinitely  more  ur¬ 
gent  than  the  moral  want  of  harmony  and  of  an 
absolute  release  from  work,  since  above  all  things 
nature  has  to  be  gratified  before  the  mind  can 
raise  a  demand ;  the  mind  checks  and  paralyses 
the  moral  impulses  which  had  to  raise  this  demand. 
Hence,  nothing  is  more  prejudicial  to  the  suscep¬ 
tibility  for  true  beauty,  than  these  two  exceedingly 
common  emotional  states,  and  this  affords  us  an 
explanation  why  so  few  individuals,  even  among  the 
better  class,  are  able  to  express  a  correct  aesthetic 
judgment.  Beauty  results  from  the  accord  ex¬ 
isting  between  the  mind  and  the  senses  ;  she  ap¬ 
peals  to  all  human  faculties  collectively,  and  can 
only  be  properly  appreciated  and  felt  on  condition 
that  all  the  powers  of  man  enjoy  a  full  and  free 
play.  Open  and  susceptible  senses,  a  large  heart 
and  mental  clearness,  and  unenfeebled  powers 
are  required  for  this  purpose  ;  the  totality  of  hu¬ 
man  power  has  to  be  concentrated  in  one  focus, 
which  is  not  the  case  with  those  who  are  absorbed 
by  abstract  thoughts,  narrowed  down  by  the  petty 
formulas  of  routine,  or  exhausted  by  mental  labor. 
These  crave  a  sensual  subject,  not  however  for  the 
purpose  of  continuing  the  exercise  of  the  mental 
powers,  but  for  the  purpose  of  arresting  it.  They 
desire  to  be  free,  but  only  from  a  burden  that  has 
proved  too  fatiguing  to  their  indolence,  not  from 
a  barrier  which  had  arrested  their  activity. 

If  this  be  so,  can  we  wonder  at  the  success  of 
mediocrity  and  vacuity  in  aesthetic  things,  and  at 
the  vengeance  which  little  minds  seek  to  take  on 
true  and  living  beauty?  They  expected  beauty  to 
afford  them  recreation,  but  a  recreation  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  their  own  wants  and  notions,  and  they 
now  discover  to  their  sorrow,  that  a  manifestation 
of  power  is  expected  of  them  for  which  the  capa¬ 
city  is  wanting  even  in  their  best  moments.  The 
common  scribbler  bids  them  welcome  as  they  are  ; 
for  however  trifling  the  amount  of  energy  they 
have  left,  they  require  still  less  to  drain  the  au¬ 
thor’s  mind.  They  are  at  once  absolved  from  the 
burden  of  thought,  and  relaxed  nature  may  nurse 
herself  upon  the  soft  pillow  of  superficiality  in  the 
blissful  enjoyment  of  hollow'  nothings.  In  Thalia’s 
and  Melpomene’s  temple,  as  it  now  exists  among 
us,  the  cherished  Goddess  sits  upon  her  throne, 
receiving  in  her  broad  lap  the  blunted  savant  and 
the  exhausted  man  of  business,  and  lulling  the 
mind  into  a  magnetic  sleep  by  warming  the  rigid 
senses,  and  rocking  the  imagination  in  the  soft 
cradle  of  repose. 

Why  should  we  not  allow  an  ordinary  brain  to 
indulge  in  that  which  sometimes  proves  a  neces¬ 
sity  for  the  better  class  of  minds?  The  relaxation 
w7hich  nature  claims  after  every  continuous  ten¬ 
sion,  and  w7hich  she  appropriates  without  being 
invited  (it  is  for  such  moments  that  the  perusal 
of  literary  works  is  generally  reserved)  is  so  little 
favorable  to  the  aesthetic  judgment  that  there  are 
but  very  few  among  the  business-classes  who  are 
capable  in  matters  of  taste  of  judging  safely  and, 
which  is  a  point  of  great  importance,  with  uni¬ 
formity.  Nothing  is  less  unusual  than  to  see 


iESTHETICAL. 


575 


learned  men,  in  opposition  to  cultivated  men  of 
the  world,  exhibit  the  most  absurd  weaknesses  of 
judgment  in  matters  of  beauty,  when  professional 
critics  are  very  apt  to  become  the  butt  of  all  true 
connoisseurs.  Their  neglected,  sometimes  extra¬ 
vagant  and  at  other  times  rude,  sense  misguides 
them  in  most  cases,  and  although  they  defend 
their  positions  by  a  few  fragments  of  theory,  yet 
these  enable  them  only  to  form  technical  judg¬ 
ments  (concerning  the  fitness  of  the  plan  and  its 
arrangements),  not  assthetical ,  which  concern  the 
totality  of  the  work,  and  where  sentiment  has  to 
decide.  If  they  would  renounce  the  latter  and 
simply  adhere  to  the  former,  they  might  still  do  a 
good  deal  of  good,  since  the  poet  in  the  moment 
of  enthusiasm,  and  the  interested  reader  in  the 
moment  of  enjoyment  are  prone  to  neglect  details. 
But  it  is  all  the  more  absurd  to  see  rude  natures 
which,  in  spite  of  the  most  laborious  efforts,  hardly 
succeed  in  acquiring  a  single  accomplishment,  set 
up  their  scanty  individuality  as  the  representative 
of  the  general  sentiment  and  utter  aesthetic  judg¬ 
ments  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow. 

We  have  seen  that  the  idea  of  recreation ,  such 
as  poetry  should  afford,  is  generally  conceived  in 
too  limited  a  sense,  for  the  reason  that  it  is  too 
exclusively  applied  to  the  wants  of  the  sensual 
principle.  On  the  other  hand  the  idea  of  culture 
which  the  poet  should  aim  to  realize,  is  generally 
conceived  in  too  comprehensive  si  spirit,  and  is 
too  exclusively  determined  by  reference  to  an 
ideal  type. 

Ideally,  culture  is  endless,  because  reason  does 
not  confine  herself  in  her  demands  to  the  necessary 
barriers  of  the  world  of  sense,  and  does  not  stop 
in  her  flight  until  she  has  reached  the  absolute  of 
perfection.  Nothing  will  satisfy  her,  beyond 
which  something  higher  may  be  conceived  ;  no 
want  of  finite  nature  is  an  excuse  before  her  rigid 
tribunal ;  she  recognizes  no  limits  except  the 
limits  of  thought,  which  soars  beyond  the  limits 
of  space  and  time.  Such  an  exalted  ideal  of  cul¬ 
ture,  which  is  set  up  by  reason  in  her  pure  system 
of  laws,  should  no  more  be  chosen  by  the  poet  as 
the  object  of  his  endeavors,  than  the  low  ideal  of 
recreation  which  the  senses  point  out,  since  it  is 
indeed  his  task  to  free  humanity  from  all  acci¬ 
dental  barriers,  but  without  annulling  the  idea  of 
human  nature  and  altering  its  necessary  bounda¬ 
ries.  What  he  considers  himself  privileged  to  do 
beyond  these  boundaries,  becomes  extravagance, 
to  which  he  is  but  too  readily  led  by  a  falsely- 
conceived  notion  of  culture.  The  trouble  is  that 
he  is  unable  to  elevate  himself  to  the  true  ideal 
of  human  culture  without  going  a  few  steps  be¬ 
yond  it.  In  order  to  arrive  at  it,  he  has  to  leave 
the  reality,  for  like  every  other  ideal,  the  human 
ideal  has  likewise  to  be  taken  from  internal  and 
moral  sources.  He  does  not  find  this  ideal  in  the 
surrounding  world,  or  in  the  tumult  of  life,  but  in  his 
own  heart,  and  this  is  only  found  in  the  stillness 
of  solitude  and  contemplation.  But  this  abstract 
separation  from  life  will  sometimes  remove  from 
his  sight  not  only  the  accidental  barriers  of  hu¬ 
manity,  but  also  those  which  are  necessary  and 
unconquerable,  and  whilst  seeking  the  pure  form 
he  will  be  in  danger  of  losing  the  substance.  Rea¬ 
son  will  perform  her  functions  independently  of 


practical  experience,  and  what  the  contemplative 
mind  has  discovered  by  the  quiet  instrumentality 
of  thought,  the  practical  man  may  not  be  able  to 
realize  in  action  among  the  living  throngs  of  so¬ 
ciety.  Thus  it  is  that  the  enthusiast  is  produced  by 
the  very  cause  which  alone  was  able  to  form  the 
sage,  whose  advantage  seems  to  consist  les*  in 
not  having  become  an  enthusiast  than  in  not 
having  remained  one. 

Since  neither  the  working  portion  of  humanity 
can  be  permitted  to  define  recreation  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  their  wants,  nor  the  contemplative  por¬ 
tion  in  accordance  with  their  speculations, — dest 
the  definition  of  the  former  should  become  too 
physical  and  unworthy  of  poetry,  or  that  of  the 
latter  too  hyperphysical  and  too  extravagant  for 
the  uses  of  poetry, — and  since  we  know  from  ex¬ 
perience  that  these  two  definitions  control  the 
universal  judgment  concerning  poetry  and  poetical 
works,  we  shall  be  compelled,  in  order  to  secure  a 
suitable  interpretation  of  these  definitions,  to  look 
for  a  class  of  men  who  are  active  without  working, 
who  know  how  to  idealize  without  being  carried 
away  by  wild  and  roving  fancies,  who  combine 
within  themselves  all  the  realities  of  life  with  the 
least  possible  barriers,  and  who  are  drifting  upon 
the  current  of  events  without  becoming  their 
prey.  It  is  only  such  a  class  that  can  preserve 
the  beautiful  oneness  of  human  nature,  which  is 
momentatily  disturbed  by  any  kind  of  labor,  and 
permanently  ruined  by  a  laboring  life,  and  that  can 
by  \is,  feelings  impose  laws  upon  the  universal  judg¬ 
ment  in  all  matters  of  a  purely  human  concern. 
Whether  such  a  class  exists,  or  whether  the  class 
that  now  does  exist  in  similar  external  relations,  re¬ 
sponds  to  this  ideal  conception  interiorly  as  its  es¬ 
sentially  true  embodiment,  is  a  question  with  which 
I  have  nothing  to  do.  If  this  class  should  not  re¬ 
spond  to  the  ideal,  it  should  blame  itself  for  its 
want  of  success,  since  the  opposite  working  class 
enjoys  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  looking  upon 
itself  as  the  victim  of  its  vocation.  Among  such 
a  class  (which  I  here  allude  to  merely  as  an  ideal, 
without  designating  it  as  a  fact),  the  naive  char¬ 
acter  would  unite  with  the  sentimental  in  such  a 
manner  that  each  would  guard  the  other  against 
extremes,  and  whilst  the  former  would  protect  the 
mind  against  extravagance,  the  latter  would  se¬ 
cure  it  against  laxness.  For,  after  all,  we  cannot 
help  admitting  that  neither  the  naive  nor  the  sen¬ 
timental  character,  considered  by  itself,  exhausts 
the  idea  of  a  beautiful  humanity,  which  can  only 
arise  from  the  intimate  union  of  both. 

It  is  true,  as  long  as  both  these  characters  ire 
raised  to  a  state  of  poetic  exaltation ,  fr(  :n  which 
point  of  view  we  have  considered  them  so  far,  a 
good  portion  of  the  barriers  which  adhere  to  them 
vanishes,  and  they  seem  much  less  opposed  to 
each  other  in  proportion  as  they  possess  a  higher 
grade  of  poetic  value  ;  for  the  poetic  character  is 
a  self-existing  whole  where  all  differences  and  de¬ 
fects  disappear.  For  the  very  reason  that  these 
two  forms  of  sentient  existence  can  only  coincide 
in  the  poetical  ideal,  their  respective  differences 
and  scantiness  of  means  become  more  perceptible 
in  proportion  as  they  divest  themselves  of  their 
poetic  character.  This  is  what  takes  place  in 
common  life.  The  more  lowly  they  descend  to 


576 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


this  sphere,  the  more  they  lose  of  their  general 
characteristics  which  brought  them  near  to  each 
other,  until  finally  nothing  is  left  in  their  cari¬ 
catured  forms  but  their  specific  characters  re¬ 
spectively  which  oppose  them  to  each  other. 

This  leads  me  to  note  a  very  strange  antagonism 
prevailing  among  men  in  a  century  that  lays 
claim  to  culture :  an  antagonism  which,  being 
radical  and  founded  in  man’s  inner  mind,  causes  a 
worse  separation  among  men  than  the  antagonism 
of  interests  is  capable  of  doing  ;  which  deprives 
the  artist  and  poet  of  all  hope  ever  to  be  pleasing 
and  interesting  to  all  men,  though  this  is  their 
task  ;  which  renders  it  impossible  for  the  philoso¬ 
pher,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  to  convince  all 
minds;  which  will  never  allow  man  to  enjoy  the 
universal  approval  of  all  in  regard  to  his  conduct 
— an  antagonism  which  is  the  reason  why  no  pro¬ 
duction  of  the  mind,  no  action  of  the  heart  can 
meet  with  decided  success  among  one  class  of 
men  without  being  condemned  by  another  class. 
This  antagonism  is  as  old  as  the  beginning  of  cul¬ 
ture,  and  will  probably  never  be  settled  except  in 
single  individuals  of  whom  there  always  have  been 
a  few,  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  always  will  be  ;  but 
although  one  of  the  effects  of  this  antagonism  is 
to  defeat  every  attempt  at  harmony,  for  the  reason 
that  neither  party  can  be  induced  to  admit  a  de¬ 
ficiency  on  their  own  side,  or  a  reality  on  the 
other,  it  is  at  any  rate  of  use  to  trace  such  an 
important  separation  to  its  source,  and  by  this 
means  to  reduce  the  real  subject  of  the  dispute  to 
a  more  simple  expression. 

The  idea  of  this  antagonism  is  best  obtained  by 
abstracting  from  both  the  naive  and  the  sentimen¬ 
tal  characters  all  that  is  poetical  in  them.  In  that 
case  nothing  remains  of  the  former  except,  in 
theoretical  things,  a  sober  spirit  of  observation 
and  a  firm  adherence  to  the  uniform  testimony  of 
the  senses  ;  and,  in  practical  things,  a  resigned 
submission  to  the  necessity  (not  to  the  blind  and 
compulsory  despotism)  of  nature;  hence  a  volun¬ 
tary  submission  to  that  which  is  and  must  be. 
Of  the  sentimental  character  nothing  remains  ex¬ 
cept,  in  theoretical  things,  a  restless  spirit  of 
speculation  which  presses  forward  toward  the  ab¬ 
solute  of  knowledge  ;  and,  in  practical  things,  a 
moral  rigorism  which  insists  upon  the  absolute  in 
acts  of  the  will.  One  who  belongs  to  the  first 
class  may  be  termed  a  realist ,  one  who  belongs  to 
the  second  class  an  idealist;  provided  that,  in 
using  these  names,  they  are  not  understood  either 
m  the  good  or  bad  sense  which  metaphysics  at¬ 
taches  to  them.* 

Inasmuch  as  the  realist  accepts  the  necessities 

*  In  order  to  prevent  every  possible  misapprehension, 

I  remark  that,  in  making  this  division,  a  discrimination 
in  favor  of  one  or  the  other  of  these  terms  was  not  in¬ 
tended.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  opposed  to  all  exclusive¬ 
ness  such  as  we  see  in  practice,  and  the  result  of  my 
present  line  of  argument  will  show  that  the  human  ideal 
includes  both  definitions.  Besides  I  take  both  in  their 
noblest  sense  and  fullest  meaning,  which  is  always  pure 
and  preserves  the  specific  differences  of  each.  We  shall, 
moreover,  find  that  a  high  degree  of  truth  is  perfectly 
compatible  with  either,  and  that  their  respective  differ- 
ances  only  lead  to  modifications  in  the  details,  but  I 
not  in  the  whole,  affecting  the  form,  but  not  the 
essence. 


of  nature  as  his  guide,  and  the  idealist  is  governed 
by  the  laws  of  reason,  the  same  relation  must 
exist  between  these  two  classes  of  philosophers, 
which  is  found  to  exist  between  the  effects  of  na¬ 
tural  laws  and  the  acts  of  reason.  We  know  that 
nature,  although  infinite  as  a  whole,  is  dependent 
and  in  need  of  support  in  all  her  single  manifesta¬ 
tions  of  life;  it  is  only  the  totality  of  her  pheno¬ 
mena  that  bears  the  impress  of  a  self-existing  and 
great  whole.  Every  manifestation  of  individual 
life  in  nature  constitutes  an  individuality,  simply 
because  something  else  differs  from  it ;  nothing 
arises  from  itself,  every  thing  emanates  from  a 
previous  form  to  be  followed  by  another  form  of 
existence.  But  this  reciprocal  dependence  of  the 
phenomena,  guarantees  to  each  the  preservation  of 
its  own  individual  existence  through  the  existence 
of  the  rest,  and  from  the  mutual  dependence  of  their 
effects  the  permanent,  necessary,  and  orderly  re¬ 
currence  of  the  phenomena  is  inseparable.  No¬ 
thing  in  nature  is  free,  but  on  the  other  hand,  no¬ 
thing  is  arbitrary. 

The  same  conduct  is  observed  by  the  realist 
both  in  his  'knowledge  and  in  his  actions.  The 
circle  of  his  knowledge  and  operations  encom¬ 
passes  every  thing  which  exists  conditionally ; 
but  he  never  advances  beyond  the  limits  of  phe¬ 
nomena,  and  the  rules  which  he  deduces  from 
single  phenomena,  are,  rigidly  speaking,  valid  only 
once ;  if  he  undertakes  to  invest  the  rule  of  the 
moment  with  the  character  of  a  general  law,  he  will 
inevitably  fall  into  an  error.  Hence  if  the  realist 
desires  to  attain  to  the  absolute  of  knowledge,  he 
has  to  accomplish  his  attempt  in  the  same  way  in 
which  nature  becomes  an  iufinite  whole,  he  has  to 
explore  the  whole  empire  of  knowledge,  and  be¬ 
come  acquainted  with  every  phenomenon.  Inas¬ 
much  as  the  sum  of  experience  is  never  complete, 
a  comparative  universality  of  knowledge  is  all  that 
the  realist  can  aim  at  and  achieve.  He  builds  his 
intelligence  upon  the  recurrence  of  similar  cases, 
and  he  may  judge  correctly  in  all  things  which 
occur  in  their  order ;  but  in  everything  that  oc¬ 
curs  for  the  first  time,  his  wisdom  has  to  start 
afresh  from  the  beginning. 

What  has  been  said  of  the  realist’s  knowledge, 
that,  too,  applies  to  his  (moral)  acts.  His  char¬ 
acter  is  possessed  of  morality,  but  his  morality  ap¬ 
plies  to  the  sum  of  his  actions  rather  than  to  any 
single  act.  In  every  single  case  his  conduct  is  de¬ 
termined  by  external  causes  and  by  external  ends  ; 
except  that  these  causes  are  not  accidental,  these 
ends  are  not  momentary,  but  are  subjectively  in¬ 
spired  by  the  totality  of  natural  laws,  and  are 
objectively  brought  to  bear  upon  or  measured  by 
them.  Rigorously  speaking,  the  incentives  of  his 
will  are  neither  sufficiently  free,  nor  sufficiently 
pure,  because  they  are  suggested  by  other  causes 
than  his  will,  and  have  other  objects  than  the  mere 
law ;  nor  are  they  blind  and  materialistic  incen- 
!  tives,  since  these  other  causes  and  objects  are  the 
l  absolute  whole  of  nature,  consequently  something 
self  existing  and  necessary.  In  this  manner  it  is 
that  common-sense,  the  realist’s  principal  talent, 
manifests  itself  throughout  in  his  thoughts  and 
conduct.  Single  cases  yield  to  him  the  rules  by 
which  he  shapes  his  judgment,  an  internal  feeling 
shapes  his  actions,  but  with  a  happy  instinct  he 


iESTHETICAL. 


577 


*eparates  from  both  every  thing  that  is  purely 
accidental  and  momentary.  On  the  whole,  he 
gets  along  well  enough  with  this  method,  nor 
will  he  have  to  reproach  himself  with  any  great 
mistakes :  but  he  will  hardly  ever  claim  for  him¬ 
self  greatness  and  dignity  in  any  special  case. 
These  are  the  price  of  moral  independence,  of 
which  his  acts  show  few  traces. 

The  case  is  different  with  the  idealist  who 
draws  his  motives  and  obtains  his  cognitions  from 
the  fountain  of  pure  reason.  Whereas  nature  in 
her  single  manifestations  always  seems  dependent 
and  limited,  reason  imparts  to  every  single  act  an 
appearance  of  independent  existence  and  com¬ 
pleteness.  She  finds  in  her  own  innermost  depths 
the  motives  to  act,  and  all  such  acts  reflect  the 
rays  of  her  own  truths.  What  takes  place  by  her 
instrumentality,  takes  place  on  her  account;  every 
one  of  her  definitions  and  determinations  bears  the 
character  of  an  absolute  principle.  These  charac¬ 
teristics  likewise  distinguish  the  knowledge  and  ac¬ 
tions  of  the  idealist,  as  far  as  he  has  a  right  to  claim 
this  name.  Not  satisfied  with  cognitions  which  are 
valid  only  under  certain  circumstances,  he  seeks  to 
penetrate  to  the  very  essence  of  truths  which  are 
no  longer  dependent  upon  any  prior  principles, 
but  are  prior  to  every  thing  else.  He  is  only  sa¬ 
tisfied  with  the  philosophical  comprehension  which 
grafts  phenomenal  knowledge  upon  absolute  prin¬ 
ciples  and  upon  the  inmost  determinations  of  the 
human  mind  ;  he  subjects  to  his  own  contempla¬ 
tive  reason  the  objects  which  control  the  thoughts 
of  the  realist.  And  in  doing  so,  he  exercises  no¬ 
thing  but  his  right;  for  if  the  laws  of  the  human 
mind  were  not  at  the  same  time  the  laws  of  the 
universe;  if  reason  herself,  in  her  very  essence, 
were  an  empirical  fact,  no  experience  would  be 
possible. 

But  he  may  have  attained  to  the  possession  of 
absolute  truth,  without  having  gained  much  in 
point  of  knowledge.  For  although  all  things  are 
finally  subject  to  necessary  and  universal  laws,  yet 
the  single  phenomena  are  governed  by  accidental 
and  special  rules.  He  may  therefore  rule  the 
whole  with  his  philosophical  knowledge,  without 
having  gained  any  thing  in  the  sphere  of  practical 
details ;  nay  by  searching  the  supreme  causes  which 
make  all  things  possible,  he  may  neglect  the 
nearest  causes  which  make  every  thing  real ;  by 
directing  his  attention  to  universal  principles 
which  place  the  most  diverse  cases  upon  the  same 
level,  he  may  easily  neglect  the  peculiar  features 
by  which  they  are  distinguished  from  each  other. 
He  will  therefore  be  able  to  encompass  a  good 
deal  within  the  circle  of  his  knowledge,  and,  for 
this  reason,  may  comprehend  but  little,  so  that  he 
loses  in  genuine  intelligence  what  he  gains  in  ma¬ 
terial  knowledge.  Hence  it  happens  that,  whereas 
the  speculative  understanding  despises  the  prac¬ 
tical  mind  on  account  of  its  limited  development 
of  power,  the  practical  understanding  sneers  at 
the  speculative  mind  on  account  of  its  emptiness  ; 
for  knowledge  always  loses  in  internal  quality  what 
it  gains  in  extent. 

In  the  moral  range,  the  idealist  will  show  a  purer 
morality  in  details,  but  less  uniformity  of  moral 
principles  generally.  Being  called  an  idealist  only 

so  far  as  his  motives  are  in  perfect  accord  with 
Vol.  II.— 37 


reason,  and  the  determinations  of  the  pure  reason 
being  absolute  in  every  instance  :  even  single  acts, 
provided  they  are  moral,  have  all  the  character¬ 
istics  of  moral  independence  and  freedom  ;  if  there 
exist  one  truly  moral  act  in  life,  the  morality  of 
which  will  stand  the  scrutiny  of  rigid  criticism, 
such  an  act  must  have  been  executed  by  an  ideal¬ 
ist.  But  the  purer  the  morality  of  his  single  acts, 
the  more  accidental  it  is;  for  continuousness  and 
necessity  are  the  characteristics  of  nature,  but  not 
those  of  freedom;  not  because  idealism  and  mo¬ 
rality  will  ever  come  in  conflict,  but  because  human 
nature  is  incapable  of  consistent  idealism.  Where¬ 
as  the  realist,  even  in  his  moral  conduct,  submits 
with  a  quiet  and  undisturbed  determination  to  a 
physical  necessity,  the  idealist  has  to  take  a  flight, 
has  to  exalt  his  nature,  and  he  is  incapable  of 
doing  any  thing  except  so  far  as  he  is  in  a  state 
of  enthusiastic  inspiration.  At  such  a  time  he  is 
indeed  able  to  accomplish  so  much  more,  and  his 
conduct  will  show  a  character  of  elevation  and 
greatness  which  is  sought  in  vain  in  the  character 
of  a  realist.  But  practical  life  is  not  adequate  to 
exciting,  much  less  to  feeding  this  high  enthusiasm 
in  him.  The  absolutely  great,  which  is  his  start¬ 
ing-point,  contrasts  too  glaringly  with  the  abso¬ 
lutely  little  of  the  special  cases  to  which  the  former 
is  to  be  applied.  His  will  always  looking  to  ge¬ 
neral  principles,  he  is  not  willing  that  it  should  be 
governed  by  Jfragmentary  conditions  in  isolated 
cases,  and  yet  it  is  mostly  small  matters  which 
afford  him  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  moral 
sentiment.  Thus  it  frequently  happens,  that  the 
unlimited  ideal  causes  him  to  overlook  the  practi¬ 
cal  case,  and,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  the  highest,  to 
neglect  small  things  from  which,  however,  all 
greatness  in  the  world  emanates. 

Hence,  if  we  wish  to  be  just  toward  the  realist, 
we  have  to  judge  him  by  the  whole  character  of 
his  life  ;  to  be  just  toward  the  idealist,  we  have  to 
adhere  to  single  manifestations  of  his  powers  ;  but 
these  have  to  be  selected  from  among  the  whole 
number.  Public  opinion  which  is  so  prone  to  de¬ 
cide  in  accordance  with  single  facts,  will,  therefore, 
observe  an  indifferent  silence  concerning  the  real¬ 
ist,  because  his  single  acts  furnish  an  equally 
small  amount  of  matter  either  for  praise  or  cen¬ 
sure  ;  the  idealist,  on  the  contrary,  will  always  find 
admirers  or  accusers,  because  his  single  acts  mani¬ 
fest  either  his  power  or  his  weakness. 

Considering  this  great  difference  in  their  max¬ 
ims,  it  is  unavoidable  that  both  parties  should 
frequently  be  opposed  to  each  other  in  their 
judgments,  and  should  frequently  be  actuated 
by  different  motives,  even  if  their  purposes  should 
be  the  same,  and  they  should  obtain  the  same  re¬ 
sults.  The  realist  will  want  to  know  of  what  use 
things  are,  and  will  estimate  them  according  to 
their  actual  value  ;  the  idealist  will  inquire  whether 
a,  thing  is  good,  and  will  base  his  estimate  upon 
the  absolute  worth  of  things.  The  realist  cares 
very  little  about  that  which  has  no  other  value 
than  its  own  internal  goodness  and  use  (always 
excepting  the  totality  of  human  interests)  ;  in 
matters  of  taste,  he  advocates  pleasure  ;  in  mat¬ 
ters  of  morality,  happiness  ;  although  he  does  not 
make  happiness  the  condition  of  moral  conduct, 
nor  does  he  forget  his  interest  in  religious  matters, 


578 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


except  that  he  seeks  to  ennoble  and  sanctify  it  by 
the  ideal  of  a  supreme  good.  What  he  ioves,  he 
wants  to  make  happy  ;  the  idealist  seeks  to  enno¬ 
ble  it.  lienee,  whereas  the  realist  aims  at  pros¬ 
perity  in  national  concerns,  although  the  moral 
independence  of  the  nation  may  be  somewhat  dam. 
aged  by  his  measures ;  the  idealist  aims  at  liberty , 
although  the  public  prosperity  should  suffer  some 
by  his  theories.  The  former  aims  principally  at 
material ,  the  latter  at  moral  independence ,  and 
these  characteristic  differences  may  be  traced 
throughout  their  thoughts  and  acts.  Hence,  the 
realist  always  shows  his  affection  by  giving,  the 
idealist  by  receiving  ;  every  body  shows  what  he 
values  most,  by  the  sacrifices  he  makes  from  a 
generous  impulse.  The  idealist  pays  for  the  de¬ 
fects  of  his  system  with  his  individual  happiness 
and  temporal  welfare,  but  he  does  not  mind  this 
sacrifice;  to  the  defects  of  his  own  system,  the 
realist  sacrifices  his  personal  dignity,  but  he  is  not 
conscious  of  this  sacrifice.  His  system  shows  its 
traces  in  the  character  of  the  knowledge  he  pos¬ 
sesses,  and  in  the  nature  of  his  wants ;  what  does 
he  care  about  goods  of  which  he  has  no  intuitive 
knowledge,  and  in  whose  existence  he  has  no  faith? 
Enough  that  he  should  possess  this  earth’s  goods, 
J;hat  his  understanding  should  be  enlightened,  that 
contentment  should  dwell  in  his  breast.  The 
idealist  is  not  thus  favored  by  destiny.  Not 
enough  that  he  should  often  be  forsaken  by  for¬ 
tune,  because  he  did  not  improve  the  present  mo¬ 
ment;  he  is  frequently  in  conflict  with  himself; 
he  is  not  satisfied  either  with  his  knowledge,  or 
his  acts.  It  is  an  infinite  task  that  he  imposes 
upon  himself,  yet  all  his  results  are  finite.  The 
severity  which  he  shows  toward  himself,  is  likewise 
seen  in  his  conduct  toward  others.  He  is  indeed 
generous,  because,  in  the  presence  of  others,  he  is 
less  reminded  of  his  own  self ;  but  he  is  just  as 
frequently  unjust,  because  he  overlooks  the  indi¬ 
vidual  selfhood  in  other  persons.  The  realist,  on 
the  contrary,  is  not  so  much  generous  as  equitable 
and  just,  for  the  reason  that  he  judges  tilings  with 
reference  to  their  finite  nature.  He  pardons  vul¬ 
garity  and  even  baseness  in  thoughts  and  acts,  but 
not  the  extravagance  and  despotism  of  ideas  ;  the 
idealist  is  a  sworn  enemy  of  littleness  and  vulgar 
conduct,  and  becomes  reconciled  even  to  the  most 
monstrous  theories,  provided  they  indicate  mental 
strength.  The  former  acts  as  a  philanthropist, 
without  having  a  very  high  idea  of  men  or  human 
nature;  the  latter  forms  to  himself  such  a  high 
ideil  of  human  nature,  that  he  runs  the  risk  of 
overlooking  the  practical  interests  of  the  race. 

The  realist,  if  left  to  himself,  would  never  have 
enlarged  the  sphere  of  humanity  beyond  the  boun¬ 
daries  of  the  world  of  sense,  would  never  have 
made  the  human  mind  acquainted  with  its  moral 
greatness  and  freedom  ;  the  absolute  ideal  of  hu¬ 
manity  is  to  him  a  beautiful  chimera,  faith  in  this 
ideal  is  mere  enthusiasm,  because  he  never  looks 
upon  man  as  a  being  endowed  with  absolute 
powers,  but  as  a  finite  being  controlled  by  empi¬ 
rical  necessities.  But  the  idealist  by  his  own 
unaided  efforts,  would  not  have  cultivated  the  sen¬ 
sual  faculties,  whose  development  is,  however,  part 
of  man’s  destiny,  and  the  condition  of  his  culture. 
The  aims  of  the  idealist  are  too  far  beyond  the 


sensual  life  and  the  present  moment ;  his  object  is 
to  sow  for  the  whole,  for  eternity,  forgetting  that 
the  whole  is  simply  made  up  of  all  the  individuali¬ 
ties,  and  that  eternity  is  a  sum  of  moments.  The 
world,  as  the  realist  would  wish  to  arrange  it,  and 
actually  does  arrange  it,  is  like  a  well-cultivated 
garden,  where  every  thing  has  its  use,  every  thing 
is  entitled  to  its  place,  and  where  nothing  is  allowed 
to  grow  that  does  not  bear  fruit ;  the  world  which 
the  idealist  seeks  to  contrive,  is  less  for  use,  but 
bears  the  marks  of  intellectual  and  moral  great¬ 
ness.  The  former  never  dreams  of  any  higher 
purposes  in  life  than  contentment  aqd  pleasure  ; 
he  seems  to  forget  that  man  should  strike  roots  for 
the  purpose  of  growing  up  toward  heaven.  The 
latter,  on  the  contrary,  forgets  that  he  should  first 
live  well  and  rightly,  in  order  to  be  able  to  think 
with  uniform  nobleness  and  purity,  and,  that  the 
trunk  must  decay  if  the  roots  become  diseased  or 
impoverished. 

If  any  thing  is  omitted  in  a  system,  which  con¬ 
stitutes  an  urgent  want  in  nature,  and  the  gratifi¬ 
cation  of  which  is  unavoidable,  nature  can  only  be 
quieted  at  the  expense  of  consistency  toward  the 
system.  Both  parties  have  incurred  this  charge 
of  inconsistency,  and  thereby  have  proved,  if  there 
should  have  been  any  doubt  of  it  heretofore,  that 
their  respective  systems  are  too  one-sided  to  satisfy 
the  richness  of  human  nature.  As  for  the  idealist, 
I  need  not  attempt  to  show  that  he  is  compelled 
to  forsake  his  abstract  generalities  whenever  he 
wishes  to  obtain  some  definite  result ;  for  all  finite 
existence  is  subject  to  the  conditions  of  the  actual 
and  develops  results  in  accordance  with  empirical 
laws.  In  the  case  of  the  realist,  doubts  may  be 
entertained  whether  he  can  comply  with  all  the 
legitimate  demands  of  humanity  within  the  limits 
of  his  system.  If  the  realist  is  asked  :  Why  dost 
thou  that  which  is  right,  and  permittest  thou  that 
which  is  necessary?  he  will  answer  in  the  spirit  of 
his  system  :  Because  nature  thus  wills  it,  because 
this  must  be  so.  But  this  is  no  answer  to  the 
question  ;  for  we  are  not  to  inquire  what  it  is  that 
nature  demands,  but  what  it  is  that  man  wills  ;  for 
he  may  not  will  what  ought  to  be.  The  realist 
may  therefore  be  asked  :  Why  wiliest  thou  what 
ought  to  be?  Why  does  thy  free  will  submit  to 
this  natural  necessity,  since  it  might  oppose  the 
same  with  equal  readiness,  (although  without  suc¬ 
cess,  which,  however,  is  not  the  question  here), 
and  really  does  oppose  it  in  millions  of  thy  breth¬ 
ren  ?  Thou  canst  not  reply,  because  all  other  na¬ 
tural  beings  submit  to  this  necessity,  for  thou  alone 
hast  a  will ;  truly  thou  feelest  that  thy  submission 
should  be  voluntary.  Hence,  provided  thy  sub¬ 
mission  is  voluntary,  thou  dost  not  submit  to  the 
natural  necessity  itself,  but  to  the  idea  thereof ; 
for  the  former  compels  thee  blindly  as  it  does  the 
worm  ;  but  it  cannot  affect  thy  will,  since  even  if 
crushed  by  it,  thou  mayst  have  another  will.  But 
whence  this  idea  of  a  natural  necessity  ?  It  does 
not  spring  from  experience  which  only  shows  single 
natural  effects,  but  no  nature  as  a  whole  ;  only 
single  actualities,  but  not  a  state  of  necessity. 
Hence  thou  passest  beyond  the  limits  of  nature, 
and  art  ruled  by  an  idea  as  often  as  thou  under¬ 
takes!  to  act  morally ,  or  makest  up  thy  mind  not 
to  suffer  blindly.  It  is  therefore  evident  that  the 


JESTIIETICAL. 


579 


realist  acts  more  worthily  than  his  theory  implies, 
and,  that  the  idealist  thinks  more  elevatedly  than 
his  acts  would  lead  us  to  suppose;  without  admit¬ 
ting  it  to  himself,  the  former  demonstrates  by  his 
whole  deportment  through  life  the  moral  inde¬ 
pendence  of  human  nature,  the  latter  her  scanti¬ 
ness  of  power  by  his  single  acts. 

To  an  attentive  and  impartial  reader  I  need  not 
undertake  to  show,  after  the  statements  which  I 
have  here  made  (the  truth  of  which  may  be  ad¬ 
mitted  even  by  him  who  does  not  accept  my  con¬ 
clusions),  that  the  ideal  of  human  nature  is  distri¬ 
buted  between  these  two  classes  of  philosophers 
without  being  fully  reached  by  either.  Both  ex¬ 
perience  and  reason  have  their  prerogatives,  nei¬ 
ther  can  encroach  upon  the  other’s  domain  with¬ 
out  damaging  man’s  internal  or  external  condition. 
Experience  alone  can  teach  us  what  state  of  things 
develops  itself  under  certain  circumstances,  what 
results  will  occur  in  certain  contingencies,  what 
has  to  be  done  if  certain  purposes  are  to  be 
attained.  Reason,  on  the  contrary,  may  teach  us 
what  is  true  and  just  in  an  absolute  sense,  and 
what  are  absolute  necessities.  If  we  should  un¬ 
dertake  to  arrive  at  definite  conclusions  concern¬ 
ing  the  external  existence  of  things  by  the  mere 
use  of  our  reason,  we  should  amuse  ourselves  with 
unsubstantial  shadows,  the  results  of  which  would 
be  equally  unsubstantial,  for  all  existence  is  con¬ 
ditional,  whereas  the  determinations  of  reason  are 
unconditional.  But  if  we  allow  an  accidental 
event  to  decide  concerning  that  which  is  founded 
in  the  very  idea  of  our  being,  we  make  ourselves 
the  play-ball  of  chance,  and  our  personality  will 
amount  to  nothing.  In  the  first  case  the  worth 
(or  temporal  value)  of  our  existence  is  lost,  in  the 
second  case  its  dignity  (or  moral  value). 

In  this  picture  we  have  conceded  a  moral  worth 
to  the  realist,  and  a  practical  worth  to  the  idealist ; 
but  this  is  true  only  in  so  far  as  neither  is  quite 
consistent  in  his  proceedings,  and  nature  acts 
more  powerfully  in  their  minds  than  their  sys¬ 
tems.  Although  neither  attains  to  a  perfect  reali¬ 
zation  of  the  ideal,  there  exists  the  important  differ¬ 
ence  between  the  two  that  the  realist  never  fully 
satisfies  the  pure  conception  of  the  human  type, 
but  on  the  other  hand  always  acts  in  conformity 
with  the  demands  of  the  practical  understanding ; 
whereas  the  idealist  in  isolated  cases  approximates 
more  closely  to  the  highest  conception  of  the 
human  ideal,  but  on  the  other  hand  very  fre¬ 
quently  leaves  the  lowest  claims  of  humanity  un¬ 
satisfied.  Now  it  is  much  more  important  in 
practical  life  that  man’s  character  generally 
should  be  uniformly  good,  than  that  isolated  acts 
should  be  accidentally  divine ;  therefore,  whereas 
the  idealist  is  more  fitted  to  convey  a  great  idea 
of  vrhat  it  is  possible  for  humanity  to  accomplish, 
and  to  inspire  respect  for  its  destiny,  it  takes  a 
realist  to  secure  the  steady  fulfillment  of  this 
destiny  in  practical  life,  and  to  preserve  the  char¬ 
acter  of  the  species  within  its  perpetual  bounda¬ 
ries.  The  former  is  a  more  noble,  but  a  much 
less  perfect  being;  the  latter  seems  generally  less 
noble,  but  he  is  really  much  more  perfect;  for  a 
claim  to  nobleness  is  founded  in  the  mere  evidence 
of  great  powers,  but  perfection  depends  upon 
man’s  general  deportment  and  practical  acts. 


What  is  true  of  both  characters  in  the.'r  best 
light,  becomes  still  more  perceptible  when  they 
are  contrasted  in  their  perverted  conditions.  True 
realism  is  beneficent  in  its  effects,  though  less 
noble  in  its  source ;  spurious  realism  is  con¬ 
temptible  in  its  source,  and  only  a  little  less  dele¬ 
terious  in  its  effects.  The  genuine  realist  submits 
to  nature  and  to  natural  necessities,  but  only  to 
nature  as  a  whole,  and  to  her  absolute  and  eter¬ 
nal  necessities,  not  to  her  blind  and  momentary 
constraints.  He  encompasses  and  obeys  her 
laws  in  perfect  freedom,  and  will  always  range 
individual  under  universal  interests ;  hence  it 
cannot  be  otherwise  than  that  he  should  coincide 
with  the  true  idealist  as  far  as  final  results  are 
concerned,  how  different  soever  may  be  the  roads 
which  they  had  respectively  chosen.  The  com¬ 
mon  empiric,  on  the  contrary,  submits  to  nature 
as  a  power,  with  a  blind  and  slavish  resignation. 
His  opinions  and  his  efforts  are  confined  to  iso¬ 
lated  interests;  he  only  believes  and  comprehends 
that  which  he  handles  ;  he  only  appreciates  sen¬ 
sual  comforts  and  advancement.  For  this  reason 
he  is  no  more  than  what  external  impressions 
choose  to  make  of  him  ;  his  selfhood  is  sup¬ 
pressed,  as  a  human  being  he  has  lost  all  worth 
and  dignity  ;  but  as  a  mere  thing  he  is  still  some¬ 
thing,  and  may  still  be  good  for  something.  The 
very  nature  to  which  he  abandons  himself  blindly, 
does  not  permjt  him  to  sink  entirely  ;  her  eternal 
boundaries  protect  him,  her  inexhaustible  re¬ 
sources  save  him  provided  he  renounces  his  moral 
liberty  without  reserve.  Although,  while  in  this 
condition,  he  knows  of  no  laws,  yet  they  rule  him 
unconsciously,  and  however  much  his  isolated 
efforts  may  conflict  with  the  whole,  yet  the  whole 
knows  how  to  maintain  its  integrity  against  his 
assaults.  There  are  plenty  of  men,  and  even 
whole  nations  that  live  in  this  contemptible 
condition,  that  exist  simply  by  the  mercy  of 
the  natural  law,  without  any  personal  dignity, 
and  hence  are  useful  only  as  instruments  for 
certain  purposes  ;  but  the  very  fact  of  their  ex¬ 
istence  shows  that  they  are  not  entirely  value¬ 
less. 

If  even  true  idealism  is  unsafe  and  frequently 
dangerous  in  its  effects,  the  effects  of  spurious 
idealism  are  frightful.  The  true  idealist  forsakes 
nature  and  experience  because  they  do  not  ex¬ 
hibit  to  him  the  immutable  and  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  at  which  his  reason  aspires ;  the  fancy- 
hunter,  on  the  contrary,  forsakes  nature  from 
mere  caprice,  in  order  to  abandon  himself  the 
more  unreservedly  to  the  obstinacy  of  his  desires 
and  to  the  caprices  of  his  imagination.  His 
liberty  does  not  consist  in  the  absence  of  all  de¬ 
pendence  upon  physical  constraints,  but  upon 
moral  obligations.  The  fancy-hunter  does  not 
merely  deny  the  human  character,  he  denies  all 
character;  he  is  without  law,  he  is  not  any  thing, 
nor  is  he  good  for  any  thing.  This  fancy-hunting 
not  being  an  extravagant  aberration  of  nature, 
but  an  extravagant  abuse  of  freedom,  and,  there¬ 
fore,  originating  in  a  capacity  which  in  itself  is 
estimable  and  may  be  perfected  to  infinity  :  it 
may,  for  this  reason,  lead  to  an  endless  fall  into 
a  bottomless  abyss,  and  must  end  in  complete 
destruction. 


680 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ON  THE  MORAL  USE  OF  ESTHETIC 
MANNERS, 

The  author  of  the  Essay  entitled,  “  On  the  Dan¬ 
ger  of  JEsthetic  Manners''  in  the  eleventh  num¬ 
ber  of  the  Horen  published  in  1795,*  has  very 
justly  expressed  doubts  concerning  a  morality 
which  is  exclusively  founded  upon  aesthetic  senti¬ 
ments  and  proclaims  taste  as  her  highest  authority. 
But  an  active  and  pure  sense  of  the  beautiful  has 
the  happiest  influence  upon  man’s  moral  conduct, 
and  it  is  of  this  influence  that  I  purpose  to  speak. 

If  I  attribute  to  taste  the  merit  of  promoting 
morality,  my  opinion  is  certainly  not  that  the  part 
which  taste  has  in  a  good  action,  imparts  to  it  a 
moral  character.  Morality  should  never  have 
any  other  foundation  than  its  own  righteousness. 
Taste  may  favor  the  morality  of  human  conduct, 
as  I  trust  I  shall  show  in  the  present  essay,  but 
the  influence  of  taste  alone  can  never  bring  forth 
morality. 

The  same  reasoning  applies  to  man’s  internal 
and  moral  liberty,  which  may  be  applied  to  his  ex¬ 
ternal  physical  freedom  ;  in  the  latter  sense  I  act 
freely  if  1  follow  my  own  will  without  being  depen¬ 
dent  upon  any  foreign  influence.  But  as  to  the 
possibility  of  following  my  own  will  without  any 
restrictions.  I  may  at  last  become  indebted  for  it 
to  some  cause  outside  of  myself,  provided  this 
same  cause  might  have  restrained  my  will.  In 
the  same  way  T  may  finally  be  indebted  for  the 
possibility  of  acting  morally  to  some  cause  out¬ 
side  of  my  reason,  provided  we  represent  to  us 
this  cause  as  a  power  which  might  have  restrained 
my  moral  freedom.  In  the  same  sense  as  it  is 
perfectly  proper  to  say  that  one  man  receives  free¬ 
dom  from  another,  although  freedom  itself  consists 
in  being  able  to  dispense  with  the  necessity  of 
complying  with  the  rules  and  regulations  of  other 
people :  in  that  sense  we  may  likewise  say  that 
taste  is  a  means  to  virtue,  although  the  essence  of 
virtue  consists  in  being  able  to  do  without  any 
body’s  help. 

An  action  does  not  forfeit  its  claim  to  being 
called  free,  because  he  who  might  have  restrained 
it,  happens  to  remain  quiet ;  provided  we  know 
that  the  acting  agent  obeyed  his  own  will  without 
regard  to  any  person’s  will  outside  of  his  own. 
Nor  does  an  act  of  the  will  cease  to  be  a  moral 
act  because  the  temptations  are  wanting  which 
might  have  interfered  with,  or  prevented  it ;  pro¬ 
vided  we  feel  satisfied  that  the  acting  agent  fol¬ 
lowed  the  direction  of  his  own  reason,  to  the  ex¬ 
clusion  of  foreign  motives.  The  freedom  of  an 
external  act  depends  upon  its  immediate  origin 
in  a  person's  will  ;  the  morality  of  an  internal  act 
upon  the  direct  determination  of  the  will  by  the 
laws  of  reason. 

We  may  find  it  more  or  less  difficult  to  act  as 
free  beings  according  as  we  meet  influences  that 
are  contrary  to  our  freedom,  and  have  to  be  con¬ 
trolled.  So  far  we  have  degrees  of  freedom.  Our 

*'  Tho  Essay  here  alluded  to,  is  a  portion  of  the  Essay 
which  the  author  has  incorporated  in  the  collection  of 
his  Prose  AVYitings  under  the  title  :  “  On  the  Necessary 

Limits  in  the  Use  of  Beautiful  Fc'ms,”  (see  page  501,  of 
tins  volume.) 


freedom  is  greater,  at  any  rate  more  visible,  if  we 
maintain  it  in  spite  of  the  fiercest  resistance  of 
hostile  forces ;  but  it  does  not  cease,  even  if  our 
will  should  not  meet  with  any  resistance,  or  if 
some  foreign  power  should  interfere,  annihilating 
this  resistance  without  our  aid. 

The  same  is  true  of  morality.  We  may  have  to 
struggle  more  or  less  to  obey  reason  directly,  ac¬ 
cording  as  we  have  to  contend  against  impulses 
that  are  contrary  to  her  precepts,  and  against 
which  it  behooves  us  to  battle.  So  far  there  are 
degrees  of  morality.  Our  morality  is  greater,  or 
at  any  rate  more  prominent,  if  we  grant  a  direct 
obedience  to  reason  in  spite  of  the  most  violent 
impulses  to  the  contrary ;  but  it  does  not  cease  to 
be  morality,  if  there  is  no  great  inducement  to  vio¬ 
late  its  rules,  or  if  this  inducement  should  be 
weakened  by  other  influences  than  our  own  will¬ 
power.  We  act  morally  provided  our  act  is  a 
moral  act,  and  without  first  inquiring  whether  it  is 
pleasant ;  even  supposing  it  probable  we  might 
have  acted  differently  in  case  the  act  should  cause 
us  pain  or  deprive  us  of  a  pleasure. 

For  the  honor  of  human  nature,  we  may  suppose 
that  no  man  can  fall  so  deeply  as  to  do  evil  be¬ 
cause  it  is  evil,  but  that  every  man  indiscrimi¬ 
nately  would  prefer  the  good  because  it  is  good, 
provided  it  did  not  exclude  the  agreeable,  or  re¬ 
sulted  in  disagreeable  consequences.  All  immo¬ 
rality  in  practical  life  seems  to  arise  from  a  collision 
of  the  good  and  the  agreeable,  or,  which  is  the 
same  thing,  of  desire  and  reason,  and  seems  to 
originate  on  the  one  hand  in  the  power  of  the  sen¬ 
sual  impulses,  and  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  weak¬ 
ness  of  the  moral  will-power. 

Hence  morality  may  be  promoted  in  two  ways, 
as  it  may  be  prevented  in  two  ways.  Either 
reason  and  the  will  have  to  be  increased  so  that 
no  temptation  can  conquer  them,  or  else  the  power 
of  temptation  has  to  be  broken,  so  that  even  a 
weaker  reason  and  a  feebler  will,  may  still  remain 
superior  to  it. 

It  may  appear  as  though  morality  gained  no¬ 
thing  by  the  last-mentioned  operation,  since  the 
will,  the  quality  of  which  alone  determines  the 
moral  character  of  an  act,  remains  unchanged. 
But  in  the  case  we  have  supposed,  no  change  of 
will  is  necessary,  for  the  will  was  not  bad,  only 
weak.  And  this  feeble  will  is  made  to  act,  which 
probably  would  not  have  been  the  case,  if  more 
powerful  impulses  had  acted  against  it.  But 
where  a  good  will  becomes  the  basis  of  an  act,  there 
morality  truly  exists.  Hence  I  have  no  hesita¬ 
tion  in  setting  up  the  general  rule  that  morality  is 
truly  promoted  by  any  thing  which  annihilates  the 
resistance  of  inclination  to  good  acts. 

The  natural  internal  enemy  of  morality  is  the 
sensual  impulse  which  craves  gratification  as  soon 
as  an  object  is  presented  to  it,  and  opposes  the 
precepts  of  reason  as  soon  as  her  commands  be¬ 
come  disagreeable  to  the  senses.  This  sensual 
impulse  is  unceasingly  endeavoring  to  identify  the 
will  with  its  own  interests,  whereas  the  will 
should  be  bound  by  moral  law's,  and  should  never 
be  found  in  opposition  to  the  laws  of  reason. 

The  sensual  impulse  recognizes  no  moral  law 
and  wants  to  see  its  purpose  carried  out,  no  matter 
what  reason  may  decide  in  regard  to  it.  This 


jEsthetical.  681 


tendency  of  our  sensual  nature  to  rule  the  will 
directly  without  reference  to  higher  laws,  conflicts 
with  our  moral  destiny,  and  is  the  greatest  obsta¬ 
cle  that  man  has  to  contend  against  in  his  moral 
acts.  Brutal  natures,  deficient  both  in  moral  and 
aesthetic  culture,  are  under  the  immediate  control 
of  their  desires,  they  act  as  their  senses  crave. 
Moral  natures,  but  deficient  in  aesthetic  culture, 
aie  under  the  immediate  control  of  reason,  and  it 
is  the  thought  of  duty  which  enables  them  to  tri¬ 
umph  over  temptation.  In  aesthetically-cultivated 
souls  another  tribunal  exists  which  sometimes 
replaces  virtue  where  this  is  wanting,  and  eases 
her  burden  where  she  exists.  This  tribunal  is 
taste. 

Taste  demands  moderation  and  propriety;  it 
rejects  every  thing  angular,  harsh,  violent,  and 
favors  every  easy  and  harmonious  combination. 
Good-breeding  demands  of  us  that,  even  amid  the 
tumult  of  passion  we  should  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reason,  for  the  tone  of  good  society  is  an  aesthetical 
law  for  every  educated  person.  This  constraint 
which  the  civilized  man  imposes  upon  himself  in 
the  manifestation  of  his  feelings,  gives  him  a 
sort  of  control  over  them,  develops  at  ary  rate  a 
certain  readiness  to  interrupt  the  passive  con¬ 
dition  of  his  soul  by  an  act  of  moral  indepen¬ 
dence,  and  to  arrest  by  a  process  of  reflection 
the  sudden  transition  from  feelings  to  acts. 
But  all  that  breaks  the  blind  violence  of  passion, 
although  insufficient  to  realize  virtue  (for  this  has 
to  be  the  offspring  of  her  own  unaided  efforts)  yet 
prepares  for  the  will  a  channel  through  which  it 
may  come  into  possession  of  virtue.  This  victory 
of  taste  over  the  crude  instinct  is  no  moral  act,  nor 
is  the  liberty  which  the  will  here  obtains  by  taste, 
a  moral  liberty.  Taste  frees  the  mind  from  the 
yoke  of  instinct  so  far  as  the  latter  holds  the  mind 
chained  in  bondage,  and  after  disarming  the  first 
and  evident  enemv  of  moral  freedom,  taste  fre- 
quently  remains  as  a  second  enemy  that  may  be¬ 
come  so  much  more  dangerous  under  the  mask  of 
friendship.  Taste  rules  the  mind  by  the  simple 
incentive  of  pleasure — undoubtedly  a  more  noble 
pleasure  since  it  originates  in  reason — but  where 
the  will  is  determined  by  pleasure,  no  morality 
can  as  yet  be  said  to  exist. 

Nevertheless  great  results  flow  from  this  inter¬ 
vention  of  taste  in  the  operations  of  the  will. 
All  those  material  and  rude  desires  which  so  ob¬ 
stinately  and  so  tumultuously  oppose  the  practice 
of  good,  are  banished  by  the  influence  of  taste, 
and  nobler  and  gentler  inclinations  are  substituted 
in  their  stead  aiming  at  order,  harmony  and  per¬ 
fection,  which,  although  no  virtues  themselves, 
yet  have  one  object  with  virtue.  If  now  a  desire 
manifests  itself,  it  has  to  pass  a  rigid  muster  be¬ 
fore  the  msthetic  sense  ;  and,  if  reason  should  now 
raise  her  voice,  and  should  command  acts  of 
order,  harmony  and  perfection,  she  not  only  meets 
with  no  resistance,  but  with  the  most  cheerful 
assent  on  the  part  of  inclination.  Upon  review¬ 
ing  the  various  modes  in  which  morality  may 
manifest  itself  we  shall  be  able  to  reduce  all  to 
these  two  :  Either  the  senses  desire  that  some¬ 
thing  should  be  done  or  omitted,  and  the  will  dis¬ 
poses  of  this  desire  in  accordance  with  the  laws 
of  reason  ;  or  else  reason  gives  the  impulse,  and 


the  will  obeys  without  first  interrogating  th& 

senses. 

The  Greek  Princess  Anna  Komnena  speaks 
of  a  captive  rebel  whom  her  father  Alexius, 
when  still  a  mere  general  under  his  predecessors, 
had  received  orders  to  escort  to  Constantinople. 
On  the  way,  while  both  were  riding  alone,  Alexius 
became  desirous  of  resting  in  the  shade  of  a  tree 
and  refreshing  himself  from  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
He  soon  sank  into  a  deep  sleep.  The  rebel  tor¬ 
mented  by  the  thought  of  his  near  death,  remained 
awake.  Whilst  Alexius  was  sleeping,  his  captive 
perceived  his  keeper’s  sword  suspended  from  a 
branch  of  the  tree,  and  was  tempted  to  make  him¬ 
self  free  by  murdering  the  sleeper.  Anna  informs 
us  that  she  knows  not  what  might  have  happened, 
if  her  father  had  not  awaked  at  that  moment. 
Here  we  have  a  moral  struggle  of  the  first  class, 
where  the  senses  gave  the  first  impulse  which  was 
afterward  critically  examined  by  reason.  If  the 
temptation  to  murder  had  been  conquered  by  a 
disinterested  respect  for  justice,  the  criminal 
would  undoubtedly  have  achieved  a  moral  act. 

When  the  late  Duke  Leopold  of  Brunswick 
was  deliberating  with  himself  on  the  shores  of  the 
Oder  whether  he  had  better  throw  himself  into  the 
raging  flood  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  in  order 
that  a  few  unfortunates  might  be  saved  who  would 
have  perished  without  his  help,  and  when  impelled 
by  the  consciousness  of  duty  (we  will  suppose  this 
to  have  been  the  case),  he  jumped  into  the  boat 
in  which  nobody  else  dared  to  risk  himself,  nobody 
certainly  will  deny  that  this  was  a  moral  act. 
Here  a  case  occurred  which  is  the  opposite  of  the 
former.  The  idea  of  duty  here  preceded,  after 
which  the  impulse  of  self-preservation  sought  to 
excite  a  struggle  against  reason.  In  both  cases 
the  will  occupied  precisely  the  same  relation  :  it 
came  immediately  after  the  reason,  hence  both 
are  moral. 

But  do  both  cases  remain  moral,  if  we  accord 
too  much  influence  to  taste  ? 

Suppose  the  first  person  who,  being  tempted  to 
commit  a  bad  act,  but  omits  the  same  from  a  sense 
of  justice,  has  such  a  refined  taste,  that  all  scenes 
of  violence  excite  feelings  of  horror  which  no¬ 
thing  can  subdue  :  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  insists  upon  some¬ 
thing  infamous,  the  aesthetic  sense  alone  will  re¬ 
pudiate  it — hence  the  matter  will  not  even  appear 
before  the  forum  of  conscience,  but  will  be  con¬ 
demned  even  by  an  inferior  tribunal.  The  aes¬ 
thetic  sense  only  governs  the  will  by  feelings,  not 
by  laws. 

Suppose  the  other,  whom  his  reason  commanded 
to  do  something  against  which  his  natural  instinct 
rebelled,  possessed  an  equally  sensitive  sense  of 
beauty:  which  is  enchanted  by  every  thing  great 
and  perfect,  the  senses  will  go  over  to  reason  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  pronounces  her  decision,  and 
he  will  do  with  inclination  that  which  without 
this  tender  susceptibility  for  the  beautiful  he 
would  have  been  obliged  to  do  against  his  incli¬ 
nation.  Shall  we  consider  him  so  much  less  per¬ 
fect  on  this  account?  certainly  not:  for  origi¬ 
nally  he  was  actuated  in  his  conduct  by  a  pure 
respect  for  the  precepts  of  reason  ;  if  he  follows 
these  precepts  cheerfully,  the  moral  purity  of  his 


582 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


action  is  not  lessened  thereby.  Morally  he  is 
therefore  equally  perfect,  physically  he  is  much 
more  so ;  for  he  is  in  a  much  better  condition  for 
the  practice  of  virtue. 

Hence  taste  develops  in  the  mind  a  fitness  for 
virtue,  because  it  suppresses  tfie  inclinations 
which  impede,  and  rouses  those  which  are  favor¬ 
able  to  virtue.  Taste  cannot  be  injurious  to  vir¬ 
tue,  although  in  cases  where  the  natural  instinct 
is  the  first  incentive  to  desire,  taste  disposes  be¬ 
fore  its  own  tribunal  of  questions  which  other¬ 
wise  would  have  had  to  be  adjudged  by  conscience, 
and  hence  produces  the  result  that  among  the 
actions  of  those  who  are  cont  rolled  by  taste,  more 
are  of  an  indifferent  than  of  a  moral  character. 
For  human  excellence  does  not  depend  upon  the 
greater  sum  of  single  rigorously  moral  acts ,  but 
upon  the  greater  accord  between  the  natural  dis¬ 
position  generally,  and  the  moral  law  ;  hence  it 
is  no  great  praise  for  one’s  age,  if  we  hear  so 
much  of  morality  and  moral  actions  ;  on  the  con¬ 
trary  we  may  expect  that  when  the  highest  point 
of  culture  is  ever  reached,  very  little  will  be 
said  of  such  matters.  In  all  cases  where  reason 
gives  the  first  impulse,  and  where  there  is  danger 
lest  the  violence  of  the  natural  desires  should 
stifle  her  voice,  taste  may  be  of  positive  use  to 
virtue.  In  such  cases  taste  inclines  our  senses  to 
the  side  of  duty,  and  enables  a  small  quantity  of 
moral  will-power  to  comply  with  the  precepts  of 
virtue. 

Now,  if  taste,  as  such,  does  not  injure  morality 
in  any  case,  but  is  useful  in  many  cases,  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  of  its  being  extremely  advantageous  to 
the  lawfulness  of  our  conduct,  must  acquire  great 
importance.  Suppose  the  cultivation  of  good  taste 
were  utterly  unable  to  contribute  any  thing  to  our 
moral  advancement,  it  fits  us,  at  any  rate,  to  act, 
even  without  any  genuine  moral  sense,  as  the 
moral  sense  would  have  induced  us  to  act.  Before 
a  moral  tribunal  our  actions  are  of  importance 
only  in  so  far  as  they  express  our  sentiments  ;  but 
it  is  the  reverse  as  regards  our  physical  life  and 
nature’s  design,  for  here  our  sentiments  are  of  no 
consequence  except  in  so  far  as  they  lead  to  ac¬ 
tions  by  which  nature’s  ends  are  promoted.  Both 
spheres,  the  physical  sphere  where  forces  rule,  and 
the  moral  sphere  where  laws  govern,  are  so  exactly 
adapted  to  each  other,  and  so  intimately  blended, 
that  actions  which  are  characterized  by  moral  fit¬ 
ness  in  principle,  likewise  embody  a  physical  fitness 
in  their  ultimate  developments;  and  whereas  the 
whole  mechanism  of  nature  seems  to  have  been 
intended  to  secure  the  fulfillment  of  the  highest 
end,  namely  goodness,  this,  in  its  turn,  may  be 
used  as  a  means  to  preserve  the  edifice  of  nature. 
This  shows  that  the  order  of  nature  is  dependent 
upon  the  morality  of  our  sentiments,  and  we  can¬ 
not  transgress  the  laws  of  the  moral  world,  with¬ 
out  causing  at  the  same  time  a  confusion  in  the 
physical  world. 

Now,  if  we  can  never  expect  of  human  nature 
as  long  as  it  remains  human,  that  it  should  unin¬ 
terruptedly  and  without  any  drawback  act  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  the  principles  of  absolute  rationality, 
and  that  it  should  never  violate  the  moral  law  ; 
if,  in  spite  of  our  conviction  of  the  necessity  as 
well  as  of  the  possibility  of  pure  virtue,  we  have 


to  admit  to  ourselves  that  the  practice  of  virtne  is 
exceedingly  accidental,  and,  that  we  can  depend 
but  imperfectly  upon  the  invincibility  of  our  better 
principles  ;  if,  in  the  presence  of  this  consciousness 
of  our  fallibility,  we  remain  aware  that  the  struc¬ 
ture  of  nature  suffers  by  every  one  of  our  moral 
trespasses  ;  if  we  think  of  all  this,  we  should  render 
ourselves  guilty  of  the  most  criminal  recklessness, 
if  we  would  stake  the  highest  good  of  the  world 
upon  these  improbable  chances  of  our  virtue.  On 
the  contrary,  these  circumstances  impose  upon  us 
the  obligation  of  satisfying  at  least  the  physical 
law  by  the  material  truth  of  our  actions,  even  if 
the  motive  which  prompted  the  act,  should  not 
entirely  be  satisfactory  to  the  moral  law  ;  or,  as 
perfect  instruments,  of  contributing  our  share  to 
nature’s  ends  even  if  we  do  not  comply  with  all 
the  requirements  of  reason,  and  thus  avoiding  the 
danger  of  being  repudiated  by  both  tribunals.  If 
we  were  to  neglect  the  enactment  of  laws  upon 
the  ground  that  they  have  no  moral  value,  the 
world  might  become  disintegrated  and  the  ties  of 
society  might  be  torn  before  we  should  have  com¬ 
pleted  the  fabric  of  our  principles.  Obedience  to 
the  moral  law  being-  so  uncertain,  it  becomes  the 
more  necessary  to  arrange  a  system  of  conven¬ 
tional  rules,  the  neglect  of  which  might  be  imputed 
to  us  as  immorality.  As  the  maniac,  when  sus¬ 
pecting  the  approach  of  his  paroxysm,  removes  all 
cutting  instruments  and  voluntarily  submits  to  be¬ 
ing-  tied  in  order  not  to  be  held  responsible  in  his  sane 
state  for  the  crimes  of  his  disturbed  brain  :  so  it 
is  our  duty  to  bind  ourselves  by  religion  and  ces- 
thetic  laws  in  order  to  prevent  the  physical  order 
from  being  violated  by  our  passions  during  a  mo¬ 
ment  of  insane  excitement. 

It  is  not  without  design  that  I  have  here  placed 
religion  and  taste  in  one  category,  because  both, 
as  far  as  the  effect  is  concerned,  though  not  by 
their  internal  essence,  may  serve  as  a  substitute 
for  true  virtue,  and  may  secure  the  government 
of  law  where  no  moral  influence  can  be  depended 
upon.  Although  he  who  neither  requires  the 
charms  of  beauty,  nor  the  prospect  of  immortality 
in  order  to  act  always  in  conformity  with  the  pre¬ 
cepts  of  reason,  no  matter  what  may  happen, 
would  occupy  a  higher  place  in  the  hierarchy  of 
spirits;  yet  the  well-known  limits  of  humanity 
oblige  even  the  most  rigorous  ethical  philosopher 
to  abate  a  little  from  the  rigidity  of  his  system  in 
its  practical  application,  although  he  ought  not 
to  omit  any  thing  in  his  theory ;  and,  for  more 
safety,  to  attach  the  welfare  of  humanity,  which 
might  fare  badly  considering  our  precarious  virtue, 
to  the  strong  anchors  of  religion  and  taste. 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  * 

“No  man  is  obliged  to  aught,”  said  the  Jew 
Nathan,  to  tie  dervis,  and  these  words  are  more 
comprehensively  true  than  one  might  be  willing 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  third  part  of 
the  Collection  of  Prose  Essays  (Leipsic,  3 SO  1 ).  See 
the  note  to  the  Essay:  “On  thd  Pathetic/’  page  478  of 
this  volume. 


iESTIIETICAL. 


58  a 


to  admit  at  a  first  reading.  The  will-power  is  the 
characteristic  distinction  of  the  human  race,  and 
reason  itself  is  nothing  but  the  eternal  rule  of  that 
power.  All  nature  acts  in  accordance  with  reason  ; 
man’s  prerogative  consists  in  acting  reasonably 
with  consciousness  and  self-determination.  Every 
thing  else  is  subject  to  a  law  of  necessity  ;  man 
is  ruled  by  his  own  will. 

For  this  very  reason,  nothing  is  more  unworthy 
of  man  than  to  suffer  violence,  for  violence  anni¬ 
hilates  the  human  idea.  He  wh6  does  violence  to 
us,  disputes  our  claim  to  humanity  ;  he  who  is  so 
cowardly  as  to  endure  violence,  throws  his  hu¬ 
manity  away.  But  this  absolute  freedom  from 
every  thing  like  violence  seems  to  presuppose  a 
being  that  possesses  a  sufficient  anfount  of  power 
to  repel  every  other  force.  If  this  claim  should 
exist  in  a  being  which  does  not  occupy  the  su¬ 
preme  rank  in  the  empire  of  forces,  we  shall  have 
an  unfortunate  contradiction  between  instinct  and 
power. 

Man  occupies  this  very  position.  Surrounded 
by  numberless  forces  all  of  which  are  superior  to 
him,  and  exercise  a  commanding  control  over 
him,  his  nature  is  such  that  he  considers  himself 
entitled  to  freedom  from  all  violence.  It  is  true,, 
through  his  understanding  he  increases  his  na¬ 
tural  powers  by  artificial  means,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  he  succeeds  in  ruling  all  physical  things  by 
physical  power.  There  are  remedies  for  every 
thing,  says  the  proverb,  except  for  death.  But 
this  single  exception,  if  it  really  be  one,  extin¬ 
guishes  the  vital  essence  of  the  idea  of  humanity. 
He  cannot  possibly  be  a  being  endowed  with  an 
absolute  will-power,  if  there  is  even  one  case 
where  he  is  absolutely  obliged  to  do  that  which  is 
contrary  to  his  will.  This  one  terrible  thing 
to  be  obliged  to  do  ivithout  willing ,  will  accompany 
him  like  a  ghost,  and,  as  is  really  the  case  with 
most  men,  will  abandon  him  a  prey  to  the  blind 
terrors  of  the  fancy ;  his  boasted  liberty  is  abso¬ 
lutely  nothing  if  lie  is  bound  only  in  a  single 
point.  Culture  is  to  set  man  free,  and  assist  him 
in  realizing  the  fullness  of  his  being.  Hence  it 
is  to  enable  him  to  maintain  his  will,  for  man  is 
the  being  that  wills. 

This  can  be  accomplished  in  two  ways  :  either 
materially  by  opposing  force  by  force,  and  govern¬ 
ing  nature  by  material  means  ;  or  ideally  by  step¬ 
ping  outside  of  the  boundaries  of  nature,  and 
annulling  the  idea  of  violence  toward  himself. 
The  means  by  which  he  accomplishes  the  first, 
are  comprehended  under  the  general  appellation 
of  physical  culture.  Man  cultivates  his  under¬ 
standing  and  his  physical  energies  either  for  the 
purpose  of  transforming  nature’s  forces,  agreeably 
to  their  own  essence,  into  instruments  of  his 
will,  or  of  protecting  himself  against  their  effects 
which  he  is  unable  to  direct.  But  the  forces  of 
nature  can  only  be  governed  or  guarded  against 
up  to  a  certain  point;  beyond  this  limit  they  are 
beyond  man’s  power,  and  subject  him  to  their 
own. 

His  liberty  would  be  gone,  if  he  were  only  ca¬ 
pable  of  physical  culture.  But  he  is  to  be  a  man 
in  the  full  sense  of  this  term,  without  having  to 
submit  to  any  thing  against  his  will.  Hence  if 
he  is  no  longer  able  to  cope  with  the  physical 


forces,  nothing  is  left  for  him  to  do,  in  order  to 
protect  himself,  except  to  terminate  a  relation 
which  is  so  prejudicial  to  him,  and  to  annihilate 
by  a  mental  effort  the  violence  which  he  has  to 
endure  in  reality.  Annihilating  the  exercise  of 
violence  means  nothing  else  than  to  submit  to  it 
voluntarily.  A  system  of  culture  which  fits 
him  for  such  an  undertaking,  is  termed  moral 
culture. 

Only  the  morally-cultivated  man  is  entirely  free. 
Either  his  power  is  above  that  of  nature,  or  else 
agrees  with  her  laws.  Nothing  of  what  nature 
does  to  man,  can  be  called  violence,  for  before 
man  is  reached,  the  operation  of  nature  has  be¬ 
come  like  his  own  act,  and  the  forces  of  nature 
never  reach  him,  because  he  separates  himself  by 
his  own  free  will  from  every  thing  that  may  be 
affected  by  these  forces.  The  mode  of  thinking 
which  morality  teaches  by  inculcating  resignation 
to  necessity,  and  religion  by  inculcating  resigna¬ 
tion  to  the  divine  will  ;  if  it  is  to  be  the  work  of  free 
choice  and  reflection,  requires  much  greater  clear¬ 
ness  of  thought,  and  a  higher  energy  of  the 
will  than  is  usually  proper  to  man  in  prac¬ 
tical  life.  Fortunately  his  rational  nature  is  en¬ 
dowed  with  a  moral  disposition  for  it,  which  can 
be  developed  by  the  understanding,  and  his  hu¬ 
man  nature  with  an  cesthetic  tendency  which  may 
be  awakened  by  certain  sensual  objects,  and  by 
purifying  his  feelings,  can  be  cultivated  until  this 
exalted  flight  of  the  mental  and  moral  natures  is 
reached.  Of  this  disposition — which  both  its  con¬ 
ception  and  essence  assign  to  the  category  of 
idealism,  but  which  even  the  realist  manifests 
very  plainly  in  his  life,  although  he  does  not 
admit  it  in  his  system,* — I  shall  now  proceed  to 
speak. 

Even  the  cultivated  sense  of  beauty  is  suffi¬ 
cient  to  render  us  independent  of  the  power  of 
nature  up  to  a  certain  degree.  A  mind  which  has 
become  ennobled  so  far  as  to  be  affected  by  the 
forms  of  things  rather  than  by  their  substance, 
and,  without  regard  to  possession,  to  derive  a 
free  delight  from  the  simple  reflection  concerning 
the  mode  of  their  phenomenal  manifestations, 
such  a  mind  has  within  itself  an  internal,  inde¬ 
structible  fullness  of  life,  arid,  since  it  is  not 
compelled  to  appropriate  to  itself  the  objects  by 
which  it  is  surrounded,  it  is  not  exposed  to  the 
danger  of  being  deprived  of  them.  But  even  ap¬ 
pearance  must  have  a  body  from  which  it  pro¬ 
ceeds  ;  as  long  as  even  a  mere  want  of  beautiful 
appearances  is  felt,  a  desire  for  the  substantial 
existence  of  things  still  remains,  and  our  con¬ 
tentment  is  still  dependent  upon  nature  as  a 
system  of  powers  which  control  all  existence.  It 
is  something  quite  different  whether  we  experience 
a  desire  for  beautiful  and  good  objects,  or  whether 
we  Simply  desire  that  objects  should  appear  good 
and  beautiful.  The  latter  may  coexist  with  the 
highest  freedom  of  the  mind,  but  not  the  former, 
we  may  demand  that  existing  things  should  be 
fair  and  good,  but  we  can  only  desire  that  the 
beautiful  and  the  good  should  exist.  A  disposi- 

*  Nothing  can  be  truly  called  ideal,  except  that  which 
the  perfect  realist  actually  practices,  though  uncon¬ 
sciously  to  himself,  and  to  deny  which  he  has  to  perpe¬ 
trate  an  inconsistency. 


584 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tion  of  the  mind  which  is  indifferent  to  the  actual 

• 

existence  of  the  beautiful,  the  good,  and  the  per¬ 
fect,  but  which  demands  with  the  most  rigorous 
consistency,  that  existing  things  should  be  good, 
beautiful,  and  perfect,  deserves  above  all  the  epi¬ 
thets  of  great  and  elevated,  since  it  contains  all 
the  realities  of  a  beautiful  character,  without  par¬ 
taking  of  its  limitations. 

It  is  a  sign  of  beautiful  and  good,  but  undoubt¬ 
edly  feeble  souls,  who  are  impatiently  insisting 
upon  the  realization  of  their  moral  ideals,  and  who 
are  painfully  affected  by  the  obstacles  opposing  such 
a  result.  Such  individuals  render  themselves  sadly 
dependent  upon  chance,  and  we  may  safely  lay  it 
down  as  a  fact  that  they  concede  too  much  to  matter 
in  moral  and  sesthetical  things,  and  will  be  unable 
to  make  good  any  claims  to  the  highest  character 
and  most  cultivated  taste.  That  which  is  morally 
deficient,  should  not  cause  us  suffering  and  pain, 
for  such  a  feeling  implies  the  non-gratification  of 
a  want  rather  than  the  non-fulfillment  of  a  demand. 
A  demand  is  accompanied  by  a  more  intense  en¬ 
ergy  of  feeling,  and  strengthens  and  fortifies  the 
mind  rather  than  induces  despondency  and  un¬ 
happiness. 

There  are  two  genii  whom  nature  gave  us  as 
companions  through  life.  The  one,  sociable  and 
gracious,  shortens  our  laborious  journey  by  his 
cheerful  play,  eases  the  fetters  of  necessity,  and 
amid  joys  and  playful  scenes,  leads  us  to  the  dan¬ 
gerous  region  where  we  have  to  divest  ourselves 
of  bodily  things  in  order  that  we  may  act  as  pure 
spirits, — to  the  recognition  of  truth  and  the  ful¬ 
fillment  of  duty.  Here  this  genius  leaves  us,  for 
the  world  of  sense  is  his  domain  ;  beyond  these 
limits,  his  terrestrial  wings  are  unable  to  carry 
him.  But  now  the  other  genius  comes  to  us, 
silent  and  serious,  and  with  a  strong  arm,  he  car¬ 
ries  us  across  the  yawning  abyss. 

The  first  of  these  two  genii  is  the  sense  of  the 
beautiful ;  the  second,  that  of  the  sublime.  The 
beautiful  is  indeed  an  expression  of  freedom,  but 
not  of  the  freedom  which  elevates  us  above  the 
power  of  nature,  and  frees  us  from  all  bodily  in¬ 
fluences  ;  but  of  the  freedom  which  we  enjoy  within 
the  boundaries  of  nature  in  our  capacity  as  men. 
Beauty  conveys  a  sensation  of  freedom,  because 
the  sensual  instincts  harmonize  with  the  law  of 
reason  ;  the  sublime  likewise  conveys  to  us  the 
sensation  of  freedom,  because  the  sensual  impulse 
has  no  influence  over  the  laws  of  reason  ;  because 
the  mind  here  acts  as  though  it  were  only  subject 
to  its  own,  not  to  strange  laws. 

The  sense  of  the  sublime  is  a  mixed  sensation. 
It  is  composed  of  a  feeling  of  sadness  or  pain , 
which,  in  its  highest  degree  of  intensity,  manifests 
itself  as  awe,  and  of  a  feeling  of  joyfulness , 
which  may  increase  to  a  feeling  of  ecstasy,  and 
which,  although  it  is  not  properly  speaking  delight, 
yet  is  preferred  to  delight  by  all  refined  souls. 
This  combination  of  two  contradictory  sensations 
in  the  same  sentiment  shows  our  moral  independ¬ 
ence  in  an  incontrovertible  manner.  For,  since 
it  is  absolutely  impossible  that  the  same  object 
should  hold  two  opposite  relations  to  us,  the  in¬ 
ference  is,  that  we  ourselves  are  in  two  different 
relations  to  the  object,  hence,  that  two  opposite 
natures  must  be  united  in  us,  which  the  idea  of 


the  object  interests  in  two  opposite  directions 
The  sense  of  the  sublime  makes  it  evident  to  us, 
that  the  state  of  the  mind  is  not  necessarily  de¬ 
pendent  upon  the  state  of  the  senses,  that  the 
laws  of  nature  are  not  necessarily  our  laws,  and, 
that  we  are  interiorly  possessed  of  a  self-existing 
principle  which  is  independent  of  all  sensual  emo¬ 
tions. 

The  sublime  object  is  of  a  compound  nature. 
Either  we  refer  it  to  our  powers  of  comprehension, 
and  fail  in  the  attempt  to  form  to  ourselves  a  con¬ 
ception,  or  image  of  the  object ;  or  else  we  refer 
it  to  our  vital  forces ,  and  consider  it  as  a  power 
compared  with  which  our  own  vital  power  is  like 
nothing.  But,  although  in  the  one  case,  as  well 
as  in  the  other, Hve  experience  a  painful  feeling  of 
our  finiteness,  we  do  not  flee  from  the  object,  on 
the  contrary,  we  are  attracted  by  it  with  an  irre¬ 
sistible  force.  Would  this  be  possible  if  the  limits 
of  our  imagination  were  at  the  same  time  the 
limits  of  our  power  of  comprehension?  Would 
we  like  to  be  reminded  of  the  supreme  powers  of 
nature,  if  we  were  not  possessed  of  something  else 
than  that  which  is  destined  to  become  their  prey? 
We  are  delighted  with  the  infinity  of  sensual  ob¬ 
jects  because  we  can  realize  in  our  thoughts  what 
the  senses  are  no  longer  able  to  encompass,  or  the 
understanding  is  no  longer  able  to  comprehend. 
We  are  inspired  by  the  terrible,  because  we  can 
will  what  the  instinct  detests,  and  we  can  reject 
what  it  desires.  We  are  perfectly  willing  that  the 
imagination  should  find  its  limits  in  the  world  of 
phenomena,  for,  after  all,  it  is  only  a  sensual  power 
triumphing  over  other  sensual  powers,  but  the  ab¬ 
solutely  great  within  us  is  not  reached  by  nature 
in  spite  of  her  boundless  infiniteness.  Willingly 
we  submit  our  well-being  and  our  existence  to  a 
physical  necessity  ;  but  this  reminds  us  that  our 
principles  are  above  physical  constraint.  Man  is 
nature’s,  but  his  will  is  his  own. 

Thus  it  is  that  nature  has  resorted  even  to 
sensual  means  in  order  to  teach  us  that  we  are 
more  than  sensual ;  she  knew  even  how  to  avail 
herself  of  sensations,  in  order  to  lead  us  to  the  dis¬ 
covery  that  we  are  not  by  any  means  the  slaves  of 
sensation.  This  effect  is  quite  different  from  what 
can  be  accomplished  by  the  beautiful,  I  mean  by 
the  sensually-beautiful,  for  ideal  beauty  absorbs 
even  the  sublime.  In  beautv,  reason  and  the 
senses  agree,  and  it  is  on  account  of  this  agree¬ 
ment,  that  the  beautiful  charms  us.  Beauty  alone 
would  ever  be  insufficient  to  convey  to  us  a  know¬ 
ledge  of  our  capacity  and  our  destiny,  that  we  are 
to  live  as  pure  forms  of  intelligence.  In  the  sub¬ 
lime,  on  the  contrary,  reason  and  the  senses  do 
not  agree,  and  it  is  in  this  disagreement,  that  the 
rapturous  delight  with  which  the  sublime  fasci¬ 
nates  the  mind,  is  founded.  Here  the  sensual  and 
the  moral  man  are  rigidly  parted  ;  for  it  is  in  the 
presence  of  objects  which  remind  the  former  of 
his  limits  that  the  latter  feels  his  power,  and  is 
infinitely  elevated  by  that  which  depresses  the 
sensual  man  into  the  dust. 

I  will  suppose  that  a  man  possesses  all  the 
virtues  the  union  of  which  constitutes  a  beautiful 
character.  Let  him  find  pleasure  in  the  practice 
of  justice,  benevolence,  moderation,  firmness,  and 
fidelity  ;  let  every  duty  which  circumstances  im- 


uESTHETICAL. 


585 


pose  npon  him,  be  fulfilled  by  him  with  a  cheerful 
willingness;  let  fortune  render  it  easy  for  him  to 
do  every  kind  act  to  which  his  humane  heart  may 
impel  him.  Who  will  not  be  delighted  by  this 
beautiful  accord  between  the  natural  instincts  and 
the  precepts  of  reason  ?  Who  will  be  able  to  refrain 
from  loving  such  a  man?  But  in  spite  of  our  af¬ 
fection  for  him,  can  we  be  sure  that  he  is  truly 
virtuous,  or  even  that  there  is  virtue  ?  Even  if 
such  a  man  had  designed  nothing  else  than  pleas¬ 
ant  emotions,  he  could  not  well  have  acted  other¬ 
wise  without  committing  an  act  of  folly,  he  would 
have  to  hate  his  own  interest  if  he  were  to  indulge 
in  vice.  The  source  of  his  actions  may  be  pure, 
but  he  has  to  settle  that  with  his  own  heart ;  we 
see  nothing  of  it.  We  do  not  see  him  do  any  more 
than  the  merely  discreet  man  would  have  to  do, 
who  makes  pleasure  his  god.  The  world  of  sense 
accounts  for  the  phenomenon  of  his  virtue,  nor  is 
it  necessary  that  we  should  look  for  an  explana¬ 
tion  beyond  the  boundaries  of  nature. 

Now  let  this  same  man  suddenly  meet  with 
great  misfortune.  Let  him  lose  his  property,  his 
good  name;  let  sickness  prostrate  him  ;  let  death 
snatch  all  his  loved  ones  from  him,  let  those  in 
whom  he  has  placed  his  trust,  forsake  him  in  his 
need.  Go  to  the  unfortunate  man  in  this  condition 
and  demand  of  him  the  practice  of  the  same  vir¬ 
tues  for  which  he  had  shown  such  an  excellent 
disposition  in  his  prosperity.  If  he  is  still  the 
same;  if  his  benevolence  has  not  been  diminished 
by  his  poverty ;  if  ingratitude  has  not  impaired 
his  willingness  to  oblige,  if  his  equanimity  has 
not  suffered  by  his  pain,  if  his  sympathy  for  the 
happiness  of  others  has  not  suffered  by  his  own 
misfortunes  ;  if  the  change  in  his  circumstances 
affects  his  appearance,  but  not  his  conduct,  the 
material  amount  of  the  good  he  does,  but  not  the 
spirit  with  which  he  performs  his  good  works  ;  in 
such  a  case  the  natural  law  no  longer  affords  an 
adequate  explanation  of  his  consistency,  for  by 
this  law  the  actual  should  be  traced  to  something 
prior  as  effects  are  to  causes,  whereas  nothing  can 
be  more  contradictory  than  that  the  effect  should 
remain  the  same  when  the  cause  has  changed  to 
its  opposite.  Hence  every  explanation  of  the 
laws  of  nature  has  to  be  abandoned,  his  present 
conduct  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  the  change 
in  his  material  circumstances,  and  has  to  be  traced 
to  laws  which  may  be  conceived  by  the  reason 
but  must  remain  incomprehensible  to  the  natural 
understanding.  It  is  this  discovery  of  the  abso¬ 
lute  moral  power  which  is  perfectly  independent 
of  natural  laws,  that  invests  the  feeling  of  sad¬ 
ness  which  we  experience  at  the  sight  of  such  a 
man,  with  the  peculiarly  indescribable  charm 
which  no  delight  of  the  senses,  were  they  ever  so 
refined,  can  deny  to  the  character  of  the  sub¬ 
lime. 

The  sublime  opens  for  us  an  outlet  from  the 
world  of  sense  in  which  the  beautiful  would  want 
to  hold  us  captive.  Not  gradually  (for  there  is 
no  transition  from  a  state  of  dependence  to  a 
state  of  freedom),  but  suddenly,  and  as  with  a 
shock,  the  sublime  tears  away  the  independent 
mind  from  the  net  in  which  sensual  refinement 
had  entangled  it,  and  held  it  the  more  firmly  the 
more  transparent  the  tissue  was  found  to  be.  If 


I  the  senses  had  acquired  ever  so  great  a  power 
over  man  through  the  imperceptible  influence  of 
an  effeminate  taste ;  if  they  had  succeeded,  under 
the  seductive  forms  of  spiritual  beauty,  in  pene¬ 
trating  to  the  innermost  seat  of  the  moral  law 
and  poisoning  the  sacredness  of  principles  at  their 
very  sources,  a  single  sublime  emotion  frequently 
suffices  to  tear  this  web  of  deception,  to  restore 
its  elastic  power  at  once  to  the  fettered  mind,  to 
impart  to  it  a  revelation  concerning  its  true  des¬ 
tiny,  and  to  force  upon  it  a  sense  of  its  own  dig¬ 
nity  at  least  for  the  present  moment.  Under  the 
form  of  Calypso,  beauty  had  enchanted  the  brave 
son  of  Ulysses,  and  by  her  charms  held  him  spell¬ 
bound  on  her  island.  For  a  long  time  he  imagined 
he  was  doing  homage  to  a  mortal  goddess,  whereas 
he  was  only  reposing  in  the  arms  of  voluptuous 
lust;  but  suddenly  he  is  seized  by  a  sublime  influ¬ 
ence  at  the  sight  of  Mentor’s  form  ;  he  recollects 
his  better  destiny,  plunges  into  the  waves  and  re¬ 
gains  his  liberty. 

The  sublime  as  well  as  the  beautiful  are  pro¬ 
fusely  scattered  throughout  nature  ;  but  the  germs 
of  either  are  unequally  developed,  and  have  to  be 
assisted  by  art.  Nature  designs  that  we  should 
hasten  after  beauty,  at  a  period  when  we  still 
avoid  the  sublime;  for  beauty  nurses  us  in  our 
childhood,  and  is  to  lead  us  from  a  crude  state  of 
nature  to  a  state  of  refinement.  But  although 
beauty  is  our  first  love,  and  our  susceptibility  for 
beauty  is  first  unfolded,  yet  nature  has  taken  care 
that  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  should  mature 
slowly,  and  that  its  full  development  should  re¬ 
quire  a  cultivated  mind  and  heart.  If  taste 
reached  its  maturity  before  truth  and  morality 
have  been  implanted  in  our  hearts  by  more  re¬ 
liable  channels  than  its  own,  the  world  of  sense 
would  forever  remain  the  limit  of  our  efforts. 
Neither  in  our  ideas  nor  in  our  sentiments  we 
would  go  beyond  the  boundaries  of  sense,  and  we 
would  repudiate  as  unreal  whatever  the  imagina¬ 
tion  is  unable  to  comprehend.  But  it  is  a  pro¬ 
vision  of  nature  that  taste,  although  it  is  one  of 
our  first  blossoms,  should  reach  its  maturity  at  a 
later  period  than  any  of  the  other  faculties  of  the 
mind.  During  this  interval  time  is  obtained  for 
enriching  the  brain  with  ideas  and  implanting  a 
rich  harvest  of  principles  in  the  heart,  after  which 
the  capacity  for  great  and  sublime  sentiments 
may  be  developed  out  of  the  very  depths  of 
reason. 

As  long  as  man  was  a  mere  slave  of  physical 
necessity,  as  long  as  he  had  not  yet  found  an  out¬ 
let  from  the  narrow  circle  of  his  wants.  ;rnd  did 
not  yet  suspect  the  godlike  freedom  in  h  p  ureast, 
immaterial  nature  could  only  remind  h  a.  of  the 
limits  of  his  imaginative  faculty,  and  perishable 
nature  of  his  physical  weakness.  Hence  he  had 
to  pass  by  the  former  with  a  discouraged  soul, 
and  turn  away  from  the  latter  with  feelings  of 
horror.  Hardly  has  he  succeeded  in  keeping  off 
the  blind  pressure  of  the  forces  of  nature  by  the 
energetic  awakening  of  his  moral  freedom  ;  hardly 
has  he  begun  in  the  midst  of  this  flood  of  pheno¬ 
mena  to  discover  symptoms  of  permanency  in  his 
own  being,  when  the  wild  masses  around  him  com¬ 
mence  to  speak  a  different  language  to  his  heart; 
the  relatively  great  outside  of  him  is  the  mirror 


586 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


which  reflects  the  absolutely  great  within  him. 
Fearlessly  and  with  a  thrill  of  delight  he  now  ap¬ 
proaches  these  terrors  of  his  imagination,  and 
strains  this  faculty  of  the  soul  to  the  uttermost  in 
order  to  obtain  a  conception  of  the  boundlessness 
of  the  world  of  sense,  failing  in  which  he  will  feel 
so  much  more  vividly  the  superiority  of  his  ideas 
over  the  highest  efforts  which  the  senses  are  able 
to  achieve.  The  sight  of  endless  distances,  and  un¬ 
measured  heights,  the  ocean  at  his  feet,  and  the 
still  vaster  ocean  above  him,  carry  his  mind  be¬ 
yond  the  narrow  sphere  of  the  actual  and  of  the 
oppressive  bondage  of  physical  life.  Nature’s 
simple  majesty  now  presents  to  him  a  higher 
standard  of  measurement ;  surrounded  by  her  great 
forms  he  is  no  longer  capable  of  contenting  him¬ 
self  with  the  littleness  of  his  mode  of  thinking. 
Who  knows  how  many  luminous  thoughts  or 
heroic  resolutions,  which  no  closet  of  the  learned, 
and  no  fashionable  parlor  could  have  given  birth 
to,  may  have  originated  during  a  walk,  in  this 
bold  struggle  of  the  mind  against  the  great  spirit 
of  nature?  Who  knows  whether  it  is  not  owing  to 
their  less  frequent  intercourse  with  this  great  ge¬ 
nius,  that  the  inhabitants  of  cities  incline  to  small 
things,  that  their  character  becomes  crippled  and 
contracted,  whereas  the  mind  of  the  nomad  re¬ 
mains  free  and  open  as  the  sky  beneath  which 
he  is  encamped  ? 

Not  only  that  which  no  imagination  can  en¬ 
compass,  or  the  sublime  of  quantity,  but  also  that 
which  is  incomprehensible  to  the  understanding, 
or  confusion,  when  assuming  great  proportions 
and  announcing  itself  as  the  work  of  nature 
(otherwise  it  would  be  contemptible),  may  serve 
as  a  symbol  of  the  super-sensual,  and  may  give  an 
impetus  to  the  mind.  Who  would  not  rather 
dwell  upon  the  expressive  disorder  of  a  natural 
landscape,  than  upon  the  unmeaning  regularity  of 
a  French  garden  ?  Who  wTould  not  rather  wonder 
at  the  marvelous  struggle  between  fertility  and 
destruction  in  the  plains  of  Sicily;  who  would  not 
rather  feed  his  eye  upon  Scotland’s  wild  cataracts 
and  nebulous  mountains,  upon  Ossian’s  great  na¬ 
ture  than  to  admire  in  Holland’s  straight  lines  the 
hard-won  triumph  of  patience  over  the  most  ob¬ 
stinate  element?  Nobody  will  deny  that  in  the 
prairies  of  Batavia,  the  physical  man  is  better 
cared  for  than  at  the  foot  of  the  treacherous  Ve¬ 
suvius,  and,  that  the  understanding,  if  it  wants  to 
calculate  and  arrange,  feels  much  more  at  home 
in  a  regular  domestic  garden  than  in  the  midst  of 
a  wild  landscape  of  nature.  But  man  has  higher 
wants  beside  that  of  living  and  enjoying  himself; 
he  has  a  higher  destiny  than  to  apprehend  the 
meaning  of  the  phenomenal  forms  by  which  he  is 
surrounded. 

What  renders  the  wild  strangeness  of  creation 
so  attractive  to  a  sensitive  traveler,  that  opens  the 
fountain  of  a  peculiar  pleasure  to  a  mind  capable 
of  enthusiasm  even  amid  the  dubious  anarchy 
which  prevails  in  the  moral  world.  He  who  illu¬ 
mines  the  great  economy  of  nature  with  nothing 
but  the  dim  torch  of  the  understanding,  and  only 
aims  at  resolving  her  bold  disorder  into  harmony, 
cannot  be  pleased  in  a  world  where  mad  chance 
seems  to  rule  much  more  than  a  wise  plan,  and 
where  merit  and  fortune  are  antagonistic  to  each 


other  in  most  cases.  He  wants  every  thing  in  thfc 
great  series  of  nature  to  be  arranged  as  carefully 
as  in  a  well-regulated  household  ;  and,  if  he  misses 
this  rule  of  law,  as  he  necessarily  must,  he  has 
nothing  left  except  the  hope  that  a  future  existence 
and  another  nature  will  yield  the  satisfaction  which 
the  present  and  the  past  should  have  afforded  him. 
On  the  contrary,  by  voluntarily  renouncing  the 
idea  of  reducing  this  lawless  chaos  of  phenomena 
under  a  unity  of  system,  he  gains  on  one  side  what 
he  loses  on  the  other.  It  is  this  apparently  total 
absence  of  a  relation  of  effects  to  causes  in  this 
throng  of  phenomena,  and  which  renders  them 
overwhelming  and  comparatively  useless  for  the 
understanding,  confined  as  it  is  to  this  appearance 
of  things,  that  transforms  the  chaotic  series  into 
so  much  more  striking  a  symbol  of  the  pure  reason 
which  finds  its  own  independence  of  all  natural 
conditions  represented  in  this  wild  lawlessness  of 
nature.  By  withdrawing  from  a  whole  series  of 
things  all  connection  of  one  with  another,  we  ob¬ 
tain  the  idea  of  independence  which  coincides 
most  surprisingly  with  the  rational  conception  of 
freedom.  Under  this  idea  of  freedom,  which  reason 
draws  from  her  own  inmost  depths,  she  encom¬ 
passes  in  one  thought  what  the  understanding  is 
unable  to  grasp  as  a  unitary  system  of  cognations, 
subjects  to  her  sway,  by  this  idea,  the  endless  play 
of  phenomena,  and  at  the  same  time  maintains 
her  authority  over  the  understanding  as  a  sensu- 
ally-finite  power.  If  we  recollect  how  important 
it  is  for  a  rational  being  to  become  conscious  of 
its  independence  of  natural  laws,  it  becomes 
clear  why  men  of  an  elevated  disposition  of  mind 
may  consider  themselves  indemnified  by  this  idea 
of  freedom  for  all  failures  in  the  sphere  of  cogni¬ 
tions.  Liberty  with  all  her  moral  contradictions 
and  physical  evils,  is  infinitely  more  interesting  to 
noble  minds  than  prosperity  and  order  without 
liberty,  where  the  sheep  patiently  follow  their 
shepherd,  and  where  the  self-ruling  will  lowers  it¬ 
self  to  perform  the  functions  of  a  mere  wheel  in 
the  whole  mechanism.  The  last-mentioned  office 
makes  man  a  brilliantly-in telligen t  product  and  a 
happier  citizen  of  nature  ;  liberty  makes  him  the 
citizen  and  co-ruler  of  a  higher  system  where 
greater  honor  is  derived  from  occupying  the  lowest 
place,  than  from  leading  the  van  in  physical  na¬ 
ture. 

Considered  from  this  point  of  view,  and  only 
from  this,  universal  history  is  to  me  an  elevated 
subject.  The  world,  as  an  object  of  history,  is 
really  nothing  but  the  conflict  of  natural  forces 
among  each  other,  and  with  man’s  freedom  ;  his¬ 
tory  relates  to  us  the  result  of  this  struggle.  So 
far,  history  has  much  greater  deeds  to  record  of 
nature  (under  which  category  all  human  passions 
have  to  be  ranged),  than  of  self-existing  reason, 
which  has  maintained  her  power  only  in  Cato, 
Aristides,  Phocion,  and  other  men  of  a  similar 
character.  If  we  only  approach  history  with 
great  expectations  of  light  and  knowledge,  how 
disappointed  we  shall  be !  All  the  well-meant 
attempts  of  philosophy  to  harmonize  that  which 
the  moral  law  demands  of  us,  with  that  which  the 
real  world  is,  are  refuted  by  the  testimony  of  ex 
perience,  and,  however  readily  nature  complies  in 
her  organic  kingdoms  with  law  and  order,  as 


JESTHETICAL. 


587 


wildly  she  tears  in  the  moral  kingdom  the  reins  by 
which  the  spirit  of  speculation  would  wish  to  rule 
her. 

How  different  if  we  give  up  the  task  of  explain¬ 
ing  her,  if  we  make  this  incomprehensibility  itself 
the  starting-point  of  our  critical  investigation ! 
The  very  circumstance  that  nature,  viewed  as  a 
whole,  scorns  all  rules  which  we  impose  upon  her 
by  our  understanding  ;  that  in  her  own,  free  course 
of  proceedings,  she  tramples  in  the  dust  with  the 
same  disregard  the  works  of  wisdom,  as  well  as 
those  of  chance  ;  that  she  carries  away  in  one 
common  ruin  the  noble  as  well  as  the  low ;  that 
here  she  sustains  a  heap  of  ants,  and  yonder 
crushes  in  her  gigantic  embrace  her  own  mas¬ 
ter-piece,  man  ;  that  she  frequently  wastes  in  one 
frivolous  hour  her  most  laborious  efforts,  and 
consumes  centuries  in  building  up  a  work  of 
folly;  in  one  word,  this  wholesale  opposition  of 
nature  to  the  rules  which  the  human  intellect  has 
fixed  for  her,  and  by  which  her  phenomena  are 
governed  singly,  shows  the  absolute  impossibility 
of  explaining  nature  herself  by  natural  laws,  so 
that  the  mind  is  irresistibly  driven  from  the  world 
of  phenomena  to  the  world  of  ideas,  from  the 
finite  to  the  spheres  of  the  absolute  and  the  in¬ 
finite. 

By  the  terrible  and  destructive  powers  of  na¬ 
ture,  as  long  as  we  remain  free  observers  of  the 
same,  we  are  led  much  further  than  by  nature’s 
boundlessness  as  a  world  of  sense.  The  sensual 
man  indeed,  and  the  sensual  principle  in  rational 
beings  dread  nothing  more  than  to  be  at  vari¬ 
ance  with  a  power  which  controls  life  and  pros¬ 
perity. 

The  highest  ideal  after  which  we  are  striving,  is 
to  remain  on  good  terms  with  physical  nature  as 
the  preserver  of  our  happiness,  without  being  ob¬ 
liged,  for  all  that,  to  violate  any  of  the  moral  laws 
upon  which  our  dignity  depends.  But  it  is  well 
known  that  it  is  not  always  possible  to  serve  two 
masters ;  even  if  duty  should  never  come  in  con¬ 
flict  with  desire  (which  is  almost  impossible),  yet 
natural  necessities  refuse  to  make  any  compact 
with  man,  who  cannot  be  protected  by  his  power  or 
skill  against  the  insidious  cunning  of  fate.  Happy  he 
who  learns  to  bear  what  he  cannot  change,  and  to 
renounce  with  dignity  what  he  cannot  preserve ! 
Circumstances  may  arise  where  fate  breaks  down 
all  the  bastions  upon  which  he  had  founded  his 
safety,  and  where  nothing  remains  for  him  except 
to  seek  refuge  in  the  sacred  freedom  of  the  mind  ; 
where  no  other  means  are  left  us  to  quiet  the  vital 
instinct  except  the  moral  will,  and  no  other  means 
to  resist  the  power  of  nature  except  to  anticipate 
her  and  by  voluntarily  renouncing  all  sensual  in¬ 
terests  to  commit  moral  suicide  before  a  physical 
power  compels  us  to  perform  this  duty. 

Man  is  strengthened  in  this  resolve  by  sublime 
emotions,  and  by  frequent  converse  with  the  de¬ 
structive  powers  of  nature,  both  where  they  are 
only  witnessed  from  afar  as  well  as  where  his 
fellow-men  become  their  prey.  The  pathetic  is 
an  artificial  misfortune,  and  like  real  misfortune  it 
brings  us  in  immediate  contact  with  the  law  of 
spirit,  which  rules  in  our  breasts.  But  real  mis¬ 
fortune  does  not  always  select  its  man  or  its  hour 
to  our  satisfaction,  it  frequently  suprises  us  in  a 


defenseless  condition,  and  what  is  still  worse,  it 
frequently  renders  us  defenseless.  The  artificial 
misfortune  of  the  pathetic,  on  the  contrary,  finds 
us  fully  equipped,  and  being  only  imaginary,  the 
independent  principle  in  our  mind  is  afforded  time 
to  maintain  its  absolute  independence.  The  more 
frequently  the  mind  renews  this  act  of  indepen¬ 
dence,  the  more  it  becomes  accustomed  to  such 
triumphs :  the  more  it  gains  over  the  sensual  in¬ 
stinct,  so  that  at  last,  if  a  natural  misfortune 
should  take  the  place  of  the  artificial,  the  mind  is 
enabled  to  treat  it  as  if  it  were  an  artificial  mis¬ 
fortune,  and  to  realize  the  highest  flight  of  human 
nature  by  developing  a  state  of  mind  where  real 
suffering  is  absorbed  by  a  pathetic  emotion.  It 
may  therefore  be  said  that  the  pathetic  is  an  inocu¬ 
lation  of  inevitable  fate,  by  which  it  is  deprived 
of  its  malignity  and  its  assault  is  directed  to  the 
strong  side  of  human  nature. 

Away  therefore  with  the  falsely-apprehended 
delicacy  and  the  lax  and  effeminate  taste  which 
draws  a  vail  over  the  serious  face  of  necessity, 
and,  in  order  to  curry  favor  with  the  senses,  feigns 
a  harmony  between  well-being  and  well-doing  of 
which  there  exists  no  trace  in  real  life !  Let  us 
look  at  evil  fate  face  to  face  !  Our  safety  lies  not 
in  ignoring  the  dangers  that  surround  us,  for  the 
time  will  be  when  we  have  to  become  acquainted 
with  them  ;  but  in  knowing  them.  This  know¬ 
ledge  is  facilitated  by  the  fearfully  terrible  specta¬ 
cle  of  an  all-destroying,  re-creating  and  re-destroy¬ 
ing  change ;  by  the  ruin  now  slowly  undermining 
and  now  suddenly  surprising  its  victims-;  by  the 
pathetic  pictures  of  humanity  as  it  enters  the  lists 
with  fate,  of  the  inevitable  flight  of  fortune,  of  our 
deceived  security,  of  the  triumph  of  injustice  and 
the  oppression  of  innocence,  pictures  with  which 
history  abounds  and  which  tragic  art  exhibits  to 
our  vision.  How  could  any  one  whose  moral  sensi¬ 
bility  has  not  been  entirely  blunted,  dwell  upon 
the  obstinate  and  fruitless  struggle  of  Mithridates, 
upon  the  ruin  of  Syracuse  and  Carthage,  without 
doing  homage  to  the  earnest  law  of  necessity  with 
a  sense  of  shuddering,  without  at  once  bidding  his 
lusts  be  silent  and,  struck  by  this  utter  faithless¬ 
ness  of  all  sensual  support,  look  to  what  is  perma¬ 
nent  in  his  bosom  ?  The  sense  of  the  sublime  is 
therefore  one  of  the  most  exquisite  faculties  of 
human  nature  not  only  deserving  of  our  highest 
esteem  on  account  of  its  originating  in  the  inde¬ 
pendent  will-power  and  the  power  of  thought,  but 
likewise  of  the  completest  development  on  account 
of  the  influence  it  exercises  over  man’s  moral  na¬ 
ture.  The  beautiful  deserves  well  of  man,  the 
sublime  appeals  to  the  godhead  in  him ;  and  since 
it  is  our  destiny  to  conform  to  the  laws  of  pure 
spirits  in  spite  of  all  sensual  limits,  the  sublime  has 
to  ally  itself  to  the  beautiful  in  order  that  man’s 
cesthetic  education  should  be  completed,  and  the 
sensitive  powers  of  the  human  heart  should  expand 
in  accordance  with  the  whole  extent  of  our  des¬ 
tiny,  consequently  beyond  the  world  of  sense. 

Without  the  beautiful  there  would  be  an  ever¬ 
lasting  struggle  between  our  senses  and  reason. 
While  endeavoring  to  comply  with  our  destiny  as 
spirits,  we  should  forget  our  humanity ,  and,  pre¬ 
pared  at  all  times  to  forsake  the  world  of  sense, 
we  should  forever  remain  strangers  in  a  sphere 


m 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


which  has  been  assigned  to  us  as  our  sphere  of 
action.  Without  the  sublime,  beauty  would  lead 
us  to  forget  our  dignity.  The  laxness  induced  by 
an  uninterrupted  enjoyment  would  undermine  the 
firmness  of  our  character,  and,  indissolubly  chained 
to  this  precarious  form  of  existence,  we  should 
lose  sight  of  our  unalterable  destiny  as  well  as  of 
our  true  fatherland.  It  is  only  when  the  sublime 
is  allied  to  the  beautiful,  and  both  these  sentiments 
are  equally  cultivated,  that  we  are  accomplished 
citizens  of  nature  without  being  her  slaves  and 
without  losing  our  rights  of  citizenship  in  the 
world  of  intelligence. 

Nature  exhibits  a  multitude  of  objects  which 
may  serve  to  develop  the  sentiment  of  the  sublime 
and  the  beautiful ;  but  as  in  other  cases  so  also 
here,  man  is  better  served  by  the  second  than  the 
first  hand,  and  would  rather  accept  a  finished  and 
select  work  of  art  than  obtain  scanty  supplies 
by  dint  of  hard  labor  from  the  impure  springs  of 
nature.  The  plastic  impulse  which  cannot  receive 
an  impression  without  at  once  aiming  at  a  living 
expression,  and  sees  in  every  beautiful  and  great 
form  of  nature  an  invitation  to  cope  with  it,  enjoys 
the  great  advantage  over  nature  of  being  per¬ 
mitted  to  treat  as  a  main  object  and  as  an  inde¬ 
pendent  whole  that  which  nature — provided  she 
did  not  drop  the  object  without  any  design  as  it 
were — made  subordinate  to  the  pursuit  of  a  nearer 
end.  Whereas  nature  suffers  violence  in  her  beau¬ 
tiful  organic  formations  either  by  the  defective  in¬ 
dividuality  of  the  material  or  by  the  influence  of 
heterogeneous  forces,  or  whereas  in  her  great  and 
pathetic  scenes  she  exercises  violence  and  acts 
upon  man  as  a  power  instead  of  being  transformed 
into  an  object  of  aesthetic  delight  by  the  free 
action  of  his  contemplative  intellect :  plastic  art, 
on  the  contrary,  is  perfectly  free,  since  she  ab¬ 
stracts  from  her  subject  all  accidental  limits,  and 
leaves  the  mind  of  the  beholder  unrestrained,  be¬ 
cause  she  only  imitates  the  appearance,  not  the 
reality.  But  inasmuch  as  the  charm  of  the  sub¬ 
lime  and  the  beautiful  only  resides  in  appearances, 
not  in  the  substance,  art  enjoys  all  the  advantages 
of  nature  without  sharing  her  fetters. 


THOUGHTS  CONCERNING  THE  USE  OF 
THE  COMMON  AND  LOW  IN  ART* 

Common  is  every  thing  that  does  not  appeal  to 
the  spirit,  and  excites  no  other  than  a  sensual  in¬ 
terest.  There  are  thousands  of  things  which  are 
common,  because  they  are  made  of  a  common 
material,  or  treat  of  a  common  subject ;  but  since 
a  common  material  can  be  cultivated  or  ennobled, 
the  term  common  in  an  artistic  sense,  only  refers 
to  form.  A  common  brain  will  disgrace  the  no¬ 
blest  subject  by  common  treatment ;  a  large  brain 
and  an  elevated  will,  know  how  to  ennoble  even 
a  common  subject,  by  attaching  it  to  something 
intellectual,  and  discovering  some  higher  feature 

*  This  Essay  was  first  published  in  the  fourth  part  of 
the  collection  of  the  author’s  Prose  Essays.  (Leipsic, 
1802). 


in  it.  An  ordinary  historian  relates  the  most  in¬ 
significant  actions  of  a  hero  with  the  same  care  as 
his  most  exalted  deeds,  and  dwells  upon  his  pedi¬ 
gree,  his  costume,  his  domestic  interests  as  atten¬ 
tively  as  upon  his  plans  and  undertakings.  He 
relates  the  greatest  deeds  of  the  hero  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  render  it  impossible  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  most  common  acts.  Vice  versa, 
a  historian  of  mind  and  nobleness  of  soul  imparts 
to  the  private  life,  and  to  the  most  unimportant 
actions  of  his  hero  an  interest  and  a  character 
that  will  render  them  important.  In  plastic  art, 
the  painters  of  the  Flemish  school  have  shown  a 
common  taste,  the  Italian,  and  still  more  the 
Greek  artists,  a  noble  and  great  taste.  They 
always  aimed  at  the  ideal,  rejected  every  common 
trait,  and  never  selected  a  common  subject. 

A  portrait-painter  may  treat  his  subject  in  a 
common,  and  likewise  in  a  great  manner.  Com¬ 
mon,  if  he  represents  the  accidental  with  the  same 
care  as  the  necessary,  if  he  neglects  the  great  and 
executes  the  little  with  attention  ;  great,  if  he 
knows  how  to  discern  the  most  interesting,  if 
he  separates  the  accidental  from  the  necessary, 
contents  himself  with  indicating  the  little,  and 
executes  the  great.  Nothing  is  great  but  the 
expression  of  the  soul  in  acts,  gestures,  and  pos¬ 
tures. 

A  poet  treats  his  subject  in  a  common  manner 
by  describing  unimportant  actions,  and  carelessly 
slurring  important  actions.  He  treats  it  grandly 
by  uniting  it  with  great  things.  Homer  treated 
the  shield  of  Achilles  with  brilliant  wit,  although 
the  making  of  a  shield  is  something  common,  as 
far  as  the  substance  is  concerned. 

One  degree  below  the  common  is  theZow,  which 
differs  from  the  former  in  this,  that  it  not  merely 
indicates  a  want  of  fine  intellectuality  and  noble 
ness,  but  positive  brutishness  of  feeling,  bad  man¬ 
ners,  and  contemptible  sentiments.  The  common 
simply  implies  the  absence  of  a  desirable  advan¬ 
tage,  the  low  implies  the  absence  of  a  quality  which 
is  demanded  of  every  body.  For  instance,  ven¬ 
geance  of  itself,  wherever  and  howsoever  it  may  be 
exercised,  is  sometimes  common,  because  it  shows 
a  want  of  magnanimity.  But  we  designate  ven¬ 
geance  as  low,  if  he  who  exercises  it,  employs 
contemptible  means  to  gratify  this  passion.  The 
low  always  points  to  coarseness  and  brutality; 
but  a  man  of  family  and  refined  manners,  may 
thiuk  and  act  commonly,  if  he  possesses  mediocre 
talent.  A  man  acts  commonly  who  only  thinks 
of  his  interest ;  so  far,  he  is  opposed  to  the  noble 
man  who  forgets  himself  in  order  to  procure  an 
enjoyment  for  somebody  else.  But  the  same  indi¬ 
vidual  would  act  commonly  if  he  sacrificed  his 
honor  to  his  interest,  and,  in  doing  so,  were  not 
even  willing  to  respect  the  laws  of  propriety.  The 
common  is  therefore  opposed  to  the  noble,  the  low 
is  opposed  to  both  that  which  is  noble  and  proper. 
Yielding  to  every  passion  without  any  resistance, 
gratifying  every  instinct  without  suffering  one’s 
self  to  be  restrained  by  the  rules  of  propriety, 
much  less  by  those  of  morality,  is  low,  and  be¬ 
trays  a  low  soul. 

In  works  of  art,  we  may  likewise  sink  to  a  low 
level,  not  only  by  choosing  subjects  of  a  low  order 
which  are  repudiated  by  the  seutiment  of  propriety 


JESTHETICAL. 


589 


but.  also  by  treating  a  subject  in  a  low  style.  A 
subject  is  treated  in  a  low  style,  if  such  of  its  fea¬ 
tures  as  good  taste  bids  us  conceal,  are  promi¬ 
nently  exposed  to  view,  or,  if  an  expression  is 
imparted  to  the  subject  which  is  calculated  to  ex¬ 
cite  low  fancies  not  properly  appertaining  to  the 
subject.  Functions  of  a  low  order  occur  in  the 
life  of  the  greatest  man,  but  only  a  low  taste  would 
seek  to  present  them  in  striking  colors. 

In  some  scenes  of  the  life  of  Christ,  the  apostles, 
the  holy  virgin,  and  Christ  himself,  have  an  ex¬ 
pression  as  though  they  had  been  picked  up  among 
the  lowest  rabble.  All  such  pictures  evince  a 
vulgar  taste  which  justifies  the  belief  that  the 
artist’s  disposition  was  of  a  low  order. 

There  are  indeed  cases  where  the  low  may  even 
be  permitted  in  art;  these  are  the  cases  where 
laughter  is  to  be  excited.  Even  a  man  of  fine 
manners  may  sometimes  be  amused,  without  be¬ 
traying  a  perverse  taste,  by  the  crude  but  true  de¬ 
lineation  of  nature,  and  by  the  contrast  between 
the  manners  of  the  fashionable  world  and  the 
vulgar  crowd.  The  intoxication  of  a  man  belong¬ 
ing  to  the  higher  walks  of  life,  would  undoubtedly 
'excite  dissatisfaction  every  where ;  but  an  intoxi¬ 
cated  driver,  sailor,  or  carman,  would  excite  our 
risibility.  Jokes  that  seem  intolerable  in  the 
mouth  of  a  man  of  education,  amuse  us  when  com¬ 
ing  from  the  mob.  Of  this  kind  are  many  scenes  of  . 
Aristophanes,  which  sometimes  transgress  how¬ 
ever  even  this  limit,  and  are  absolutely  condemna- 
ble.  For  this  reason,  we  are  entertained  by  paro¬ 
dies,  where  sentiments,  phrases,  and  functions  of 
the  mob,  are  attributed  to  the  same  high  person¬ 
ages  whom  the  poet  had  treated  with  dignity  and 
respect.  As  long  as  the  poet  does  not  intend  any 
thing  beside  our  amusement,  we  may  excuse  him 
for  indulging  in  a  low  style,  provided  he  never  ex¬ 
cites  our  dissatisfaction  or  loathing. 

He  excites  dissatisfaction  if  he  attributes  a  low 
deportment  to  men  of  whom  we  are  entitled  to 
expect  finer  manners.  If  he  acts  contrary  to  this  I 
expectation,  he  either  offends  truth ,  since  we  prefer 
imputing  to  him  a  falsehood  to  believing  that  men 
of  education  can  really  act  so ;  or  his  men  offend 
our  moral  sense,  and,  which  is  still  worse,  excite 
our  indignation.  It  is  quite  different  in  farce, 
where  the  poet  and  spectator  seem  to  have  tacitly 
agreed  that  no  truth  need  be  expected.  In  farce, 
we  permit  the  poet  to  dispense  with  truthfulness 
of  delineation,  and  we  accord  to  him  as  it  were 
the  privilege  of  lying  to  us.  For  here  the  comical 
is  based  upon  its  contrast  with  truth  ;  but  it  can¬ 
not  possibly  be  true,  and  at  the  same  time  contrast 
with  truth. 

In  serious  and  tragic  things  a  few  cases  occur, 
where  a  low  style  may  be  employed.  But  in  such 
a  case,  the  exhibition  of  lowness  should  give  way 
to  terror,  and  the  momentary  violation  of  good 
taste  should  be  neutralized  by  a  powerful  emotion, 
and  should  be  devoured  as  it  were  by  a  tragic  ef¬ 
fect  of  a  higher  order.  To  steal,  is  something  ab¬ 
solutely  low  ;  whatever  our  heart  may  suggest  in 
exculpation  of  a  thief,  however  much  he  may  have 
been  impelled  by  the  pressure  of  circumstances, 
he  is  marked  with  an  ineffaceable  stigma,  and,  in 
an  {esthetic  point  of  view,  he  will  always  remain  a 


low  object.  Taste,  in  the  case  of  theft,  palliate? 
the  act  much  less  than  morality  is  willing  to  do  : 
its  tribunal  is  more  rigorous,  because  an  aesthetic 
object  is  responsible  for  all  accessory  ideas  which 
it  excites  in  our  minds,  whereas  the  moral  judg¬ 
ment  is  independent  of  accidental  features.  A 
thief  would,  therefore,  be  highly  objectionable  for 
a  poetic  picture  of  a  serious  character.  If  the 
thief  should  at  the  same  time  become  a  murderer , 
he  would  be  much  more  condemnable  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  but  aesthetically  he  would  be  much 
more  valuable.  He  who  debases  himself  by  an 
infamous  act,  (I  am  alluding  to  the  aesthetic  judg¬ 
ment),  can  be  raised  somewhat  by  a  crime,  and 
reconquer  our  aesthetic  esteem.  This  deviation  of 
the  moral  judgment  from  the  aesthetic  is  remark¬ 
able,  and  deserves  our  attention.  Several  causes 
may  be  assigned  for  such  a  difference.  I  have 
already  stated  that,  because  the  aesthetic  judgment 
depends  upon  the  imagination,  this  judgment  is 
influenced  by  all  the  accessory  ideas  which  an  ob¬ 
ject  excites  in  our  minds,  and  which  are  naturally 
connected  with  it.  If  these  accessory  ideas  are 
of  a  low  order,  they  will  inevitably  debase  the 
main  subject. 

In  judging  a  thing  aesthetically,  we  have  re¬ 
gard  to.  force,  but  in  judging  a  thing  morally  we 
have  regard  to  its  lawful  character.  Want  of 
force  is  contemptible,  and  any  action  which  seems 
to  imply  a  want  of  force,  is  likewise  contemptible. 
Every  cowardly  and  sneaking  act  is  repulsive  to 
us  in  consequence  of  the  want  of  force  which  it 
betrays ;  on  the  contrary,  even  a  diabolical  act 
may  interest  us  aesthetically,  provided  it  betrays 
force.  Theft  shows  a  cowardly  and  sneaking  dis¬ 
position  ;  murder  is  at  least  invested  with  an  ap 
pearance  of  force ;  at  any  rate  the  degree  of 
aesthetic  interest  which  the  deed  excites  in  us, 
is  proportionate  to  the  amount  of  force  which 
was  exhibited  during  the  perpetration  of  the 
crime. 

In  hearing  of  a  frightful  crime  our  attention  is 
thirdly,  diverted  from  the  character  of  the  crime, 
and  is  directed  to  its  fearful  consequences..  In 
such  a  case  the  weaker  emotion  is  suppressed  by 
the  stronger.  We  do  not  look  backward  into  tho 
soul  of  the  malefactor,  but  we  look  forward  reflect¬ 
ing  upon  his  fate,  upon  the  consequences  of  his 
deed.  As  soon  as  we  commence  to  tremble,  every 
finer  feeling  which  taste  develops  in  the  soul,  is 
silent.  Our  soul  is  entirely  filled  by  the  main  im¬ 
pression,  and  the  accessory  ideas  which  determine 
the  low  character  of  the  act,  vanish.  Hence  it  is 
that  the  theft  of  young  Ruhberg  in  “  Crime  from 
Ambition,”  is  not  repulsive,  but  truly  tragical 
upon  the  stage.  With  much  skill  the  poet  has 
arranged  the  details  of  the  plot  in  sncn  a  manner 
that  we  are  carried  away,  without  being  allowed 
time  to  breathe.  The  terrible  misery  of  his 
family,  and  especially  the  grief  of  his  father,  are 
scenes  which  divert  our  attention  from  the  perpe¬ 
trator  of  the  crime  to  its  horrible  consequences. 
The  emotion  which  fills  our  souls,  is  too  intense 
to  permit  us  to  dwell  upon  the  infamy  which 
brands  the  thievish  act.  In  short,  the  low  is 
concealed  by  the  terrible.  It  is  strange  that  this 
real  theft  of  Ruhberg  should  be  less  repulsive 


590 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


than  the  mere  unfounded  suspicion  of  a  theft  in 
another  play.  Here  a  young  officer  is  unjustly  ac¬ 
cused  of  having  pilfered  a  silver  spoon,  which  is 
afterward  found.  Here  the  low  is  simply  imagined, 
it  is  a  mere  suspicion,  yet  it  inflicts  irreparable 
injury  upon  the  innocent  hero  of  the  piece  in 
our  aesthetic  appreciation.  The  cause  of  this  is, 
that  a  man  who  is  supposed  capable  of  acting 
basely,  does  not  inspire  us  with  confidence  in  his 
morality,  since  it  is  a  rule  to  consider  a  man  hon¬ 
orable  until  he  proves  the  contrary  hy  liis  conduct. 
Hence  if  he  is  suspected  capable  of  a  mean  act. 
it  would  seem  as  though  something  had  occurred 
in  former  times  which  justified  the  present  suspi¬ 
cion,  although  the  baseness  attaching  to  such  an 
unmerited  suspicion  should  really  fall  upon  the 
unjust  accuser.  The  hero  of  this  piece  is  still 
more  injured  by  the  fact  that  he  is  an  officer  and 
loves  a  noble  lady  of  education.  The  charge  of 
theft  contrasts  most  frightfully  with  these  two 
attributes,  and  we  cannot  help  thinking,  when 
seeing  him  with  his  lady,  that  he  may  have  the 
stolen  spoon  in  his  pocket.  The  greatest  trouble 
is,  that  the  officer  has  no  apprehension  of  the  sus¬ 
picion  that  rests  upon  him  ;  if  this  were  the  case 
lie,  being  an  officer,  would  demand  a  bloody  satis¬ 
faction  ;  in  that  case  the  consequences  would  be¬ 
come  terrible  and  the  character  of  baseness  would 
disappear. 

It  remains  to  distinguish  low  sentiments  from 
low  actions  and  conditions.  Low  sentiments  are 
beneath  all  aesthetic  dignity,  with  which  low  ac¬ 
tions  and  conditions  may  well  harmonize.  Slavery 
is  a  low  condition,  but  slavish  sentiments  in  free 
persons  are  contemptible;  a  slavish  occupation 
without  such  sentiments  is  not  ;  on  the  contrary 
a  low  condition,  accompanied  with  elevation  of 
sentiment,  may  seem  invested  with  a  sublime  char¬ 
acter.  The  master  of  Epictetus,  who  was  struck 
by  the  former,  committed  a  base  act,  whereas  the 
beaten  slave  evinced  elevation  of  soul.  True 
greatness  seems  so  much  more  exalted  when  it 
wreathes  individuals  in  the  humblest  spheres  of 
life  ;  the  artist  need  not  fear  to  exhibit  his  hero 
with  a  mean  exterior,  provided  the  expression  of 
an  internal  worth  is  not  wanting. 

But  what  may  be  admissible  in  poetry,  is  not 
always  proper  in  paintings.  The  poet  presents 
his  subject  to  the  imagination,  the  painter  to  the 
eyes.  Hence  a  painting  not  only  makes  a  more 
vivid  impression  than  a  poem,  but  the  painter  is 
unable  to  reveal  the  interior  by  means  of  his  na¬ 
tural  signs  as  clearly  as  the  poet  does  by  means 
of  his  voluntary  symbols,  yet  it  is  only  the  inter¬ 
nal  that  can  reconcile  us  to  the  external.  When 
Homer  shows  us  his  Ulysses  in  rags,  it  depends 
upon  us  how  far  we  mean  to  trace  this  picture, 
and  how  long  we  intend  to  dwell  upon  it.  But 
in  any  case  it  lacks  the  vividness  of  expression 
which  could  render  it  disagreeable  or  disgusting 
to  us.  But  if  a  painter,  or,  which  would  be  still 
worse,  an  actor  were  to  faithfully  imitate  Ulysses 
after  Homer,  we  should  turn  away  from  such  a 
picture  in  disgust.  Here  the  force  of  the  impres¬ 
sion  would  not  be  in  our  power:  we  are  obliged  to 
see  what  the  painter  shows  us,  and  cannot  readily 
suppress  the  repulsive  fancies  which  such  an  object 
of  misery  excites  in  our  minds. 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  PR0PYLJ1A. 

I  have  just  returned  from  an  examination  of 
the  pictures  that  your  two  last  prize-subjects  have 
given  rise  to,  and  still  vividly  impressed  by  what 
I  have  seen,  I  shall  now  try  to  arrange  and  give 
utterance  to  the  thoughts  which  these  interesting 
exhibitions  have  called  up  in  my  mind.  Works 
of  the  imagination  have  the  peculiarity  of  not 
allowing  any  idle  enjoyments,  but  inviting  the 
mind  of  the  beholder  to  active  exercise.  The 
work  leads  us  back  to  the  art,  yea,  it  produces  the 
art  in  us. 

In  offering  these  prizes,  yon  only  thought  of  the 
artist;  but  for  the  mere  beholder  you  have  like¬ 
wise  disclosed  a  rich  fountain  of  delight  and  in¬ 
struction.  These  nineteen,  and  now  again  these 
nine  executions  of  the  same  subject,  afford  a  pe¬ 
culiar  intellectual  entertainment  of  which  he  who 
thoughtlessly  abandons  himself  to  the  impressions 
of  artistic  works,  can  have  no  idea.  An  equally 
great  number  of  real  master-pieces,  where  the  sub¬ 
jects  are  varied,  would  undoubtedly  have  afforded 
us  a  higher  enjoyment,  but  perhaps  a  less  compre¬ 
hensive  idea  ot'  art  than  these  different  executions 
of  the  same  subject  afford,  and  have  most  certainly 
afforded  to  me. 

First,  let  me  say  a  few  words  concerning  the 
subjects  of  your  prizes.  In  matters  pertaining  to 
the  fine  arts,  the  possibility  can  only  be  demon¬ 
strated  by  the  reality ;  conceptions  can  at  most 
show  us  only  that  a  given  theme  does  not  conflict 
with  an  artistic  execution.  The  success  has  justi¬ 
fied  the  choice  of  both  subjects,  for  in  skillful  hands 
both  have  given  rise  to  the  prodnction  of  animated, 
characteristic,  and  graceful  pictures. 

Although  art  is  indivisible  and  one,  and  imagi¬ 
nation  and  emotion  are  both  necessary  to  the  pro¬ 
duction  of  works  of  art,  yet  we  have  works  of  the 
imagination  and  works  of  the  emotions,  according 
as  they  come  nearer  to  one  or  the  other  of  these 
cesthetic  poles ;  every  artistic  work  has  to  be 
ranged  in  one  of  these  categories,  else  it  would  be 
without  any  artistic  value.  In  offering  these  two 
prizes,  you  have  endeavored  to  afford  employment 
to  every  artist  in  his  sphere,  and  to  give  to  him 
whom  nature  has  richly  endowed,  a  chance  of 
shining  in  both  spheres  of  art. 

“  Hector’s  Farewell”  afforded  a  fine  subject  for 
a  naive  and  soulful  picture  of  the  sentimental 
range;  the  “Robbery  of  the  Horses  of  Rhesus,” 
was  appropriate  as  a  bold,  vigorous  piece  of  the 
imagination.  As  far  as  their  internal  artistic 
value  is  concerned,  both  subjects  may  be  con¬ 
sidered  equal,  and  their  execution  upon  the  whole 
may  have  involved  an  equal  amount  of  difficulties. 
The  choice  was  therefore  left  to  the  natural  genius 
and  inclination  of  the  artist,  and  it  was  not  diffi¬ 
cult  to  decide  beforehand  which  side  would  pre¬ 
ponderate.  The  first  subject  appeals  to  the  heart, 
and  the  German  has  not  denied  his  estimable 
character  on  the  present  occasion. 

Although  the  subjects  were  indicated  in  a  ge¬ 
neral  manner,  yet  the  particular  scenes  of  the  ac¬ 
tion  and  the  circumstances  connected  with  its 
execution,  were  left  undetermined :  here  then  it 
was  where  the  genius  of  invention  was  allowed  a 
wide  range.  Two  heroes,  for  it  is  in  this  light 


CRITICAL. 


591 


that  we  regard  Diomedes  and  Ulysses,  enter  the 
Trojan  camp  on  a  dark  night,  where  Thracian 
soldiers  and  their  king  are  sleeping.  Whilst  Dio- 
rnedes  is  slaughtering  the  sleepers,  Ulysses  seizes 
the  king’s  beautiful  white  steeds.  They  have  to 
hurry  in  order  not  to  be  surprised,  and  Diomedes 
is  unwilling  to  leave  the  scene  of  action. 

The  selection  of  the  proper  moment  was  of  the 
highest  importance.  The  artist  was  allowed  to 
choose  between  the  moment  when  the  slaughter 
took  place,  the  moment  immediately  after  the 
deed,  and  the  moment  immediately  preceding  their 
departure.  If  he  selected  the  first  moment,  the 
picture  not  only  lost  in  expressive  meaning,  but  it 
might  likewise  have  made  an  unpleasant  impres¬ 
sion  upon  our  feelings  ;  slaughtering  sleeping  men 
seems  to  be  an  act  of  infamy  when  perpetrated  by 
a  hero.  The  king  who  is  murdered  with  the  rest, 
being  the  principal  personage,  our  pity  became 
roused,  and  a  pathetic  character  was  given  to 
the  picture,  which  was  contrary  to  the  original 
design.  By  selecting  the  moment  when  both 
heroes  were  intent  upon  retreating,  a  different 
spirit  is  infused  into  the  painting.  The  heart- 
revolting  scenes  are  removed  into  the  shade,  the 
slaughtered  victims  only  remain  as  a  dead  mass, 
not  a  single  one  of  them  appealing  to  our  sympa¬ 
thy  ;  we  do  not  see  the  execution  of  the  deed,  we 
only  infer  that  they  were  murdered,  and,  what  is 
the  main  point,  Ulysses  and  Diomedes  become  the 
true  heroes  of  the  painting;  their  boldness  ex¬ 
cites  our  iuterest,  their  fortunate  escape  our  at¬ 
tention. 

But  even  by  selecting  this  moment,  the  painting 
will  lose  much  of  its  suggestive  significance  and 
dignity.  Ulysses  and  Diomedes  will  necessarily 
seem  to  us  two  midnight-robbers  and  murderers  : 
the  action,  even  if  divested  of  its  revolting  cha¬ 
racter,  will  at  least  seem  base,  and  leave  us  indif¬ 
ferent.  Something  has  to  be  done  in  order  to 
elevate  our  heroes,  and  raise  the  character  of  their 
deed  ;  this  is  accomplished  by  the  presence  and 
the  interest  of  a  goddess.  The  artist  had  not  far 
to  go  ;  even  Homer  introduces  Pallas,  who  urges 
both  heroes  to  make  haste.  By  introducing  the 
goddess,  the  intellectual  character  of  the  picture 
is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  the  deed  is  witnessed 
by  another  party  by  whose  gesticulations  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  the  flight  is  made  evident  to  the  senses, 
and  the  execution  of  the  work  gains  the  great  ad¬ 
vantage  that  the  nocturnal  scene  can  be  illumined 
by  a  celestial  light. 

An  artist  who  was  unable  to  introduce  a  deep 
meaning  into  his  picture,  might  have  been  induced 
by  the  mere  effect  of  the  masses  and  contrasts  to 
select  the  second  moment,  and  might  have  had 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  his  performance.  The 
skillful  painter  of  No.  5,  where  two  cream-colored 
horses  are  prominent  objects  in  the  centre  of  the 
painting,  and  the  background  exhibits  Diomedes 
still  engaged  in  the  act  of  slaughtering,  and  the 
figures  of  both  heroes  are  made  subordinate  to  the 
animals,  seems  to  have  contented  himself  with  an 
agreeable  effect  of  shadow  and  light.  The  pic¬ 
ture  is  soft  and  pleasing  to  the  eye,  but  the  con¬ 
ception  is  common,  and  the  artist  seems  to  have 
chosen  the  most  immediate  prosaic  features  of  his 
subject.  For  why  call  up  the  figures  of  two  he¬ 


roes,  and  excite  our  expectation  by  the  announce¬ 
ment  of  an  important  deed,  if  nothing  else  is  to  be 
accomplished  than  what  might  have  been  achieved 
by  a  pleasing  arrangement  of  the  ordinary  scenes 
of  life  ?  It  is  no  wonder  that  this  picture  carried 
off  the  palm  in  the  minds  of  many  spectators.  The 
effect  of  what  is  pleasing,  is  certain  :  it  does  not 
presuppose  any  culture,  and  may  be  enjoyed  with¬ 
out  a  mental  effort. 

Two  other  pictures  of  larger  size  (Nos.  3  and 
4),  likewise  exhibit  the  moment  of  the  slaughter. 
The  king  is  still  sleeping,  the  sword  is  brandished 
over  him,  Ulysses  has  seized  the  horses.  The  ex¬ 
ecution  is  more  vigorous,  the  action  is  more  ex- 
pressive  than  in  the  former  work,  the  heroes  are 
not  sacrificed  to  the  horses.  But  the  conception 
remains  within  the  sphere  of  the  common,  the 
picture  only  interests  the  eye  without  rousing  the 
imagination,  and  the  skillful  and  highly-finished 
execution  is  insufficient  to  supply  the  deficiency 
of  intellectual  character. 

Two  other  pictures  (Nos.  6  and  7),  show  us  the 
goddess,  but  her  presence  does  not  elevate  the 
character  of  the  work,  although  this  arrangement 
betrays  a  higher  design  on  the  part  of  the  artist. 
The  moment  is  more  significant,  the  murder  has 
taken  place  ;  in  one  of  these  pictures,  where  the 
figures  are  simply  sketched,  Ulysses  has  mounted 
one  of  the  horses,  the  moment  of  the  flight  is  in¬ 
dicated  ;  in  the  other  they  seem  to  be  consulting, 
but  the  scene  is  too  calm,  there  is  a  lack  of  ani¬ 
mation  and  meaning. 

In  a  higher  spirit  two  other  pictures  have  been 
similarly  conceived  and  executed. 

In  No.  2,  the  goddess  is  hovering  over  the 
slaughtered  victims,  and  the  light  which  is  stream¬ 
ing  from  her,  illumines  the  dark  scene.  Diomedes 
is  resting  with  his  foot  upon  a  corpse,  thoughtful 
and  hesitating  whether  or  no  he  shall  replace  the 
sword  into  the  scabbard.  Ominously  the  goddess 
raises  the  index-finger  of  her  right  hand  in  order 
to  warn  him,  and  with  her  extended  left  hand,  she 
points  out  to  him  the  road.  Ulysses  with  his  bow 
holds  the  rearing  horses  by  the  reins,  and  is 
already  hastening  away,  with  his  eyes  turned  back 
toward  the  delaying  companion.  Both  heroes  are 
naked,  with  the  exception  of  a  mantle  which  is 
fluttering  around  the  speeding  Ulysses,  and  a  lion’s 
hide  which  is  suspended  from  the  shoulders  of 
Diomedes.  The  former,  whose  vigorously  drawn 
figure  is  most  prominent,  imparts  to  the  whole 
picture  an  animated  expression,  which  contrasts 
perhaps  too  strongly  with  the  thoughtful  repose 
of  Diomedes. 

This  picture  introduces  us  into  the  spirit-wor.d 
of  art.  The  common  reality  is  removed  from  our 
sight,  only  significant  scenes  and  features  have 
been  embodied  in  the  work.  No.  1  leads  us 
still  one  step  further  in  the  sphere  of  imagination, 
and  worthily  closes  this  gallery  of  .Rhesus-pic¬ 
tures. 

The  former  artist  showed  us  the ‘Trojan  camp, 
and,  by  surrounding  the  scene  with  the  walls  of 
Troy,  confined  us  to  a  narrow  space.  The  last 
artist  conceived  the  happy  thought  of  removing 
the  Greek  tents  and  ships  to  the  background, 
from  which  this  arrangement  drives  us  as  it  were. 
By  a  bold  stroke  he  opens  the  scene  of  action 


592 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


which,  together  with  the  goal  of  the  flight,  be¬ 
comes  exposed  to  our  view. 

Three  points  in  the  picture  attract  our  attention 
in  different  ways.  The  eye  which  is  always  first 
attracted  by  the  most  intense  light,  alights  upon  a 
picturesque  and  pyramidal  group  of  four  cream- 
colored  horses  which  Ulysses  is  on  the  point  of 
driving  off.  He  turns  his  back  upon  the  specta¬ 
tor  ;  only  his  head  is  somewhat  turned  toward  the 
scene.  His  mantle  and  the  coverings  and  manes 
of  the  horses  are  fluttering  in  the  breeze ;  with 
this  luminous  and  animated  group  the  quiet  and 
dark  mass  of  dead  bodies  in  the  foreground,  and 
the  calm  distance  of  the  background  form  a  beau¬ 
tiful  contrast. 

As  soon  as  the  first  violent  excitement  of  the 
senses  is  gratified,  the  mind  becomes  concentrated 
upon  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  picture.  This  is 
ingeniously  expressed  in  the  centre  of  the  picture. 
Hiomedes,  wrapt  in  a  lion’s  skin, with  his  shield  in 
his  left  hand,  is  standing  near  the  chariot  of 
Rhesus,  upon  which  he  places  his  right  hand  as 
though  be  intended  to  appropriate  it  to  himself. 
Close  to  the  wheel  of  the  chariot  lies  the  slaugh¬ 
tered  king,  who  is  recognized  by  the  coronet  lying 
by  his  side,  and  extended  upon  the  ground  in  ap¬ 
propriately  diminished  proportions.  Whilst  Ulys¬ 
ses  is  galloping  off  with  the  horses,  Diomedes 
remains  standing  still,  only  his  countenance  ex¬ 
presses  dissatisfaction  whilst  looking  at  the  ap¬ 
pearance  on  his  left. 

Here  Minerva,  slender  and  beautiful,  descends 
in  a  cloud,  signifying  to  the  delaying  hero  with  her 
outstretched  right  arm  that  he  must  hasten  away. 
The  cloud  in  which  she  makes  her  appearance, 
floats  in  a  picturesque  manner  and  like  a  floating 
mist  around  the  chariot  of  Rhesus,  thus  encom¬ 
passing  the  murderous  scene  as  with  a  mysterious 
curtain,  which  is  opened  on  the  right  side  only,  in 
order  to  permit  a  free  view  toward  the  Greek 
camp.  The  different  scenes  of  the  picture  resolve 
themselves  into  an  agreeable  harmony  of  light  and 
shade,  and  of  reflected  light. 

In  looking  at  this  picture  we  experience  the 
cheerful  influence  of  an  imaginative  art,  'where 
everything  is  selected  and  arranged  in  accordance 
with  an  artistic  idea,  no  single  feature  is  borrowed 
from  a  common  reality ;  every  thing  in  this  pic¬ 
ture  represents  and  only  exists  for  and  through 
the  conception  of  the  whole. 

Both  these  points  were  exposed  to  danger  in  a 
double  aspect. 

The  robbery  of  Rhesus’  horses,  as  a  mere  fact, 
leaves  the  heart  indifferent ;  here  imagination  had  ! 
to  show  her  power,  and  the  intellectual  conception 
had  to  come  to  the  relief  of  the  material  object. 
If  this  picture  had  been  a  faithful  representation 
of  physical  nature,  it  would  have  been  without  any 
characteristic  expression.  This  natural  truthful¬ 
ness  is  the  ghost  of  this  age,  and  the  German 
especially  finds  it  difficult  to  elevate  himself  with 
a  free  and  poetic  spirit  above  the  commonness  of 
the  actual.  An  artist  of  the  ordinary  routine 
could  not  have  elicited  much  meaning  from  a  sub¬ 
ject  which  did  not  interest  his  feelings,  and  it  is 
this  circumstance  that  seems  to  have  frightened 
most  of  them  away  from  the  undertaking. 

Hector’s  Farewell  is  a  touching  subject,  even 


without  borrowing  any  additions  from  art,  and  with 
a  moderate  expenditure  of  imagination,  might  have 
produced  an  expressive  picture  simply  by  embody¬ 
ing  a  character  of  naive  truthfulness.  But  here 
the  sentimental  disposition  of  the  nation  and  age 
was  to  be  apprehended,  which  to  the  great  injury 
of  plastic  art,  has  transgressed  all  limits  in  paint¬ 
ing  as  well  as  in  poetry.  A  whining  Hector  and 
a  melting  Andromache  were  to  be  expected,  and 
have  indeed  been  produced.  I  do  not  particu¬ 
larize  since  these  productions  speak  for  them¬ 
selves. 

Tn  this  subject,  which  seems  so  very  simple,  a 
double  character  had  to  be  expressed ;  Hector 
was  to  be  presented  as  a  loving  husband  and  a 
tender  father.  It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  do  full 
justice  to  each  of  these  relations  without  offending 
the  unity  of  the  picture.  One  of  them  had  neces¬ 
sarily  to  be  made  the  most  prominent  because  two 
equally  important  and  characteristic  actions  were 
inadmissible ;  art  had  to  decide  which  was  the 
most  suggestive. 

Some  of  the  competing  artists  have  contented 
themselves  with  representing  Hector’s  farewell 
from  his  spouse,  and  have  consequently  fallen 
short  of  the  subject.  The  child  in  the  arms  of  the 
nurse  or  mother  is  no  more  than  a  witness  of  the 
scene.  Hector  is  represented  with  so  much  youth 
and  soft  tenderness  that  we  fancy  we  witness  the 
parting-scene  of  two  lovers.  This  is  undeniably 
the  most  unfortunate  conception  of  the  subject, 
which  is  furthest  removed  from  the  idea  embodied 
in  the  scene ;  for  the  warrior  and  the  hero  who  is 
to  be  the  protector  of  his  country,  is  here  utterly 
lost  sight  of.  An  emotion  is  here  designed  which 
is  altogether  foreign  to  the  genuine  meaning  of 
the  subject. 

Others  have  selected  an  opposite  mode  of  con¬ 
ceiving  and  representing  the  subject.  By  showing 
the  father  as  exclusively  occupied  with  his  child, 
they  assign  a  subordinate  part  to  the  wife.  These 
artists  come  nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the  subject  be¬ 
cause  a  paternal  character  is  perfectly  compatible 
with  the  manly  earnestness  of  a  hero.  And  in¬ 
asmuch  as  the  mother  by  virtue  of  her  position 
acts  a  part  in  the  scene,  some  significance  must 
necessarily  attach  to  her. 

In  one  of  the  principal  pieces  in  the  collection 
(No.  24),  an  oil-painting,  the  artist  seems  to  have 
designed  to  comprehend  mother  and  child  in  one 
embrace.  Hector  extends  his  arms  toward  the 
child,  which  is  carried  by  a  nurse,  and  seems  to 
shrink  from  him,  whilst  Andromache  lings  him 
closely  between  these  extended  arms;  he  does  not 
seem  to  take  any  notice  of  her,  the  child  ab¬ 
sorbs  his  whole  attention;  Andromache  seems 
superfluous  and  an  obstacle  rather  than  other¬ 
wise. 

The  second  question  now  was  to  hit  upon  an 
expression  that  would  be  the  truest,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  worthiest  as  regards  the  pathetic 
character  of  the  situation  ;  for  it  was  to  be  the 
farewell  of  a  hero  who  leaves  wife  and  child  for 
the  purpose  of  devoting  himself  to  the  danger  of 
death ;  a  last  and  eternal  farewell  was  to  be  ap¬ 
prehended.  On  the  other  hand  the  hero  was  t<? 
show  himself  superior  to  the  pain  ;  even  in  this 
dreadful  scene  Andromache  was  to  show  herself 


CRITICAL. 


593 


worthy  of  him  ;  our  hearts  were  not  to  be  torn, 
but  fortified  and  elevated  by  the  emotion. 

One  of  our  artists  (No.  13),  upon  whom  nature 
seems  to  have  bestowed  a  cheerful  disposition  and 
a  beautiful  and  generous  sensibility,  but  who 
seems  to  be  deficient  in  strength  and  depth  of 
emotion,  has  got  rid  of  the  perplexity  of  the 
situation  in  the  most  simple  manner  by  transform¬ 
ing  the  whole  subject  into  a  tender  family-picture, 
where  little  or  nothing  is  seen  of  the  tragic  char¬ 
acter  of  the  situation.  Hector  plays  with  the 
child,  which  is  carried  by  the  nurse  on  her  left 
arm,  and  seems  to  be  afraid  of  the  father.  The 
nurse,  with  an  expressive  motion,  points  to  the 
father,  as  though  she  wanted  to  make  the  child 
acquainted  with  him.  Andromache  clings  to 
Hector’s  right  side  ;  lovingly  he  holds  out  one 
arm  to  her,  whilst  he  extends  the  other,  ca- 
jolingly,  toward  the  child.  Each  of  the  three 
figures  is  animated  by  a  naive  and  felicitously- 
chosen  expression,  a  pleasant  smile  plays  around 
the  father’s  mouth,  and  Andromache’s  soulful 
look  vibrates  between  cheerfulness  and  tears.  All 
things  are  harmoniously  combined  into  a  beautiful 
group  which  excites  a  spontaneous  and  earnest 
interest  in  the  mind.  We  at  once  relax  our  se¬ 
vere  expectations  of  art,  because  we  meet  a  beau¬ 
tiful  nature,  and  we  feel  indignant  at  an  other¬ 
wise  just  critic  who  finds  fault  with  the  drawing, 
the  coloring,  and  the  whole  style  of  the  painting 
which  he  denounces  moreover  as  being  surcharged 
with  improprieties.  For  the  artist  who  did  not 
know  how  to  embody  a  character  of  heroism  in 
the  scene  itself,  seemed  to  have  been  anxious  to 
make  up  for  this  defect  by  ranging  upon  the  walls 
and  in  the  towers  of  the  city  a  million  of  spear¬ 
bearing  Trojans  who  are  looking  down  upon  the 
scene. 

Whereas,  in  this  painting  the  pathetic  is  en¬ 
tirely  missed,  too  much  stress  has  been  laid  upon 
it  in  two  other  works,  which  are  otherwise  ably 
done,  and  Hector’s  heroic  character  is  weakened 
too  much.  They  cause  a  certain  painfulness  of 
feeling,  and  we  dislike  to  examine  them  long.  In 
one  of  these  two  pictures,  we  object,  moreover, 
to  Hector  having  turned  himself  away,  and  to  the 
expression  of  helpless  pain  in  his  countenance. 
The  other  picture  (No.  19),  seems  to  be  injured 
by  a  certain  morbid  paleness  resulting  from  the 
partial  coloring  of  the  drawing,  where  a  certain 
effect  of  hues  is  designed,  but  where  the  lifeless 
crayon  has  been  resorted  to  in  passages  that 
should  have  been  distinguished  by  strong  color¬ 
ing. 

Several  artists,  even  some  of  the  most  skillful 
masters,  represent  Hector  as  addressing  the  gods, 
and  confiding  the  child  to  their  protection.  This 
action  is  proper,  expressive,  and  noble.  Trust  in 
the  gods  permits  a  courageous,  cheerful  expres¬ 
sion,  which  is  not  even  disturbed  by  his  emotion  ; 
this  imparts  a  solemn  character  to  the  scene. 
The  child,  in  the  father’s  arms,  especially  when 
lifted  up  high,  forms  a  prominent  feature  in  this 
group,  especially  in  Nos.  25  and  26.  At  the 
same  time  the  child  serve*  as  a  symbol  of  the 
helpless  city ;  both  are  confided  by  Hector  to  the 
gods. 

There  are  two  pictures  executed  in  the  style  of 


the  basso-relievos,  where  the  artist,  agreeably  to 
the  spirit  of  the  works  of  ancient  sculptors,  was 
not  in  need  of  the  pathetic,  in  order  to  produce  a 
significant  expression  ;  these  are  Nos.  20  and  21 
Earnest  and  calm,  Hector  in  arms  descends  the 
steps  of  his  house  ;  his  body  is  already  turned  to¬ 
ward  the  warriors  who  are  waiting  for  him,  hold¬ 
ing  the  battle-horse.  Only  his  face  is  turned  to 
Andromache,  who  clings  to  him  with  a  suffering 
expression  of  the  countenance,  and  is  unwilling  to 
let  him  go.  By  her  side  is  the  nurse  with  the 
child  on  her  arms,  accompanied  by  other  young 
women.  Imitating  the  wise  suggestions  of  the 
ancients,  the  artist  has  expressed  the  situation  by 
symbolic  signs  rather  than  by  imitating  the 
reality.  Every  thing  represents  more  than  it 
seems;  every  thing  is  interesting  of  itself,  yet  it 
points  to  much  more  ;  it  is  the  expressive  letter 
concealing  the  spirit.  The  line  of  females  with 
the  child  represents  the  interior  of  the  household, 
which  is  now  left  by  the  father  of  the  family. 
The  warriors  opposite  this  group,  bearing  arms, 
and  the  steed  waiting  for  his  rider,  announce  to 
us  the  inevitable  necessity  of  leave-taking.  The 
earnest,  yet  not  mournful  descent  of  the  hero  is 
exceedingly  befitting ;  he  is  not  in  need  of  the 
gods,  he  depends  upon  himself :  the  apprehensive 
sadness  of  the  wife  is  in  keeping  with  the  whole 
scene.  She  alone  is  too  small  and  stunted  in  com¬ 
parison  with  the  colossal  figure  of  the  hero,  and 
disturbs  the  antique  character  of  the  work  by  the 
modern  feebleness  of  her  person. 

Even  in  the  treatment  of  the  nurse ,  as  the 
third  figure,  the  genius  of  the  different  artists  has 
manifested  its  characteristic  tendency.  Some 
who  were  unable  to  reach  the  height  of  the  sub¬ 
ject,  have  yet  been  able  to  reach  the  character 
of  the  nurse  who  thus  became  the  most  perfect 
figure  of  the  group.  Here  the  artist  had  a  chance 
to  indulge  in  the  presently  ruling  passion  for  na¬ 
ture  with  the  least  disadvantage,  although  good 
taste  even  required  in  this  particular  a  more  ele¬ 
vated  management  of  the  subject.  Every  sort  of 
character,  from  stupid  indifference  to  coquettish 
levity,  has  been  attributed  to  the  nurse  in  these 
pictures.  This  last-mentioned  character  is  given 
to  her  in  a  drawing  where  the  gate  is  barred  by 
two  improperly-placed  columns.  The  picture  is 
treated  in  a  most  pleasing  manner,  in  the  style  of 
an  English  engraving,  Andromache’s  figure  is  full 
of  lovely  gracefulness,  the  conception  of  the  nurse 
is  peculiarly  adequate  to  the  id'*a.  But  the  char¬ 
acter  of  Hector  was  beyond  the  artist’s  range, 
who  has  generally  fallen  short  of  his  subject. 

In  the  previously-mentioned  two  pictures,  how¬ 
ever,  where  Hector  raises  his  son  to  heaven, 
the  nurse  becomes  an  important  and  integral  ele¬ 
ment  in  the  scene,  and  assumes  a  character  in 
keeping  with  the  whole  work.  In  one  (No.  23), 
she  is  turned  sideways,  in  an  attitude  full  of  mean¬ 
ing,  and  the  artist  has  succeeded  in  touching  our 
hearts  so  much  more  deeply  by  the  very  thing 
which  he  conceals  from  us.  In  the  other  picture 
(No.  26),  which  I  shall  mention  more  fully  in  my 
last  paragraph,  the  artist  has  infused  into  her  a 
still  greater,  perhaps  too  great,  a  meaning. 

The  locality  where  this  farewell  scene  was  en 
acted,  was  by  no  means  unimportant,  and  the  ac 


5l>4 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tion  could  not  be  fully  understood  without  it.  If 
the  artist  did  not  avail  himself  of  symbolic  signs, 
the  scene  had  to  be  enacted  under  or  near  the 
gate  of  the  city,  and  the  more  expressive  he  made 
the  surroundings,  the  more  expressive  the  action 
itself  became.  It  was  therefore  improper  to 
locate  the  scene,  as  has  been  done  in  some  pic¬ 
tures,  in  some  desert  spot  near  the  walls  of  the 
city.  By  this  arrangement  the  action  is  deprived 
of  its  significant  back-ground  •  and  its  public 
character,  which  is  so  conformable  to  those  an¬ 
cient  times,  although  the  other  extreme  where  the 
artist  presents  his  hero  in  the  midst  of  an  opera¬ 
tic  court,  is  much  more  reprehensible. 

We  have  every  reason  to  rejoice  at  the  industry, 
at  the  artistic  talent,  at  the  sentiment,  at  the  spirit 
and  taste  which  these  two  pictures  have  brought 
out,  more  or  less  unitedly.  From  the  intensity 
of  feeling  where  art  commences,  to  the*  cheerful 
imagination  which  secures  the  independent  cha¬ 
racter  of  art,  and  to  the  fullness  of  intellectual 
gracefulness  by  which  she  is  led  back  to  nature  at 
the  end  of  a  long  journey,  evidences  have  been  dis¬ 
played  before  us.  Several  of  these  pictures  are 
beautifully  conceived  in  their  totality;  others 
commend  themselves  by  some  brilliant  capacity, 
or  accomplished  skill,  others  again  by  a  perfect 
talent  regarding  certain  parts  of  the  technical  ex¬ 
ecution.  After  having  looked  at  every  picture, 
we  shall  finally  return  with  increased  satisfaction 
to  No.  26,  or  the  brown  drawing  as  the  public 
designated  it  before  the  name  of  the  artist,  Nahls, 
was  known  ;  it  is  this  drawing  which  first  excites 
our  attention. 

Hector  raises  Astyanax  to  the  gods  with  a 
serene  look  of  confidence.  Andromache,  a  beau¬ 
tiful  figure  drawn  in  the  spirit  of  the  antiques, 
leans  against  the  right  side  of  the  hero  ;  she 
seems  to  confide  in  him  as  her  god,  no  expression 
of  pain  disfigures  her  pure  features.  On  the  left 
of  Hector,  and  separated  from  him  by  the  helmet, 
which  is  lying  on  the  floor,  the  nurse  is  kneeling, 
accompanying  the  hero’s  serene  prayer  with  a 
supplication  emanating  from  her  anguished  breast. 
Upon  her,  as  being  of  a  more  common  nature,  the 
wise  artist  has  poured  out  the  whole  cup  of  pas¬ 
sion  which  he  held  in  reserve  for  this  scene  ;  but 
there  is  nothing  unworthy  in  her  emotion  which 
is  characterized  only  by  intensity.  The  scene 
takes  place  under  the  gate,  the  noble  architecture 
of  which  is  in  worthy  keeping  with  the  whole. 
Back  of  the  nurse,  the  gate  opens  in  a  beautiful 
and  free  arcade ;  Hector’s  chariot  is  seen,  the 
charioteer  holds  the  horses,  a  warrior  has  stepped 
up,  by  which  means  a  union  is  effected  between 
the  main  scene  and  the  action  in  the  back¬ 
ground. 

This  is  the  poetical  conception  of  the  picture  ; 
but  the  noble  style,  the  unity,  the  easy  execution, 
the  neatness  and  gracefulness  in  the  management 
of  the  whole  subject  cannot  be  expressed  by  words, 
they  have  to  be  felt.  The  scene  inspires  one  with 
a  spirit  of  action,  with  decision  and  clearness  ;  the 
most  beautiful  effect  which  plastic  art  can  pro¬ 
duce.  The  eye  is  charmed  and  refreshed,  the 
imagination  is  enlivened,  the  mind  is  stimulated, 
the  heart  is  warmed  by  a  purer  fire,  the  under¬ 
standing  is  employed  and  satisfied. 


BURGER’S  POEMS. 

The  indifference  with  which  our  philosophizing 
age  is  beginning  to  look  down  upon  the  plays  of 
the  Muses,  is  no  move  sensibly  felt  by  any  species 
of  poetry  than  by  the  lyrical.  Dramatic  poetry  is 
protected  in  some  degree  by  the  arrangements  of 
social  life,  and  the  greater  freedom  of  form  which 
characterizes  poetical  narratives,  enables  authors 
to  conform  to  the  fashionable  tone,  and  to  imitate 
the  spirit  of  the  age.  But  the  annuals,  the  social 
songs,  the  musical  fashions  of  our  ladies  are  only 
a  feeble  dam  against  the  decay  of  lyrical  poetry. 
Yet  it  would  be  a  desponding  thought  to  the 
friend  of  the  beautiful,  if  these  youthful  blossoms 
of  the  spirit  were  to  die  in  the  bud,  and,  if  a  more 
matured  culture  had  to  be  purchased  by  the  sac¬ 
rifice  of  a  single  jesthetic  enjoyment.  On  the 
contrary,  our  un poetic  age  shows  that  a  noble 
destiny  is  reserved  for  poesy  generally  as  well  as 
for  lyrical  poetry ;  it  shows,  that  whereas  poetry 
has  to  yield  the  palm  to  higher  labors  of  the 
mind,  it  has  become  so  much  more  indispensable 
in  other  respects.  In  view  of  the  isolation  and 
separate  action  of  our  mental  faculties  rendered 
necessary  by  our  more  enlarged  sphere  of  know¬ 
ledge,  and  the  separation  of  our  various  branches 
of  business,  it  is  poetry  almost  alone  which  re¬ 
unites  the  separate  powers  of  the  soul  ;  which  oc¬ 
cupies  in  harmonious  alliance  both  head  and  heart, 
the  penetrating  understanding,  and  the  brilliant 
wit,  reason,  and  the  imagination  ;  which  restores 
as  it  were  the  human  unity  in  us.  She  alone  is 
able  to  avert  the  saddest  fate  that  can  happen  to 
the  philosophizing  understanding,  namely,  to  lose 
the  prize  of  its  investigations  whilst  bent  upon  its 
labors,  and  to  become  lost  to  the  joys  of  the  actual 
by  busying  itself  amid  the  abstractions  of  the 
world  of  reason.  Poetry  would  bring  the  mind 
back  again  from  such  diverging  paths,  and  by  her 
rejuvenating  rays  would  save  man  from  the  frost 
of  premature  age.  Poetry  would  be  like  youth- 
wreat*hed  Hebe  waiting  upon  the  gods  in  Jupiter’s 
hall. 

In  order  to  attain  this  end,  poetry  would  have 
to  progress  with  the  age  to  which  she  is  to  render 
this  important  service,  and  to  appropriate  to  her¬ 
self  all  its  advantages  and  accomplishments.  The 
treasures  which  experience  and  reason  have  accu¬ 
mulated  for  mankind,  would  have  to  be  vitalized 
and  fecundated  by  her  creative  hand.  She  would 
have  to  concentrate  the  manners,  character,  and 
wisdom  of  the  age  within  the  range  of  her  focal 
rays,  and,  with  her  idealizing  power,  create  a 
model  for  the  age  out  of  the  very  treasures  of  the 
actual.  But  this  could  only  be  accomplished  by 
matured  and  cultivated  minds.  As  long  as  this  is 
not  the  case  ;  as  long  as  there  exists  between  the 
unprejudiced  and  morally-cultivated  thinker  and 
the  poet  any  other  difference  than  that  the  latter 
possesses  the  gift  of  poetry  in  addition  to  the  ad¬ 
vantages  of  the  former :  so  long  poetry  will  miss 
her  ennobling  influence  over  the  age,  and  every 
new  scientific  improvement  will  only  result  in 
diminishing  the  number  of  her  worshipers.  A  man 
of  refined  education  cannot  possibly  seek  enter¬ 
tainment  for  his  heart  and  mind  in  the  society  of 
an  unripe  youth ;  he  cannot  possibly  wish  to  see 


CRITICAL. 


595 


the  prejudices,  the  vulgarities,  the  mental  inanity 
which  drive  him  away  from  society,  embodied  in 
verse.  Very  just]*7  he  demands  of  the  poet  who, 
like  Horace  among  the  Romans,  is  to  be  his  faith¬ 
ful  companion  through  life,  that  both  should  occupy 
the  same  level  in  intellectual  and  moral  things,  les,t 
the  man  of  science  should  descend  beneath  himself 
in  the  hours  of  recreation.  It  is  not  sufficient  to 
describe  emotions  in  more  exalted  language,  they 
should  exist  of  a  more  exalted  nature  in  the  poet’s 
heart.  Mere  enthusiasm  is  insufficient ;  we  re¬ 
quire  the  enthusiasm  of  a  cultivated  mind.  All 
that  the  poet  can  give  us  is  his  individuality. 
This  it  is  that  should  deserve  to  be  exposed  to  the 
world  and  to  posterity.  Before  undertaking  to 
move  the  most  excellent  among  mankind,  he 
should  make  it  his  most  serious  and  most  im¬ 
portant  business  to  cultivate  this  individuality 
until  it  has  become  a  form  of  the  purest  and  most 
exalted  humanity.  The  highest  merit  of  his  poems 
cannot  consist  in  any  thing  else  than  in  their  being 
the  pure  and  perfect  image  of  an  interesting  dis¬ 
position,  of  an  interesting  and  accomplished  intel¬ 
lect.  It  is  only  this  perfect  spirit  that  works  of 
art  should  embody;  it  is  reflected  even  by  the 
most  trifling  composition  ;  he  who  is  not  endowed 
with  it,  will  vainly  try  to  conceal  this  want  by  art. 
The  same  rules  apply  to  sesthetical  as  to  ethical 
things;  as  the  moral  excellence  of  a  man  im¬ 
presses  upon  his  single  actions  the  stamp  of  moral 
goodness,  so  the  perfect  and  the  mature  proceed 
from  the  perfect  and  the  matured  mind.  No 
talent,  were  it  ever  so  great,  can  impart  to  a  sin¬ 
gle  work  of  art  what  its  author  is  deficient  in  ; 
defects  emanating  from  this  source,  cannot  even 
be  removed  by  the  most  careful  revisions  of  the 
form. 

If  we  were  required,  by  the  aid  of  this  standard, 
to  review  the  present  circle  of  the  German  Muses, 
we  should  feel  considerable  embarrassment.  But 
it  seems  as  though  experience  ought  to  show  what 
effect  the  greater  portion  of  such  of  our  lyrical 
poets  as  enjoy  a  certain  degree  of  appreciation, 
has  upon  the  better  portion  of  the  public;  it 
sometimes  happens  that  one  or  the  other  whose 
poems  might  have  left  us  in  the  dark  concerning 
his  character,  surprises  us  with  his  confessions,  or 
furnishes  us  proofs  of  his  morals.  For  the  present 
■we  shall  confine  ourselves  to  applying  these  re¬ 
marks  to  Blirger. 

Is  it  yjroper  to  judge  by  this  standard  a  poet 
who  announces  himself  in  express  terms  as  a 
“poet  of  the  people”  (see  the  preface  to  Part  I., 
p.  15,  Ac.)  and  who  makes  popularity  his  highest 
law  ?  We  are  very  far  from  wishing  to  taunt 
Blirger  with  the  uncertain  term  “people;”  a  few 
words  may  be  sufficient  to  come  to  an  under¬ 
standing  with  him  on  this  head.  It  might  be  in 
vain  in  our  age  to  find  a  popular  poet  as  Homer 
was  to  his  people,  or  the  Troubadours  to  their 
own.  Our  world  is  no  longer  Homer’s  world, 
where  all  the  members  of  society  occupied  pretty 
nearly  the  same  level  in  thoughts  and  emotions, 
and  where  they  had  consequently  no  difficulty  to 
meet  in  ideas  as  well  as  in  feelings.  Now  a  great 
distance  is  observable  between  the  elite  of  the  na¬ 
tion  and  the  common  people,  which  is  in  a  measure 
owing  to  the  fact  that  enlightenment  and  moral 


culture  cohere  as  one  wdiole  whose  fragments  do 
not  avail.  Beside  this  difference  of  culture,  the 
conventional  usages  of  society  establish  different 
modes  of  conceiving  and  expressing  emotions, 
which  lead  to  new  lines  of  demarkation  between 
the  different  members  of  society.  It  would  there¬ 
fore  be  in  vain  to  range  in  an  arbitrary  manner 
in  one  general  category  what  has  ceased  for  a  long 
time  past  to  be  a  unit.  Hence  a  popular  poet  of 
the  present  age  has  to  choose  between  the  most 
easy  and  the.  most  difficult  in  poetry:  either  to 
accommodate  himself  exclusively  to  the  powers  of 
comprehension  of  the  crowd,  and  to  renounce  the 
approbation  of  the  cultivated  classes,  or  else  to  fill 
up  the  gap  which  separates  these  two  divisions  of 
the  nation,  by  the  greatness  of  his  art,  and  to  pur¬ 
sue  both  ends  as  one.  We  are  not  wanting  in  suc¬ 
cessful  poets  of  the  first  class  who  have  become 
public  favorites ;  but  a  poet  of  Burger’s  genius 
cannot  possibly  have  degraded  art  and  his  talent 
so  low  as  to  have  aspired  at  such  an  ordinary 
object.  So  far  from  facilitating  the  poet’s  task  or 
from  hiding  mediocre  talent,  popularity  is  an  addi¬ 
tional  difficulty  for  him  ;  indeed  it  imposes  a  task 
the  execution  of  which  may  be  looked  upon  as  the 
highest  triumph  of  genius.  What  an  undertaking 
to  satisfy  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  connoisseur, 
without  becoming  unpalatable-  to  the  crowd,  and 
to  Accommodate  one’s  self  to  the  childish  under¬ 
standing  of  the  people,  without  violating  the 
sacred  dignity  of  art.  This  difficulty  is  great, 
though  not  unconquerable  ;  the  secret  of  success, 
in  this  case,  depends  upon  the  happy  selection  of 
the  subject  and  the  greatest  simplicity  in  its 
management.  The  subject  should  be  exclusively 
chosen  among  situations  and  emotions  which  are 
peculiar  to  man  as  man.  The  poet  should  care¬ 
fully  abstain  from  every  thing  that  would  require 
experiences,  elucidations,  accomplishments  which 
are  only  acquired  in  certain  positive  and  artificial 
relations,  and  by  means  of  this  perfect  separation 
of  that  which  is  purely  human  in  man,  he  should 
endeavor  to  call  back,  as  it  were,  the  lost  condi¬ 
tion  of  nature.  In  silent  agreement  with  the  most 
excellent  of  his  age,  he  would  reach  the  hearts  of 
the  people  by  their  softest  and  most  impressible 
side,  he  would  assist  the  moral  impulse  by  the  re¬ 
fined  sentiment  of  the  beautiful,  and  he  would 
avail  himself  of  the  passional  tendencies  of  the 
human  heart,  which  the  routine-poet  so  frequently 
gratifies  in  an  uninteresting  and  even  injurious 
manner,  for  the  purpose  of  purifying  the  passions. 
In  his  capacity  of  enlightened  and  refined  spokes¬ 
man  of  the  popular  sentiment,  he  would  seek  to 
elevate  the  character,  and  beautify  and  refine  the 
object  and  language  of  love,  joy,  devotion,  sadness, 
hope,  Ac. ;  by  clothing  these  passional  states  in 
the  forms  of  his  own  language,  he  would  control 
them  as  it  were,  and  would  ennoble  their  crude, 
formless,  and  even  animal  manifestations  upon  the 
very  lips  of  the  people.  Even  the  sublimest  phi¬ 
losophy  of  life  would  be  presented  by  such  a  puet 
as  identical  with  the  simple  feelings  of  nature,  the 
results  of  the  most  laborious  investigations  would 
be  made  available  by  the  imagination,  and  the 
mysteries  of  the  thinker  would  be  presented  to 
the  childlike  mind  in  the  attractive  garb  of  sym¬ 
bolic  truths.  As  the  forerunner  of  a  brighter  light 


596 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


he  would  spread  the  boldest  rational  truths  in  the 
charming  languageof  simple  innocence  among  the 
people  long  before  the  philosopher  and  legislator 
would  think  of  exhibiting  them  in  their  full  splen¬ 
dor.  Before  being  appropriated  by  the  reason, 
they  would,  thanks  to  the  poet’s  efforts,  have 
manifested  their  silent  power  over  the  heart,  whose 
unanimous  and  impatient  desire  would  finally 
claim  them  as  rational  truths. 

Regarded  in  this  light,  the  popular  poet  whether 
judged  by  his  capacities,  or  by  the  influence  he 
exercises,  seems  to  us  to  deserve  a  very  high  rank. 
It  is  only  given  to  a  great  talent  to  play  with  the 
results  of  deep  thought,  to  detach  it  from  the  form 
in  which  it  was  originally  presented  to  the  world, 
from  which  it  had  sprung  perhaps;  to  transmit  it 
to  others  in  their  own  language,  and  cast  it  into 
the  moulds  of  their  own  intellects;  to  conceal  so 
much  art  in  such  plain  forms,  so  much  wealth 
under  such  a  simple  exterior.  B.  does  not, 
therefore,  exaggerate,  if  he  declares  that  the 
popularity  of  a  poem  is  the  “seal  of  perfection.” 
But  in  making  this  assertion,  he  tacitly  supposes 
what  many  of  his  readers,  while  reading  this  ex¬ 
pression,  were  perhaps  disposed  to  overlook  :  that 
one  of  the  first  and  most  indispensable  conditions 
upon  which,  the  perfection  of  a  poem  depends,  is 
that  it  should  possess  an  internal  worth  absolutely 
independent  of  the  different  degrees  of  powers  of 
comprehension  belonging  to  the  reading  class. 
He  seems  to  have  intended  to  say  :  “If  a  poem 
stands  the  scrutiny  of  genuine  taste,  and  its 
meaning  is  moreover  so  clear  and  so  easilv  com- 

o  -s  v 

prehended,  that  it  can  claim  a  place  among  the 
popular  songs  of  the  nation,  the  seal  of  perfection 
is  imprinted  upon  it.”  This  proposition  is  identi¬ 
cal  with  the  following  :  what  pleases  the  best,  is 
good  ;  what  pleases  all,  indiscriminately,  is  still 
better. 

So  far  from  relaxing  the  highest  claims  of  art 
in  poems  designed  for  the  masses,  it  is,  on  the 
contrary,  essential  to  a  proper  appreciation  of 
their  excellence  (which  depends  upon  the  happy 
union  of  so  many  qualities),  that  the  question 
should  first  be  asked  :  Has  not  the  higher  beauty 
been  sacrificed  to  popularity  ?  Have  the  poems 
not  lost  in  the  eyes  of  the  connoisseur  what  they 
have  gained  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  ? 

We  confess  that  in  this  respect  Bffrger’s  poems 
seem  to  leave  a  good  deal  to  be  desired  ;  that  we 
miss  in  most  of  them  the  mild,  ever  equal,  ever 
clear  and  manly  spirit,  which  descends  to  the 
people  as  a  loving  teacher  from  the  mysterious 
regions  of  the  beautiful,  the  noble,  and  the  true, 
but  which  never  abjures  its  heavenly  origin  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  B.  very  frequently 
identifies  himself  with  the  masses  whom  he 
should  only  visit,  and  instead  of  drawing  them 
upward  by  the  playful  beauties  of  his  music,  he 
frequently  takes  pleasure  in  making  himself  one 
of  them.  The  class  for  whom  he  composes  his 
poems,  alas  !  does  not  always  comprehend  such 
minds  and  characters  as  he  imagines.  His  “  Nacht- 
feier  der  Venus ,  (Nocturnal  Festival  of- Venus), 
liis  “  Leonore,”  his  “  Lied  an  die  HoffnungP  (Song 
to  Hope),  his  “  Elements ,”  his  “  Goettingisclie  Ju- 
belfeier (Jubilee  of  Goettingen),  his  “  J laznner- 


keuscldieit”  (Chastity  of  Men),  his  “  Vorgefdhl  deft 
Gesundheit,”  (Presentiment  of  Health)  and  others, 
were  certainly  not  written  for  the  same  class  of 
readers  as  his  11  Frau  Schnips,"  (Mrs.  Schnips), 
his  “  Fortunens  Pranger, ’’(Fortune  at  the  Pillory), 
his  *“  Menagerie  der  Goetter ,”  (Menagerie  of  the 
gods),  his  “  an  die  Men seh eng esi elder,”  (to  Human 
Faces),  and  the  like.  If  we  have  a  correct  idea  of 
a  popular  poet,  his  merit  does  not  consist  in  pro¬ 
viding  every  class  of  readers  with  songs  adapted 
to  their  taste,  but  in  satisfying  all  classes  in  each 
single  poem. 

However,  let  us  not  dwell  upon  faults  which 
may  have  originated  in  an  unfortunate  hour,  and 
which  can  easily  be  remedied  by  a  more  careful 
selection  of  his  poems.  But,  that  these  inequali¬ 
ties  of  taste  should  be  met  with  in  the  same  poem, 
is  no  less  difficult  to  excuse  than  to  correct.  We 
confess  that  even  among  the  most  carefully  exe¬ 
cuted  and  most  richly  endowed  of  Burger’s  poems, 
there  is  hardly  one  which  has  afforded  us  an  unal¬ 
loyed  enjoyment.  Whether  it  was  a  want  of  har¬ 
mony  bet  ween  the  figure  employed  and  the  thought 
which  the  poet  designed  to  embody  ;  whether  it 
was  the  offended  dignity  of  the  subject,  or  a  want 
of  intellectual  richness  in  its  management ;  or 
whether  the  beauty  of  the  conception  was  dis¬ 
figured  by  a  vulgar  flight  of  the  fancy,  a  common 
expression,  a  useless  expenditure  of  words,  or, 
which  happens  very  rarely,  a  spurious  rhyme  or  a 
harsh  verse  :  this  derangement  of  the  general  har¬ 
mony  of  the  composition,  and  of  the  fullness  of  our 
enjoyment,  was  so  much  more  painful  as  it  com¬ 
pelled  us  to  infer  that  the  mind  which  had  em¬ 
bodied  itself  in  these  poems,  was  not  matured,  and 
that  they  were  not  more  finished,  because  their 
author  himself  was  not  yet  complete. 

A  poet  necessarily  idealizes  his  subject,  other¬ 
wise  he  would  cease  to  be  a  poet.  It  is  his  pro¬ 
vince  to  free  the  excellencies  of  his  subject  (be  it 
a- personality,  a  sentiment,  or  an  action,  be  it 
within  or  without  the  poet)  from  all  coarser,  or 
at  least  from  all  heterogeneous  admixtures ;  to 
gather  up  in  one  single  ray,  the  rays  of  perfection 
scattered  here  and  there ;  to  subject  single  dis¬ 
turbing  features  to  the  harmony  of  the  whole,  to 
elevate  the  individual  and  the  local  to  the  sphere 
of  universal  ideas.  Whatever  single  ideal  he  thus 
forms,  emanates  as  it  were  from  the  perfect  ideal 
which  fills  the  poet’s  own  soul.  The  purer  and 
fuller  this  internal  ideal,  the  more  every  single 
ideal  embodied  in  his  works  will  approximate 
perfection.  We  miss  this  idealizing  faculty  in 
Burger’s  poems.  Not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
his  muse  seems  to  be  characterized  by  sensuality, 
sometimes  even  of  a  common  order;  that  to  him 
love  seems  scarcely  ever  any  thing  more  than  sen¬ 
sual  enjoyment  or  delight  of  the  eyes  ;  that  beauty 
is  very  frequently  nothing  but  youth  and  health  ; 
happiness  nothing  but  delightful  living:  we  would 
call  the  pictures  which  he  exhibits  to  us,  a  crowd¬ 
ing  together  of  figures,  a  compilation  of  features, 
a  sort  of  mosaic,  rather  than  ideal  conceptions. 
For  instance,  if  he  wants  to  describe  to  us  female 
beauty,  he  associates  every  single  charm  of  his 
beloved  with  a  corresponding  image  in  nature,  and 
by  this  arrangement  evokes  a  goddess.  See  part 


CRITICAL. 


597 


I,  p.  124,  “  Das  Mcedel  das  icli  meint (The  girl  I 
fancy),  “  Das  Holie  Lied”  (The  Song  of  Songs),  and 
others.  If  he  wishes  to  represent  her  as  a  model 
of  perfections,  her  qualities  are  borrowed  from  a 
whole  legion  of  goddesses.  See  page  86,  “ Die 
beiden  Liebenden”  (The  Two  Lovers). 

“Im  Denken  ist  sie  Pallas  ganz, 

Und  Juno  ganz  an  edelm  Gange, 
Terpsichore  beim  Freudentanz, 

Euterpe  neidet  sie  im  Sange, 

Ihr  weicht  Aglaja  wenn  sie  lacht, 
Melpomene  bei  sanfter  Klage, 

Die  Wollust  ist  sie  in  der  Nacht, 

Die  holde  Sittsamkeit  bei  Tage.”* 

We  dp  not  quote  this  stanza,  as  though  we 
fancied  that  the  song  where  it  occurs  is  disfigured 
by  it,  but  because  it  seems  to  afford  us  an  appro¬ 
priate  example  of  Mr.  Burger’s  incoherent  mode 
of  idealizing.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  exube¬ 
rance  of  hues  may  transport  the  imagination  on  a 
first  reading,  more  particularly  the  imagination 
of  readers  who  are  fond  of  sensual  things,  and, 
like  children,  admire  a  variety  of  colors.  But  how 
little  do  pictures  of  this  kind  satisfy  the  refined 
sentiment  of  art,  which  craves  a  wise  and  judi¬ 
cious  management  rather  than  abundance,  beauty 
of  form  rather  than  substance,  a  celicate  mingling 
of  the  elements  rather  than  the  material  ingre¬ 
dients !  We  do  not  intend  to  inquire  how  much 
or  how  little  art  is  required  to  invent  in  this  style  : 
but  we  are  reminded  on  this  occasion  of  our  own 
experience  that  such  youthful  tours  de  force  can¬ 
not  stand  the  criticism  of  matured  manhood.  We 
therefore  could  not  help  feeling  disappointed  on 
seeing  in  this  collection,  which  is  the  work  of  riper 
years,  whole  poems,  as  well  as  single  passages  and 
expressions,  (such  as  Klingling-ling,  Hopp,  Hopp, 
Hopp,  Huliu,  Sasa,  Trallyrum  larurn,  and  the 
like),  that  can  only  be  excused  by  the  poetical 
childhood  of  their  author,  and  which  owe  their 
continuance  to  the  equivocal  approbation  of  the 
crowd.  If  a  poet  like  Burger  patronizes  such 
childishness  by  the  magic  power  of  his  pencil  and 
the  weight  of  his  example,  how  are  we  ever  to  get 
rid  of  the  unmanly  and  childish  tone  which  a  host 
of  bunglers  has  introduced  into  our  lyrical  poetry? 
For  similar  reasons,  we  can  only  accord  condi¬ 
tional  praise  to  the  otherwise  delicious  poem, 
“  Blumchen  Wunderhold (Magic  Flower);  how¬ 
ever  much  B.  may  have  prided  himself  upon  this 
invention,  a  little  magic  flower  on  one’s  breast 
is  neither  a  very  dignified  nor  a  very  intellectual 
symbol  of  modesty;  frankly  told,  it  is  a  trifling 
baucle.  If  he  applies  to  this  symbol  praise  like 
the  following : 

*  The  following  is  the  literal  meaning  of  these  verses  : 
In  thoughts  she  is  Pallas  entirely, 

And  Juno  in  her  noble  gait, 

Terpsichore  during  a  joyful  dance, 

Euterpe  envies  her  in  song, 

Aglaja  yields  to  her  in  smiles, 

Melpomene  in  the  utterances  of  subdued  grief, 

At  night  she  is  all  voluptuous  delight, 

And  lcvcly  chastity  in  the  daytime 


“  Du  theilst  der  Flote  weichen  Klang 
Des  Schreiers  Kehle  mit, 

Uud  wandelst  in  Zephyrengang 
Des  Stunner's  Poltertritt,”* 

too  much  honor  is  done  to  modesty.  The  im¬ 
proper  expression:  “ Die  Nase  schnaubt  nach 
iEther,”  (The  nose  is  gasping  for  ether),  and  a 
spurious  rhyme  ublcehn  and  schoen,  disfigure  the 
easy  and  beautiful  rhythm  of  this  song. 

It  is  especially  when  B.  attempts*  to  pic¬ 
ture  emotions,  that  the  art  of  idealizing  is 
missed  in  his  works  ;  to  this  criticism  his  recent 
poems  to  Molly,  are  particularly  liable.  However 
inimitable  they  are  in  point  of  diction  and  versifi¬ 
cation  ;  however  poetical  they  are  in  point  of  form 
and  expressions,  yet  they  seem  to  us  conceived  in 
an  unpoetic  vein.  The  rule  which  Lessing  has 
laid  down  for  the  tragic  poet,  not  to  introduce 
strange  features,  or  rigidly  marked  individualities 
of  character  or  situation,  is  still  much  more  ap¬ 
plicable  to  the  lyrical  poet.  The  latter  is  so  much 
the  less  at  liberty  to  depart  from  a  certain  general 
manner  of  expressing  emotions,  the  less  room  is 
afforded  him  to  expatiate  upon  the  peculiarities 
of  the  circumstances  by  which  they  have  been  ex¬ 
cited.  Burger’s  recent  poems  are  for  the  most 
part  the  offspring  of  such  a  very  peculiar  situation 
which,  it  is  true,  is  neither  as  rigidly  individual 
nor  as  exceptional  as  the  Heautontimorumenos 
of  Terentius,  but  sufficiently  individual  to  pre¬ 
vent  their  whole  purport  from  being  comprehended 
by  the  reader,  with  sufficient  clearness  ;  at  any 
rate,  to  cause  the  absence  of  ideality  which  is  in¬ 
separable  from  such  productions,  to  mar  the  en¬ 
joyment  which  their  perusal  might  otherwise 
afford.  However,  this  defect  would  only  deprive 
the  poems  in  which  it  occurs,  of  a  perfection  ;  but 
there  is  another  feature  which  injures  them  very 
essentially.  They  not  only  picture,  but  they  origi¬ 
nate  in  this  peculiar  and  very  unpoetic  state  of  the 
soul. 

The  poet’s  sensitiveness,  his  indignation  and 
melancholy,  are  not  only  the  object  of  his  verse, 
they  are  the  source  of  his  inspiration.  But  the 
goddesses  of  charm  and  beauty  are  very  obstinate. 
They  only  reward  the  passion  which  they  inspire; 
upon  their  altar  they  do  not  like  to  see  any  other 
flame  than  that  of  a  pure  and  disinterested  enthu¬ 
siasm.  An  angry  actor  can  scarcely  be  expected 
to  represent  indignation  in  a  noble  manner;  let  a 
poet  be  very  cautious  how  he  sings  pain  in  the 
midst  of  sorrow.  As  soon  as  the  poet  becomes  an 
interested  sufferer,  his  sentiments  must  necessarily 
descend  from  their  ideal  universality  to  the  sphere 
of  an  imperfect  individuality.  Let  him  draw  upon 
the  gentle  memories  of  his  past  sufferings;  the 
more  of  sorrow  he  has  experienced  in  his  own  life, 
the  more  vividly  he  will  be  able  to  delineate  the 
ideal  grief ;  but  let  him  never  attempt,  whilst  the 
storm  of  emotion  is  raging  in  his  breast,  to  portray 

*  Literally: 

Thou  transformest  into  the  soft  sound  of  the  flute 
The  shrill  voice  of  a  screamer, 

And  changest  to  Zephyr’s  steps 
The  boisterous  gait  of  a  blusterer. 


598 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


a  passion  whose  wild  tumults  we  expect  him  to 
present  to  our  imagination  in  a  robe  of  beauty. 
Even  in  poems  of  which  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
saying  that  love,  friendship,  &c.,  have  dictated  the 
poet’s  inspirations,  he  is  obliged  first  to  estrange 
himself  from  his  own  personal  feelings,  to  separate 
the  object  of  his  enthusiasm  from  his  own  indi¬ 
viduality,  to  look  upon  his  passion  from  a  mode¬ 
rating  distance.  Ideal  beauty  can  only  be  realized 
by  a  mental  freedom  and  independent  activity 
which  neutralizes  the  preponderance  of  passion. 

Burger’s  recent  poems  are  characterized  by  a 
certain  bitterness,  an  almost  morbid  melancholy. 
On  this  account  the  most  prominent  composition 
in  this  collection  :  “  Das  Hohe  Lied  von  der  Ein- 
zigen,”  (the  Song  of  Songs  of  the  Only  One), 
loses  much  of  its  otherwise  incomparable  excel¬ 
lence.  Other  critics  have  already  expressed  their 
opinion  concerning  this  beautiful  production  of 
Biirger’s  muse,  and  with  pleasure  we  subscribe  to 
much  of  the  praise  that  has  been  awarded  to  it. 
But  we  wonder  how  it  was  possible,  while  doing 
justice  to  the  poet’s  soaring  imagination,  to  the 
fire  of  his  emotions,  to  his  rich  imagery,  to  the 
vigor  of  his  style,  and  to  the  harmony  of  his  ver¬ 
sification,  to  excuse  his  numerous  errors  against 
good  taste  ;  how  it  was  possible  to  overlook  the 
fact,  that  the  enthusiasm  of  the  poet  sometimes 
borders  upon  delirium,  that  his  fire  often  burns 
like  the  fury  of  demons,  and  that  this  is  the 
reason  why  we  do  not  rise  from  the  perusal  of 
such  a  poem  with  the  feeling  of  calm  harmony 
which  we  expect  a  poet  to  conjure  up  in  our 
souls.  We  comprehend  how  Mr.  B.,  carried  away 
by  the  intense  emotion  which  dictated  this  song ; 
beguiled  by  the  intimate  relation  of  the  song  to 
his  own  situation,  which  he  has  embodied  in  this 
composition  as  within  the  walls  of  a  sanctuary, 
might  have  exclaimed  at  the  end,  that  this  song 
was  stamped  with  all  the  perfection  he  was  able  to 
impart ; — for  this  very  reason  we  feel  disposed,  in 
spite  of  its  brilliant  beauties,  to  consider  it  as  an 
excellent  poem  made  for  the  occasion,  a  poem 
whose  origin  and  design  induce  us  to  excuse  the 
want  of  ideal  purity  and  completeness  which  alone 
satisfies  good  taste. 

The  overpowering  part  which  the  poet’s  person¬ 
ality  has  taken  in  this  song  and  in  some  other 
compositions  of  this  collection,  explains  to  us 
why  we  are  so  frequently  and  so  strongly  reminded 
of  the  author’s  own  self  in  these  poems.  Among 
modern  poets  not  one  is  known  to  us  who  re¬ 
hearses  the  “  sublimi  feriam  sidera  vertice”  with 
as  much  self-complacency  as  Burger.  We  do 
not  mean  to  insinuate  that  on  such  occasions 
his  little  flower  Wunderhold  had  dropped  from 
his  breast;  it  is  evident  that  pain  alone  could  in¬ 
duce  one  to  lavish  so  much  praise  upon  one’s  self. 
But  suppose  that  only  the  tenth  part  of  such  ex¬ 
pressions  is  true,  if  this  tenth  part  recurs  ten  times, 
it  amounts  to  sober  earnest.  Self-praise  can  scarcely 
be  excused,  even  in  the  mouth  of  Horace,  and  an 
enthusiastic  reader  finds  it  very  difficult  to  pardon 
the  poet  whom  he  would  gladly — admire. 

These  general  remarks  concerning  the  spirit  of 
the  poet  seem  to  us  all  that  can  be  said  in  a  mere 
gazette  about  a  collection  of  upward  of  one  hun¬ 
dred  poems,  among  which  there  are  many  deserv¬ 


ing  of  a  more  detailed  analysis.  The  unanimous 
judgment  which  the  public  has  long  since  uttered, 
spares  us  the  task  of  speaking  of  his  ballads 
where  it  might,  be  difficult  for  any  German  poet 
to  surpass  Mr.  Burger.  As  regards  his  sonnets 
which  are  models  of  their  kind,  and  are  trans¬ 
formed  into  living  s  Jng  upon  the  lips  of  declama¬ 
tion,  we  share  his  wish  that  they  may  find  no  imi¬ 
tator  who  is  not  able  like  him  and  his  friend  Schle- 
gel,  to  play  upon  the  lyre  of  the  Pythian  god.  We 
should  have  been  pleased  if  the  mere  pieces  of 
wit,  especially  the  epigrams,  had  been  omitted  in 
this  collection  ;  in  general  we  would  suggest  to 
Mr.  Burger  to  abandon  the  light  and  jesting  style 
which  does  not  accord  with  his  vigorous  manner. 
To  be  convinced  of  this,  compare  the  Zechlied 
(Drinking-song),  Part  I.,  page  142,  with  a  similar 
song  by  Anacreon  or  Horace.  If  now  we  should  be 
asked,  upon  our  conscience,  to  which  of  Burger’s 
poems,  the  serious  or  the  satirical,  the  lyrical  or 
the  lyrically-narrating,  the  earlier  or  the  more  re¬ 
cent  poems,  we  would  award  the  preference,  we 
should  decide  in  favor  of  the  serious,  the  narrating 
and  earlier  poems.  It  is  undeniable  that  Mr.  B. 
has  gained  in  power  of  language  and  beauty  of 
verse  ;  but  his  manner  has  not  become  more  ele¬ 
vated,  nor  his  taste  more  refined. 

If  in  speaking  of  poems,  of  which  so  much 
that  is  beautiful  may  be  said,  we  have  only  pointed 
out  their  defects,  we  plead  guilty  to  an  injustice 
which  can  only  be  committed  toward  a  poet  of 
Burger’s  talent  and  glory.  It  is  only  toward 
a  poet  for  whom  so  many  imitating  quills  are 
lying  in  wait,  that  it  is  worth  one’s  while  to  take 
the  part  of  art ;  only  a  great  poetical  genius  is 
capable  of  reminding  the  friend  of  the  beautiful  of 
the  highest  claims  of  art  which  he  voluntarily 
suppresses  or  forgets  in  the  case  of  a  mediocre 
talent.  We  are  perfectly  willing  to  admit  that 
we  see  the  whole  legion  of  living  poets  who  are 
coping  with  Mr.  B.  for  the  lyrical  laurel-wreath, 
as  far  beneath  him  as  we  believe  him  to  have  re¬ 
mained  below  the  highest  ideal  of  beauty.  We 
feel  moreover  that  much  of  what  we  have  cen¬ 
sured  in  his  works,  is  chargeable  to  external  cir¬ 
cumstances,  which  circumscribed  his  powerful 
genius  in  its  most  beautiful  manifestations,  *and 
of  which  his  poems  furnish  such  touching  signs. 
Only  the  serene  and  calm  soul  produces  the  per¬ 
fect.  The  struggle  against  external  circumstances, 
and  hypochondria,  which  paralyzes  any  mental 
power,  should  less  than  any  other  burden  weigh 
down  the  poet’s  mind,  which  should  detach  itself 
from  the  actual,  and  boldly  and  freely  soar  up  into 
the  region  of  the  ideal.  If  his  breast  should  be  ever 
so  much  agitated  by  storms,  let  a  sunny  bright¬ 
ness  radiate  from  his  brow. 

If  any  one  of  our  poets  is  worthy  of  perfecting 
himself,  it  is  Mr.  Burger.  This  exuberance  of 
poetic  pictures  ;  this  glowing  and  energetic  lan¬ 
guage  of  the  heart;  this  poetic  flood  now  rushing 
onward  with  magnificent  waves,  now  sweetly  mur¬ 
muring  with  a  gentle  ripple,  giving  such  charac¬ 
teristic  prominence  to  all  his  works  ;  and  lastly 
this  honest  heart  which  seems  to  speak  to  us 
from  every  line — all  these  are  well  worthy  of  be¬ 
ing  allied  with  an  aesthetic  and  moral  graceful¬ 
ness  that  never  changes,  with  manly  dignity, 


CRITICAL. 


599 


with  richness  of  thought,  with  exalted  and  quiet 
greatness,  and  of  thus  conquering  the  most  glori¬ 
ous  crown  of  classic  poetry. 

The  public  is  offered  a  beautiful  opportunity  of 
rendering  a  signal  service  to  German  art.  Mr. 
Burger  is  now  arranging  a  handsome  edition  of 
his  poems;  the  measure  of  support  which  will  be 
allotted  to  him  by  the  friends  of  his  muse,  will 
determine  whether  the  edition  is  to  be  an  improved 
and  perfect  one. 

This  was  the  writer’s  opinion  of  Burger’s  merit 
as  a  poet  eleven  years  ago  ;  he  does  not  feel  able 
to  alter  it,  but  he  is  prepared  to  support  it  with 
more  convincing  proofs,  for  at  that  period  his  feel¬ 
ings  were  more  correct  than  his  arguments.  The 
passion  of  parties  has  become  mixed  up  with  this 
discussion  ;  but  after  all  personal  interests  shall 
have  been  laid  aside,  justice  will  probably  be  done 
to  the  reviewer’s  intention.* 

*•  Note  :  —  This  concluding  paragraph  was  added 
when  the  author,  in  1802,  inserted  the  above  review  into 
the  collection  of  his  Prose  Essays. 


GARDEN  ALMANAC  FOR  THE  YEAR  1795, 

Since  Hirschfeld’s  writings  on  Horticulture, 
the  taste  for  beautiful  gardens  has  spread  in  Ger¬ 
many,  but  has  not  yet  developed  desirable  results 
for  the  reason  that  firm  principles  were  still  want¬ 
ing,  and  that  every  thing  was  left  to  arbitrary 
arrangements.  This  almanac  contains  excellent 
hints  regarding  the  amelioration  of  this  taste, 
which  deserve  to  be  more  closely  examined  by 
the  friend  of  art,  and  followed  by  the  lover  of 
horticulture. 

It  is  not  uncommon  for  people  to  commence  a 
thing,  and  afterward  to  ask  the  question  :  whether 
it  can  be  done.  This  seems  to  be  the  case  in  re¬ 
gard  to  the  aesthetic  gardens  tjiat  have  become 
such  universal  favorites.  These  children  of  the 
north  have  such  an  equivocal  origin,  and  have 
shown  until  now  such  an  unsteady  character,  that 
the  true  friend  of  art  may  well  be  pardoned,  if  he 
scarcely  deemed  them  worthy  of  his  passing  atten¬ 
tion,  and  abandoned  them  entirely  to  the  fancy  of 
mere  amateurs.  Uncertain  to  what  class  of  the 
fine  arts  horticulture  properly  speaking  belonged, 
she  finally  attached  herself  to  architecture,  bend¬ 
ing  a  living  vegetation  beneath  the  yoke  of  mathe¬ 
matical  forms,  by  which  the  architect  governs  the 
inanimate  and  heavy  mass.  The  tree  had  to  hide 
its  higher,  organic  life  in  order  that  art  might  ex¬ 
hibit  her  power  on  its  inferior  material  uature.  It 
had  to  give  up  its  beautiful,  independent  vitality 
in  exchange  for  an  unmeaning  symmetry,  and  its 
easy  and  free  growth  in  exchange  for  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  rigidity,  like  the  unyielding  firmness  of  a 
stone-wall.  Recently  the  art  of  gardening  has  left 
this  stray  path,  but  only  to  plunge  into  the  oppo¬ 
site  extreme.  From  the  severe  discipline  of  the 
architect,  she  has  sought  refuge  in  the  freedom  of 
the  poet,  has  suddenly  exchanged  the  hardest  ser¬ 
vitude  for  the  most  lawless  freedom,  and  now  is 
unwilling  to  accept  any  other  laws  except  the  ca¬ 
pricious  arrangements  of  the  imagination  Ac¬ 


cording  as  an  unruly  fancy  produces  arbitrary, 
fantastic,  and  checkered  figures,  the  eye  is  con¬ 
demned  to  leap  from  one  decoration  to  the  other, 
and  nature  is  made  to  exhibit  her  whole  variety 
of  forms  in  a  larger  or  smaller  compass  like  a  card 
of  samples  in  a  mercantile  establishment.  Having 
been  deprived  of  her  liberty  in  the  so-called  French 
gardens,  where  she  received  a  certain  architectonic 
agreement  and  greatness  in  exchange  for  her  loss,' 
she  now  sinks  in  her  so-called  English  gardens  to 
the  level  of  a  childish  littleness,  and  by  dint  of  an 
exaggerated  effort  to  appear  varied  and  free,  she 
has  withdrawn  from  all  beautiful  simplicity  and 
rule.  In  this  condition  she  has  in  a  great  measure 
remained  even  to  the  present  moment,  thanks  to 
the  unmanly  character  of  the  age,  which  avoids 
all  definiteness  of  form,  and  finds  it  much  more 
convenient  to  arrange  objects  in  accordance  with 
the  suggestions  of  a  capricious  fancy,  than  to  be 
guided  in  such  arrangements  by  the  inspirations 
of  nature. 

Since  it  is  so  difficult  to  assign  to  the  art  of 
gardening  a  place  among  the  fine  arts,  we  might 
be  disposed  to  entertain  the  suspicion  that  this  art 
does  not  legitimately  belong  to  their  number.  But 
it  would  be  wrong  to  consider  the  failures  in  this 
respect  as  evidence  against  the  possibility  of  ele¬ 
vating  aesthetic  gardening  to  the  rank  of  an  art. 
The  two  forms  under  which  it  has  been  cultivated 
in  Germany,  contain  a  principle  of  truth,  and  both 
have  emanated  from  an  actual  want.  Regarding 
the  architectonic  character  of  the  art  of  gardening 
there  is  no  doubt  that  it  belongs  to  the  same  ca¬ 
tegory  as  architecture,  although  it  is  wrong  to 
apply  the  rules  and  forms  of  the  latter  to  the 
former.  Both  arts  owe  their  origin  to  a  physical 
want  which  first  determined  their  forms,  until  these 
were  emancipated  by  the  matured  sentiment  of 
beauty,  which  an  enlightened  intelligence  impelled 
to  raise  its  claims  against  the  ruling  abuses. 
Viewed  in  this  light,  neither  art  is  perfectly  free, 
and  the  beauty  of  their  forms  is  necessarily  re¬ 
strained  by  an  unavoidable  physical  necessity. 
Both  arts  have  this  feature  in  common,  that  they 
imitate  nature  through  nature,  not  through  an  ar¬ 
tificial  medium,  or  else  that  they  do  not  imitate 
her,  but  bring  forth  new  objects.  This  may 
have  been  the  reason  why  the  forms  of  the  ac¬ 
tual  were  not  rigidly  adhered  to,  and  why  na¬ 
ture  was  even  made  to  play  a  subordinate  part, 
and  the  peculiarity  of  her  forms  was  rudely  inter¬ 
fered  with,  provided  the  understanding  was  satis¬ 
fied  by  the  presence  of  order  and  agreement, 
and  the  eye  by  the  majesty  and  loveliness  of  the 
aesthetic  combinations.  This  freedom  may  have 
seemed  so  much  more  justifiable  since  in  horticul¬ 
ture,  as  well  as  in  architecture  the  physical  end  is 
very  frequently  promoted  by  sacrificing  the  free¬ 
dom  of  nature.  To  some  extent,  the  founders  of 
the  architectonic  style  of  gardening  may  therefore 
be  excused  for  allowing  themselves  to  be  beguiled 
by  the  affinity  which  exists  between  these  two  arts 
in  several  particulars,  into  confounding  their  totally 
different  characters,  and  for  favoring  order  at  the 
expense  of  freedom. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  poetic  taste  in  horticul¬ 
ture  is  founded  in  a  perfectly  correct  sentiment. 
An  attentive  observer  could  not  fail  to  perceive 


600 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


that  the  pleasure  with  which  the  sight  of  rural 
scenes  fills  our  hearts,  is  inseparable  from  the 
thought  that  they  are  the  work  of  free  nature,  not 
of  the  artist.  Hence,  if  this  sort  of  enjoyment  was 
designed  by  the  art  of  gardening,  it  became  a 
matter  of  importance  that  he  should  remove  every 
trace  of  artistic  arrangement  from  the  grounds.  As 
regularity  had  been  the  supreme  law  of  his  archi¬ 
tectonic  predecessor,  so  freedom  became  the  rule 
in  his  own  kingdom.  Under  him  nature  had  to 
conquer,  as  the  hand  of  man  had  conquered  under 
the  reign  of  the  former.  But  the  object  after 
which  he  strove,  was  much  too  great  for  the 
means  to  which  his  art  was  confined ;  and  he 
failed,  because  he  stepped  beyond  his  boundaries, 
and  carried  the  art  of  gardening  into  the  domain 
of  painting.  He  forgot  that  the  lines  and  mea¬ 
sures  of  the  painter  cannot  be  applied  to  an  art 
which  represents  nature  through  herself,  and  only 
excites  our  sympathy  in  so  far  as  the  work  of  the 
artist  is  her  absolute  counterpart.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  his  efforts  to  produce  variety  led  him  to  a 
trifling  style  and  to  arbitrary  combinations,  be¬ 
cause  he  lacked  the  space  and  the  power  to  in¬ 
dulge  in  the  transitions,  by  means  of  which  nature 
prepares  and  justifies  her  changes.  The  ideal  at 
which  he  aspired  has  nothing  contradictory  within 
itself ;  but  it  was  deficient  in  fitness  and  fanciful, 
since  not  even  the  greatest  success  compensated 
for  the  extraordinary  sacrifices. 

If  the  art  of  gardening  is  to  be  brought  back 
from  its  extravagances,  and,  like  her  other  sisters, 
is  to  rest  within  definite  and  permanent  bounda¬ 
ries,  we  shall  above  all  things  have  to  determine 
what  is  wanting;  in  Germany,  at  any  rate,  this 
question  does  not  seem  to  have  as  yet  occurred  to 
people’s  minds.  In  such  an  event,  a  middle  style 
will  probably  be  adopted  half  way  between  the 
stiffness  of  the  French,  and  the  lawless  freedom 
of  the  English  ;  it  will  then  be  seen  that,  although 
the  art  of  gardening  cannot  ascend  to  such  high 
spheres  as  those  who  are  forgetful  of  the  means 
of  carrying  out  their  plans,  would  fain  have  us  be¬ 
lieve  ;  although  it  is  absurd  to  attempt  to  inclose 
a  world  within  the  walls  of  a  garden  :  yet  it  is  fea¬ 
sible  and  rational  to  lay  out  a  garden  that  answers 
all  the  expectations  of  a  good  economist,  and 
which  the  eye  as  well  as  the  heart  and  mind,  will 
appreciate  as  a  characteristic  whole. 

This  it  is  to  which  the  intelligent  author  of  the 
fragmentary  contributions  towards  the  cultivation 
of  the  German  taste  for  gardening  points  in  this 
almanac  ;  we  know  of  nothing  that  is  more  calcu¬ 
lated  to  satisfy  a  sound  taste  than  what  is  said  in 
this  work.  It  is  true  the  author’s  ideas  are  only 
given  in  a  fragmentary  form  ;  but  this  apparent 
carelessness  of  form  does  not  affect  the  substance, 
which  throughout  betrays  a  fine  understanding 
and  a  delicate  sentiment  of  art.  After  having  in¬ 
dicated  and  critically  examined  the  two  main  roads 
which  the  art  of  gardening  has  pursued  hitherto, 
and  the  different  objects  which  may  be  attempted 
in  laying  oift  gardens,  he  endeavors  to  restore  the 
true  boundaries,  and  to  point  out  the  rational  ob¬ 
ject  of  this  art,  which  is  “  to  elevate  the  character 
of  the  enjoyments  which  the  intercourse  with  the 
beautiful  landscapes  of  nature  affords.”  He  dis¬ 
tinguishes  very  correctly  the  garden-landscape, 


(the  English  park,  properly  speaking),  where  na¬ 
ture  should  appear  in  all  her  grandeur  and  freedom 
and  absorb  art  as  it  were,  from  the  garden  where 
the  features  of  art  may  legitimately  appear.  With¬ 
out  denying  the  aesthetic  advantages  of  nature,  he 
contents  himself  with  showing  the  difficulties  in¬ 
herent  in  the  execution  of  works  which  imitate  her 
plan,  difficulties  that  can  only  be  conquered  by 
extraordinary  efforts.  As  regards  the  garden  pro¬ 
per,  he  divides  it  into  the  large,  the  small,  and  the 
middle  garden,  and  defines  in  brief  outlines  the 
boundaries  within  which  taste  may  develop  its  re¬ 
sources  in  the  case  of  each  of  these  three  divisions. 
He  denounces  most  emphatically  the  Anglomania 
of  so  many  proprietors  of  gardens,  bridges  without 
water,  hermitages  close  to  the  public  road,  and 
other  wretched  abuses  to  which  the  mania  of  imi¬ 
tation  and  misapprehended  maxims  of  variety  and 
freedom  from  restraints  have  led.  But  by  restrict¬ 
ing  the  boundaries  of  the  art  of  gardening,  he 
shows  how  much  more  efficient  this  art  may  be¬ 
come,  and  how  the  abandonment  of  unnecessary 
and  unsuited  encumbrances  may  impart  a  more 
definite  and  interesting  character  to  the  features 
of  a  garden.  In  the  course  of  his  remarks,  he  is 
led  to  express  the  opinion  that  it  is  not  impossible 
to  lay  out  symbolic  gardens,  or  gardens  of  a  pa¬ 
thetic  nature,  which,  like  musical  and  poetical 
compositions,  would  be  capable  of  giving  rise  to 
a  certain  definite  range  of  emotions. 

Besides  these  aesthetic  remarks  the  author  has 
commenced  in  his  almanac  the  description  of  the 
grounds  of  Hohenheim,  which  will  be  continued 
next  year.  Any  one  who  has  seen  these  cele¬ 
brated  grounds,  or  who  only  knows  them  from 
hearsay,  must  derive  pleasure  from  wandering 
through  them  in  company  with  such  a  refined 
connoisseur.  He  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
these  grounds  which  seemed  the  result  of  some  ar¬ 
bitrary  arrangement,  embody  a  definite  idea  which 
does  credit  to  its  author.  Travelers  who  have  en¬ 
joyed  the  favor  of  seeing  these  grounds,  have  been 
astonished  to  find  Roman  tombs,  temples,  decayed 
walls,  and  the  like,  side  by  side  with  Swiss  cot¬ 
tages,  and  to  see  smiling  flower-beds  arranged 
alongside  of  gloomy  prison-walls.  They  were  un¬ 
able  to  comprehend  an  imagination  that  combined 
such  incongruous  objects  in  one  plan.  The  con¬ 
ception,  that  we  have  before'  us  a  rural  settle¬ 
ment  amid  the  ruins  of  a  Roman  city,  removes 
the  contradictions,  and  reveals  in  this  odd  design 
a  unity  replete  with  aesthetic  beauty.  Rural  sim¬ 
plicity  and  the  decayed  splendor  of  a  city,  these 
extremes  of  civilization,  join  in  a  most  touching 
manner,  and  the  sober  feeling  of  perishableness 
is  absorbed  in  a  wonderfully  beautiful  manner  by 
the  consciousness  of  triumphant  life.  This  happy 
mingling  spreads  a  character  of  deep  thoughtful¬ 
ness  over  the  landscape,  which  keeps  the  sensi¬ 
tive  beholder  hovering  between  repose  and  move¬ 
ment,  reflection  and  enjoyment,  and  long  after 
we  have  left  the  scene,  continues  to  attune  the 
chords  of  the  spirit  to  corresponding  impressions. 

We  give  it  as  our  opinion  that  the  character 
of  these  grounds  can  only  be  fully  appreciated  by 
those  who  have  seen  them  in  midsummer,  and  we 
would  even  add,  that  their  beauty  can  only  be 
fully  felt,  if  they  are  approached  by  a  certain 


CRITICAL. 


601 


road.  In  order  to  enjoy  them  fully,  they  have  to 
be  reached  by  the  newly-built  castle  of  the  prince. 
The  road  from  Stuttgart  to  Hohenheim  is,  so  to 
say,  the  history  of  the  art  of  gardening  embodied 
in  works  which  offer  interesting  suggestions  to 
the  attentive  observer.  The  orchards,  vineyards, 
and  domestic  gardens,  which  line  the  road  on 
each  side,  indicate  the  first  material  beginning  in 
the  art  of  gardening  without  any  aesthetic  adorn¬ 
ments.  But  now  he  is  introduced  into  the  French 
style  with  its  proud  gravity,  its  long  and  rigid 
avenues  of  poplars  which  effect  a  union  between 
Hohenheim  and  the  open  landscape,  and  by  their 
artistic  arrangements  excite  our  expectation. 
This  solemn  impression  is  increased  to  an  almost 
painful  tension  as  we  are  passing  through  the 
apartments  of  the  castle,  which  is  only  equaled  by 
a  few  similar  structures  in  point  of  magnificence 
and  elegance,  and  combines  taste  and  profusion  in 
a  rare  degree.  The  splendor  which  here  oppresses 
the  eye  on  all  sides,  the  artistic  style  of  the  rooms 
and  the  richness  of  the  furniture  excite  an  almost 
irresistible  desire  for  simplicity;  in  the  so-called 
English  village,  which  the  traveler  now  enters,  a 
most  beautiful  realization  awaits  the  longing  for 
rural  scenery.  Meanwhile  the  monuments  of  de¬ 
cayed  magnificence,  against  whose  mournful  walls 
the  vintner  builds  his  peaceful  cottage,  have  a 
strange  effect  upon  the  heart,  and  with  a  secret 
joy  we  behold  the  revenge  which  these  ruins  have 
prepared  for  us  against  an  art  that  in  yonder  mag¬ 
nificent  structure  had  carried  its  power  over  us, 
even  to  excess.  But  the  nature  which  we  find  in 
these  English  grounds,  is  not  the  nature  from 
which  we  had  started.  It  is  a  nature  inspired 
with  intelligence  and  exalted  by  art,  which  grati¬ 
fies  not  only  the  simplest  taste,  but  even  those 
whom  the  habit  of  refined  enjoyments  has  spoiled, 
inviting  the  former  to  a  reflecting  mood,-,  and 
winning  the  latter  back  again  to  gentle  emotions. 

Whatever  objections  may  be  raised  against  this 
interpretation  of  the  grounds  of  Hohenheim,  their  I 
founder  deserves  our  thanks  for  not  having  intro¬ 
duced  any  thing  heterogeneous  to  their  general 
character ;  and  we  should  manifest  a  great  un¬ 
willingness  to  be  satisfied,  if  we  were  not  as  dis¬ 
posed  in  {esthetic  matters  to  take  the  deed  for  the 
will,  as  in  moral  things  to  take  the  will  for  the 
deed.  When  this  landscape  is  completed,  the  well- 
informed  reader  may,  perhaps,  consider  it  a  point 
of  interest  to  view  these  grounds  as  a  tableau  pic¬ 
turing  the  character  of  their  remarkable  author, 
who,  not  in  his  gardens  alone,  has  contrived  water¬ 
works  in  a  country  where  hardly  a  spring  was  to 
be  found. 

The  author’s  opinion  concerning  the  garden  of 
Schwetzingen  and  the  Seifersdorfer  valley,  near 
Dresden,  will  be  received  by  every  reader  of  taste 
wrho  has  seen  these  grounds  ;  with  the  author  he 
will  denounce  as  a  piece  of  affectation,  a  sentimen¬ 
talism  which  suspends  from  trees  little  tablets 
upon  which  moral  verses  are  inscribed,  and  will 
reject  as  barbarous  a  taste  which  mixes  up 
mosques  and  Greek  temples  in  che(  kered  con¬ 
fusion. 


EGMONT, 

TRAGEDY  BY  GOETHE. 

Either  extraordinary  actions  and  situations,  or 
else  passions  and  characters  form  the  subjects  of 
tragic  poetry  ;  though  all  these  subjects  are  some¬ 
times  united  in  one  composition,  yet  one  or  the 
other  is  always  the  principal  aim  of  the  drama. 
If  the  event  or  situation  is  the  main  point  of  the 
poet’s  attention,  he  need  only  dwell  upon  a  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  passions  and  characters  in  so  far  as 
they  are  instrumental  in  producing  the  former. 
If  the  passion  is  the  main  object,  the  most 
trifling  act  may  suffice  him,  provided  the  play  of 
the  passion  is  adequately  excited  by  this  act.  A 
pocket  handkerchief  found  in  a  wrong  place  leads 
to  a  master-scene  in  the  Moor  of  Venice.  If  the 
character  constitutes  the  chief  aim,  he  is  still  less 
restrained  in  the  selection  and  combination  of 
events,  and  the  exhibition  of  the  wdrole  man  for¬ 
bids  him  even  allowing  too  much  space  to  a  single 
passion.  The  old  tragedians  confined  themselves 
almost  exclusively  to  situations  and  passions.  On 
this  account  they  exhibit  but  little  individuality, 
and  their  characters  are  but  imperfectly  drawn, 
without  any  marked  outlines  or  distinguishing 
features  in  their  delineations.  Only  recently, 
since  the  appearance  of  Shakespeare,  tragic 
poetry  has  been  enriched  with  the  third  class  ;  he 
was  the  first  who,  in  his  Macbeth,  llichard  III., 
and  other  plays,  brought  whole  men  and  human 
lives  upon  the  stage;  in  Germany  the  author  of 
Gotz  of  Berlichingen  has  produced  the  first  model 
of  this  kind.  This  is  not  the  place  to  examine 
how  far  this  new  class  of  tragic  poems  accords 
with  the  ultimate  object  of  tragedy,  which  is  to 
excite  fear  and  pity ;  suffice  it  to  say  that  this 
class  exists,  and  that  its  rules  are  well  de¬ 
fined. 

The  present  drama  belongs  to  the  last  class, 
and  it  is  readily  seen  how  far  our  introductory 
remarks  are  connected  with  the  piece.  Here  we 
have  no  prominent  event,  no  ruling  passion,  no 
complications,  no  dramatic  plan  ;  a  simple  juxta¬ 
position  of  single  actions  and  pictures  which 
cohere  by  no  other  bond  than  the  character  that 
takes  part  in  all  of  them  and  to  which  all  refer. 
The  unity  of  this  composition  is  neither  founded 
in  the  situations,  nor  in  a  passion,  but  in  a  man. 
Egmont’s  true  history  could  not  furnish  the  author 
with  much  more.  His  imprisonment  and  con¬ 
demnation  have  nothing  extraordinary  in  them, 
nor  is  this  condemnation  the  consequei  ce  of  a 
single  interesting  act,  but  of  a  number  of  smaller 
acts  which  the  poet  was  unable  to  use  as  he  found 
them,  and  to  connect  with  the  catastrophe  with 
sufficient  exactness  to  combine  the  whole  in  one 
dramatic  action.  If  the  poet  designed  to  present 
this  subject  in  the  form  of  a  tragedy,  he  had  either 
to  invent  an  entirely  new  action  for  the  final 
catastrophe,  to  endow  this  historic  character  with 
some  ruling  passion,  or  else  to  abandon  these  two 
kinds  of  tragedy  altogether,  and  to  make  the 
character  which  had  attracted  the  poet’s  chief 
attention,  the  subject  of  his  tragic  denouement. 
He  has  preferred  the  last-mentioned  expedient, 
which  was  undoubtedly  the  most  difficult  in 


602 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


point  of  management ;  his  choice  was  less  de¬ 
termined  by  his  respect  for  historic  truth  than 
because  he  felt  that  he  might  make  up  for  the 
poverty  of  the  subject  by  the  richness  of  his 
genius. 

If  we  are  not  entirely  mistaken  in  our  view,  a 
character  is  exhibited  in  this  tragedy  who,  like  a 
somnambulist,  is  wandering  by  the  edge  of  a  pre¬ 
cipice  in  a  dangerous  period,  amid  the  snares  of 
wily  politicians,  having  nothing  to  fortify  himself 
by  but  the  consciousness  of  his  personal  merit, 
and  full  of  extravagant  confidence  in  the  justice 
of  his  cause  which,  however,  is  acknowledged  only 
by  himself.  This  excessive  confidence,  of  the 
baselessness  of  which  we  are  duly  informed,  and 
the  unfortunate  results  to  which  it  leads,  are  to 
inspire  us  with  fear  and  pity,  or  are  to  move  us 
tragically  ;  this  effect  is  attained. 

Egmont  is  no  great  character  in  history,  nor  is 
he  in  the  play.  Here  he  is  a  benevolent,  cheerful 
and  open-hearted  man,  friendly  to  every  body,  full 
of  rash  confidence  in  himself  and  others,  free  and 
bold  as  if  the  world  were  his  own,  brave  and  in¬ 
trepid  wherever  the  occasion  requires  it,  generous, 
amiable  and  gentle,  a  character  belonging  to  the 
beautiful  age  of  chivalry,  magnificent  and  some¬ 
what  boastful,  fond  of  sensual  pleasures  and  in 
love,  a  joyous  man  of  the  world, — all  these  quali¬ 
ties  coalescing  in  one  living,  human,  thoroughly 
true  and  individual  picture  which  owes  nothing 
to  the  beautifying  resources  of  art.  Egmont  is  a 
hero,  but  a  Flemish  hero  of  the  sixteenth  century  ; 
a  patriot,  but  unwilling  to  let  the  public  misery 
interfere  with  his  amusements  ;  a  lover,  but  not 
the  less  fond  of  eating  and  drinking.  He  is  am¬ 
bitious,  striving  after  a  high  end  ;  but  this  does 
not  prevent  him  from  culling  every  flower  which 
greets  him  on  the  way,  from  visiting  his  sweet¬ 
heart  under  cover  of  the  night ;  his  rest  is  not 
disturbed  by  mental  anxiety.  With  mad  daring 
he  exposes  his  life  in  the  battles  of  St.  Quentin 
and  Gravelingen,  but  he  is  almost  ready  to  shed 
tears  when  he  has  to  part  with  the  sweet  habits  of 
a  sensual  existence.  “Do  I  but  live,”  it  is  thus 
that  he  pictures  himself,  “  in  order  to  think  of 
life?  Am  I  not  to  enjoy  the  present  moment  in 
order  to  make  sure  of  the  next  following?  Is 
this  next  moment  again  to  be  spent  in  the  midst 
of  cares  and  solicitous  caprice?  In  a  merry  mo¬ 
ment  we  have  received  and  given  birth  to  one 
folly  and  another ;  we  have  caused  a  whole  band 
of  noblemen  with  mendicants’  bags  and  a  nick¬ 
name  of  their  own  choice  to  remind  the  king  of  his 
dut;  with  sarcastic  humility;  we  have — well  what 
is  i  after  all?  Is  carnival  like  high-treason? 
Should  the  checkered  rays  be  grudged  us  with 
which  youthful  wantonness  chooses  to  cover  the 
wretched  nudity  of  our  existence?  If  we  look 
upon  life  too  seriously,  what  is  it  worth  ?  Does 
the  sun  shine  to-day  to  cause  us  to  reflect  upon 
the  events  of  yesterday?”  This  character  is  to 
touch  us  by  its  beautiful  humanity,  not  by  its  ex¬ 
traordinary  power;  we  are  to  love,  not  to  wonder 
at  it.  Regarding  this  last-mentioned  feeling,  the 
poet  seems  to  have  avoided  it  so  carefully  that  he 
attributes  to  our  hero  one  foible  after  another,  in 
order  to  be  sure  of  dragging  him  down  to  our 
.  level ; — that  he  finally  does  not  even  leave  to  the 


latter  a  sufficient  amount  of  greatness  and  earnest 
deportment,  to  invest  these  weaknesses  in  our 
opinion  with  the  highest  interest.  It  is  true,  such 
traits  of  human  weakness  frequently  exercise  an 
irresistible  charm — in  the  delineation  of  an  heroic 
character,  where  they  coalesce  with  great  actions 
in  a  beautiful  tableau  as  the  mim>led  attributes 
of  a  brilliant  humanity.  Henry  IY.  of  France  is 
never  more  interesting  to  us  than  when  visiting 
his  Gabrielle  under  cover  of  the  night  after  a 
brilliant  victory;  but  by  what  dazzling  deed,  by 
what  solid  qualities  had  Egmont  acquired  any 
claims  to  a  similar  sympathy  and  forbearance  on 
our  part  ?  We  are  indeed  told  that  these  claims 
are  implied,  his  deeds  live  in  the  memory  of  the 
people,  whatever  he  says  breathes  a  capacity  of 
winning  our  favor!  Right,  but  this  is  precisely 
our  misfortune,  we  only  know  of  his  merit  by 
hearsay,  and  have  to  believe  in  it  upon  faith  and 
trust,  whereas  we  see  his  foibles  with  our  own 
eyes.  All  things  point  to  Egmont  as  the  nation’s 
last  support,  but  what  great  things  does  he  do  in 
order  to  deserve  this  honorable  confidence?  (The 
following  passage  is  certainly  no  response  to  this 
question:  “  Love,”  says  Egmont,  “is  most  gene¬ 
rally  won  by  those  who  do  not  hunt  after  it. 
Kloerclien :  Is  this  remark  addressed  to  thee, 
whom  the  whole  nation  loves?  Egmont:  Would 
that  I  had  done  something  for  them  !  it  is  their 
own  desire  to  love  me.”)  He  is  not  to  be  a  great 
man,  nor  is  he  to  relax  his  strength;  a  certain 
relative  greatness,  a  certain  earnestness  is  very 
justly  expected  of  the  hero  of  any  piefce  ;  we  ex 
pect  him  not  to  neglect  great  things  by  attending 
to  small  ones,  and  not  to  overlook  the  wants  and 
the  character  of  his  epoch.  Who  can  approve  of 
the  following  :  The  Prince  of  Orange  has  just  left 
him,  after  pointing  out  to  him  his  approaching 
ruin  with  all  the  power  of  convincing  argument, 
which,  according  to  Egmont’s  own  admission,  has 
almost  shaken  him  out  of  his  imperturbable  se¬ 
curity.  “This  man,”  says  he,  “infects  me  with 
his  solicitude; — away  from  here — this  drop  does 
not  belong  to  my  blood.  Kind  nature,  expel  it 
again.  And  some  pleasure  is  left  me  to  efface 
the  wrinkles  on  my  brow.”  This  pleasure,  let 
every  body  be  informed  of  it,  is  a  visit  to  his 
sweet-heart!  What!  After  such  earnest  sum¬ 
mons,  to  think  of  nothing  else  than  amusement? 
No,  good  Count  Egmont !  wrinkles  in  their  places, 
and  pleasures  likewise  in  their  places  !  If  you 
find  it  too  troublesome  to  think  of  your  own 
safety,  you  must  not  complain  if  you  are  caught 
in  the  noose.  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  forcing 
our  pity  upon  any  one. 

If  the  introduction  of  this  little  love  affair  had 
really  injured  the  interest  of  the  play,  we  should 
have  been  doubly  sorry  for  such  a  misfortune,  so 
much  more  as  the  poet  had  to  alter  the  truth  of 
history  in  order  to  create  this  episode.  Egmont 
was  married,  leaving  nine  (according  to  others 
eleven)  children  after  his  death.  This  circum¬ 
stance  might  have  been  known,  or  not  known  to 
the  poet,  according  as  the  interest  of  the  drama 
required  ;  but  he  should  not  have  ignored  it  if  he 
once  concluded  to  insert  scenes  in  his  play  which 
were  the  natural  consequences  of  Egmont’s  mar¬ 
riage.  The  real  Egmont  had  deranged  his  finances 


CRITICAL. 


603 


by  his  sumptuous  living  ;  and  being  in  need  of  the 
king’s  assistance,  his  course  of  conduct  toward  the 
republic  was  very  much  embarrassed.  It  was  es¬ 
pecially  his  family  that  kept  him  back  in  Brussels 
with  such  fatal  consequences  to  himself,  whereas 
all  his  friends  were  seeking  safety  in  flight.  His 
departure  from  the  republic  would  not  only  have 
cost  him  the  rich  revenues  of  two  governorships ; 
it  would  likewise  have  involved  the  loss  of  all  his 
estates  that  were  scattered  through  the  king’s  pos¬ 
sessions,  and  would  have  escheated  to  the  fisc. 
But  neither  he,  nor  his  spouse,  a  duchess  of  Bava¬ 
ria,  were  used  to  suffering  want ;  his  children  like¬ 
wise  had  been  reared  in  abundance.  On  several 
occasions  he  opposed  these  reasons  to  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  who  wished  to  persuade  him  to  flee  ;  it 
was  these  reasons  that  disposed  him  to  hold  on  to 
the  feeblest  branch  of  hope,  and  to  look  upon  the 
brightest  side  of  his  relation  to  the  king.  How 
consistent,  how  truly  human  his  conduct  under 
such  circumstances  !  He  is  no  longer  the  victim 
of  a  blind  and  foolish  confidence,  but  he  is  carried 
away  by  an  excessive  tenderness  for  his  family. 
He  rushes  into  his  own  ruin,  because  his  feelings 
are  too  delicate  and  noble  to  expect  a  hard  sacri¬ 
fice  of  a  family  whom  he  loves  above  every  thing. 
And  now  behold  Egmont  in  the  tragedy  !  By  de¬ 
priving  him  of  wife  and  children,  the  consistency 
of  his  conduct  is  destroyed.  The  poet  is  compelled 
to  account  for  Egmont’s  unfortunate  delay  by  a 
frivolous  confidence  in  himself,  which  lessens  our 
respect  for  this  hero’s  intelligence  without  any 
compensation  being  afforded  him  on  the  score  of 
nobleness  of  feeling.  On  the  contrary,  he  deprives 
us  of  the  touching  image  of  a  father  and  husband, 
in  order  to  introduce  to  us  an  ordinary  lover  who 
ruins  the  peace  of  an  amiable  girl  that  can  never 
possess  him,  and  will  never  survive  his  loss,  whose 
heart  he  cannot  even  possess  without  first  de¬ 
stroying  a  love  which  might  have  become  a  happy 
relation  ;  and  who,  with  the  best  heart  in  the 
world,  makes  two  beings  unhappy,  for  no  higher 
purpose  than  to  efface  the  thoughtful  wrinkles  on 
his  brow.  Moreover,  all  this  can  only  be  accom¬ 
plished  at  the  expense  of  historical  truth  which  a 
dramatic  poet  is  indeed  privileged  to  alter  if  the 
dramatic  interest  of  his  subject  gains  thereby,  but 
not  if  it  becomes  weaker.  How  dearly  we  pur¬ 
chase  this  episode  which,  in  itself,  is  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures,  and  which 
would  have  produced  the  most  striking  effect  in  a 
more  extensive  composition,  where  it  might  have 
been  counterbalanced  by  relatively  great  acts. 

Egmont’s  tragic  catastrophe  results  from  his 
political  life,  from  his  relation  to  the  nation  and 
to  the  government.  Hence  a  description  of  the 
political  condition  of  the  Netherlands  at  that 
period  had  to  be  introduced  in  elucidation  of  his 
fate,  and  had  indeed  to  be  made  an  integral  por¬ 
tion  of  the  dramatic  action.  If  we  consider  how 
little  poltical  affairs  are  adapted  to  the  stage, 
and  what  an  art  is  required  to  concentrate  so 
many  scattered  traits  in  one  palpable, living  image, 
and  to  reproduce  the  character  of  the  general 
movement  in  the  movements  of  the  individual,  as 
Shakespeare  has  done  in  his  Julius  Cesar;  more¬ 
over,  if  we  consider  the  peculiar  characteristics  of 
the  Netherlanders,  who  do  not  constitute  one  na¬ 


tion,  but  an  aggregation  of  several  smaller  ones 
contrasting  with  each  other  in  the  most  glaring 
manner,  so  that  it  seemed  much  easier  for  us  to 
transport  ourselves  to  Rome  than  to  Brussels; 
finally,  if  we  consider  what  an  innumerable  multi¬ 
tude  of  small  things  combine  in  order  to  produce 
the  spirit  of  that  age  and  the  political  condition 
of  the  Netherlands  :  we  cannot  cease  admiring  the 
creative  genius  which  has  conquered  all  these  dif¬ 
ficulties,  and  has  charmed  us  into  this  strange 
world  with  an  art  which  is  equaled  only  by  that 
with  which  the  same  author  has  transported  us  in 
two  other  pieces  to  Greece,  and  into  the  period 
of  German  chivalry.  Not  enough  that  we  behold 
all  these  people  as  they  live  and  act,  they  seem  to 
us  like  old  acquaintances.  On  one  side  the  social 
mirth,  the  hospitality,  the  talkativeness  and  boast¬ 
ful  humor  of  this  people,  the  republican  spirit 
which  blazes  up  at  the  least  innovation,  and  as 
frequently  and  suddenly  cools  off'  again  after  the 
most  shallow  arguments;  on  the  other  side,  the 
burdens  beneath  which  the  people  are  groaning, 
from  the  new  mitres  down  to  the  French  psalms, 
which  it  is  forbidden  to  sing — nothing  has  been 
forgotten,  nothing  has  been  incorporated  in  the 
play  without  the  highest  nature  and  truth.  Here 
we  see  not  merely  the  common  crowd  which  is  the 
same  everywhere,  we  have  before  us  the  Nether¬ 
lander  of  this  and  not  of  any  other  century  ;  even 
here  we  distinguish  the  Brussler,  the  Hollander, 
the  Frieslander,  and  among  these  the  rich  and  the 
beggar,  the  carpenter  and  the  tailor.  Such  re¬ 
sults  are  not  the  effect  of  mere  volition,  they  are 
not  the  offspring  of  mere  art.  They  can  only  be 
realized  by  a  poet  who  is  thoroughly  imbued  with 
his  subject.  These  features  flow7  from  his  pen  as 
they  proceed  from  him  who  is  their  original  ow'ner, 
unconsciously  and  without  an  effort;  a  mere  ad¬ 
jective,  a  comma  reveals  a  character.  Buyk,  a 
Hollander,  and  a  soldier  under  Egmont,  has  won 
the  prize  in  a  game  of  archery,  and  being  king,  he 
wants  to  treat  the  company.  But  this  is  contrary 
to  custom. 

Buyk.  I  am  a  stranger  and  king,  and  I  do  not 
mind  your  law's  and  customs. 

Jetter  (a  tailor  from  Brussels).  Thou  art  w'orse 
than  the  Spaniard  ;  he  has  so  far  been  obliged  to 
honor  them. 

Ruysom  (a  Frieslander).  Let  him  !  but  with¬ 
out  prejudice.  It  is  his  master’s  wray,  likewise,  to 
live  splendidly,  and  to  spend  as  quickly  as  he  re¬ 
ceives  ! 

Who  does  not  recognize  in  this  “  without  preju¬ 
dice"  the  tenacious  Frieslauder,  who  is  so  watchful 
of  his  rights  that  he  guards  them  by  a  clause  even 
when  granting  the  least  concession.  How  true, 
where  the  citizens  converse  about  their  princes — 

That  was  a  master,  (he  is  talking  about  Charles 
Y.)  He  had  his  hand  stretched  out  over  the  whole 
earth,  he  wras  all  things  in  every  thing — and  when 
he  met  you,  he  saluted  you  as  one  neighbor  the 
other — how  we  all  cried  when  he  ceded  the  govern¬ 
ment  to  his  son — said  I,  understand  me  well — he 
is  different,  more  majestic. 

Jetter.  They  say  that  he  talks  very  little. 

Soest.  He  is  not  the  right  sort  of  master  for  us 
Netherlanders.  Our  princes  should  be  cheerful 
and  liberal,  live  and  let  live,  &c. 


604 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


How  strikingly  he  depicts  to  us  the  misery  of 
those  days  by  a  single  trait :  Egmont  crosses  the 
street,  and  the  citizens  look  after  him  in  astonish¬ 
ment. 

Carpenter.  Fine  gentleman  ! 

Jetter.  His  neck  would  be  excellent  food  for 
a  hangman. 

The  few  scenes  where  the  citizens  of  Brussels 
converse  with  each  other,  seem  to  be  the  result 
of  a  deep  study  of  those  times  and  of  that  people  ; 
it  might  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  strikingly  beau¬ 
tiful  monument  of  the  history  of  that  period  than 
is  contained  in  these  few  lines. 

With  no  less  truthfulness  the  poet  has  treated 
that  portion  of  the  picture  which  informs  us  of 
the  spirit  of  the  government,  and  of  the  arrange¬ 
ments  which  the  king  is  making  for  the  oppres¬ 
sion  of  the  Netherlanders.  In  the  play,  things 
have  a  milder  and  more  humane  look.  The  cha¬ 
racter  of  the  Duchess  of  Parma  has  been  some¬ 
what  idealized  :  “  I  know  that  one  may  be  an 
honest  and  sensible  man,  even  though  he  should 
have  missed  the  nearest  and  best  road  to  the  sal¬ 
vation  of  his  soul  ;”  such  words  could  not  well 
have  been  spoken  by  a  pupil  of  Ignatius  Loyola. 
With  great  skill  the  poet,  by  causing  a  certain 
womanliness  to  shine  through  her  male  qualities, 
has  diffused  light  and  warmth  through  the  political 
interests  whose  exposition  he  had  to  place  in  her 
mouth,  and  to  impart  to  it  a  certain  individuality 
and  animation.  We  tremble  before  his  Duke  of  Alva 
without  turning  away  from  him  in  disgust  ;  it  is  a 
firm,  rigid,  inaccessible  character,  “  a  brazen  tower 
without  a  gate  which  no  garrison  can  enter  with¬ 
out  wings.”  The  prudence  and  discretion  with 
which  he  takes  his  measures  for  Egmont’s  arrest, 
gains  for  him  on  the  score  of  admiration  what  he 
loses  of  our  good  wishes.  The  manner  in  which 
the  duke  discloses  to  us  his  inmost  soul,  and  holds 
us  in  anxious  suspense  regarding  the  success  of 
his  undertaking,  causes  us  to  take  with  him  an  ac¬ 
tive  part  in  these  proceedings;  we  take  an  interest 
in  them  as  though  something  were  going  on  that 
is  a  subject  of  importance  to  ourselves. 

Egmont’s  prison  scene  with  young  Alva  is  ex¬ 
ecuted  in  a  masterly  style ;  it  is  the  author’s  own 
conception.  What  can  be  more  touching  than 
the  respect  which  the  son  of  his  murderer  admits 
he  has  long  felt  for  him.  “  It  was  thy  name  that 
shone  to  me  in  my  first  youth  like  a  star  in  the 
firmament.  How  often  have  I  listened  for  thy 
steps,  and  inquired  after  thee  !  The  child’s  hope 
is  the  youth,  and  the  youth’s  hope  is  man.  Thus 
thou  hast  walked  before  me,  and  I  have  beheld  thee 
without  envy,  and  have  followed  thee  onward  and 
ever  onward.  Now  I  hoped  at  last  to  see  thee, 
and  I  did  see  thee,  and  my  heart  flew  to  meet 
thee.  Now  I  hoped  to  be  with  thee,  to  live  with 
thee,  to  comprehend  thee,  to — but  all  this  is  cut 
off,  I  see  thee  here  And  when  Egmont  replies: 
“If  my  life  has  been  a  mirror  to  thee,  in  which 
thou  hast  delighted  to  behold  thyself,  then  let  my 
death  likewise  be  a  mirror  to  thee.  Men  are  not 
together  only  when  they  are  together;  even  the 
distant  and  departed  friend  lives  witli  us.  I  live 
for  thee,  and  I  have  lived  long  enough  for  myself, 


I  have  enjoyed  every  day,”  &c.  The  other  char¬ 
acters  of  the  play  are  strikingly  drawn  in  a  few 
words;  a  single  scene  depicts  to  us  the  sly,  taci¬ 
turn,  all-combining  and  all-dreading  Prince  of 
Orange.  Alva  as  well  as  Egmont  are  reflected 
by  those  who  are  near  them  ;  this  mode  of  pic¬ 
turing  a  character  is  excellent,  In  order  to  con¬ 
centrate  all  the  light  upon  Egmont,  the  poet  has 
isolated  him  entirely,  on  which  account  Count 
Hoorn  who  shared  the  same  fate  with  Egmont, 
has  been  omitted.  An  altogether  novel  character 
is  Brackenburg,  Klserchen’s  lover,  whom  Eg 
mont  has  superseded.  This  picture  of  a  melan¬ 
choly  temperament,  animated  by  passionate  love, 
would  deserve  special  comment.  Klmrchen,  who 
has  given  him  up  for  Egmont,  has  taken  poison 
and  departs,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  poison  in  his 
hands.  He  is  alone.  How  terribly  beautiful  is 
this  scene  : 

“She  leaves  me  standing,  to  myself,  alone, 

She  shares  with  me  the  fatal  drop, 

Sends  me  away,  away  now  from  her  side  ! 

She  first  attracts  me,  then  repels  me  back 
Into  this  dreary  life. 

0  Egmont,  what  a  glorious  lot  is  thine  ! 

She  leads  the  van  ; 

She  goes  to  meet  thee  with  the  bliss  of  heaven  ! 
Ought  I  to  follow  and  be  cast  aside? 

Ought  I  to  carry  unquenched  jealousy 
To  yonder  realms  of  heaven  ? 

I  can  no  longer  dwell  upon  this  earth, 

But  hell  and  heaven  offer  equal  tortures.” 

Klmrchen  herself  is  drawn  with  inimitable 
beauty  and  truth.  With  all  the  exalted  dig¬ 
nity  which  her  innocence  imparts,  still  the  poor 
girl,  and  a  Dutch  girl  withal — ennobled  by  no¬ 
thing  but  her  love,  charming  in  a  state  of  rest, 
rapturously  splendid  in  a  state  of  passionate 
warmth.  But  who  doubts  that  the  author  is  un¬ 
surpassable  in  a  genre  in  which  he  is  his  own 
model  ? 

The  more  perfectly  truth  is  presented  to  the 
senses  in  this  piece,  the  more  incomprehensible  it 
must  appear  that  the  author  should  have  volunta- 
tarily  destroyed  this  effect.  Egmont  has  ar¬ 
ranged  all  his  earthly  affairs,  and,  overcome  by 
fatigue,  falls  asleep.  Music  is  heard,  and  the 
wall  behind  his  couch  seems  to  open  ;  a  bril¬ 
liant  appearance — Liberty  in  the  form  of  Klmr- 
chen,  is  seen  in  a  cloud.  From  the  truest  and 
most  touching  situation  wre  are  transported  by  a 
stage-trick  into  an  operatic  fancy-world  to  behold 
- — a  dream.  It  would  be  absurd  if  we  should  at¬ 
tempt  to  show  to  the  author  how  much  cur  feel¬ 
ings  are  shocked  .by  this  proceeding  ;  he  knew 
that  full  as  well  as  we  do,  and  even  better  ;  but  the 
idea  of  allegorically  uniting  in  Egmont’s  brain  his 
two  ruling  passions,  Klaerchen  and  Liberty,  has 
seemed  to  him  sufficiently  rich  to  excuse  this  free¬ 
dom.  Let  this  conception  please  whom  it  may, 
the  reviewer  confesses  that  he  would  rather  have 
done  without  this  ingenious  fancy  in  order  to 
enjoy  his  emotions  without  any  such  interference. 


CRITICAL. 


605 


MATTHISSON’S  POEMS. 

It  is  well  known,  that  during  the  best  periods  I 
of  art  the  Greeks  have  not  cared  much  for  land¬ 
scape-painting,  and  rigid  critics  still  hesitate 
whether  they  ought  to  allow  the  landscape-painter 
a  place  among  artists.  But,  what  has  not  yet  been 
noticed  with  sufficient  attention,  few  instances  can 
be  found  among  the  ancients  of  landscape- 
poetry  as  a  peculiar  species  of  poesy  which  holds 
the  same  relation  to  epic,  dramatic,  and  lyric 
poetry,  as  landscape  painting  does  to  the  paint¬ 
ing  of  men  and  animals. 

It  is  a  different  thing  whether  we  introduce  inani¬ 
mate  nature  into  a  picture  as  the  locality  of  the  ac¬ 
tion, and,  if  necessary,  borrow  her  hues  in  order  to 
adequately  exhibit  the  scenes  of  animate  nature, 
as  is  frequently  done  by  the  historic  painter  and 
the  epic  poet;  or  whether  we  adopt  the  plan  of 
the  landscape-painter,  and  make  inanimate  nature 
the  main  subject  of  the  picture,  where  man 
simply  acts  the  part  of  a  figure.  Of  the  former 
genre  innumerable  instances  are  met  with  in 
Homer,  and  who  would  attempt  to  equal  the  great 
painter  of  nature  in  the  truth,  individuality  and 
animated  expression  with  which  he  presents  to  our 
imagination  the  locality  of  his  dramatic  poems? 
But  it  was  reserved  for  modern  artists  (among 
whom  we  may  even  range  some  of  the  cotempo¬ 
raries  of  Pliny)  to  select  nature  herself  as  a  spe¬ 
cial  subject  for  artistic  exhibitions  in  landscape¬ 
painting  and  landscape-poetry,  and  to  enrich  by 
this  addition  the  domain  of  art  which  the  ancients 
seem  to  have  confined  to  man  and  to  objects  re¬ 
sembling  the  human  form. 

Whence  this  indifference  of  Greek  artists  to¬ 
ward  a  genre  which  we  moderns  value  so  univer¬ 
sally  ?  Can  we  suppose  that  the  Greek,  this  pas¬ 
sionate  lover  and  connoisseur  of  the  beautiful, 
was  insensible  to  the  charms  of  inanimate  nature, 
or  may  we  not  rather  suppose  that  he  scorned 
this  subject  intentionally,  because  he  found  it  in¬ 
compatible  with  his  notions  of  fine  art  ? 

It  cannot  appear  strange,  if  this  question  is 
asked  in  reference  to  a  poet  who  possesses  a  pecu¬ 
liar  force  in  the  description  of  rural  scenes  and 
who  may  be  regarded  as  a  representative  poet 
who  has  shown  us  by  his  example  what  the  human 
artist  may  accomplish  in  this  peculiar  branch  of 
the  beautiful.  Before  addressing  ourselves  to 
him  personally,  let  us  cast  a  glance  at  the  style 
of  poetry  in  which  he  has  shown  his  excel¬ 
lence. 

He  in  whom  the  impressions  of  Claude  Lor-, 
rain’s  masterly  pencil  are  still  fresh  and  vivid, 
will  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  these  raptur¬ 
ous  emotions  were  not  produced  by  the  fine,  but 
the  agreeable  arts  ;  so  will  he  who  has  just  been 
reading  one  of  Matthisson’s  descriptions  of  a 
rural  scene,  find  it  very  strange,  that  there  can 
be  any  doubt  as  to  whether  he  has  been  actually 
reading  the  work  of  a  poet. 

Leaving  it  toothers  to  dispute  the  landscape- 
painter’s  place  among  artists,  we  shall  allude  to 
this  subject  only  in  so  far  as  it  more  immediately 
concerns  the  landscape-poet.  This  inquiry  will  at 
the  same  time  initiate  us  into  the  principles  by 
which  the  value  of  such  poems  should  be  deter¬ 


mined  It  is  not  the  subject,  but  the  form  that 
makes  the  poet  and  the  artist ;  a  piece  of  domestic 
furniture,  and  a  moral  treatise,  both  may  be  made 
an  aesthetic  work  of  art  by  a  tasteful  execution  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  an  unskillful  painter  may  de¬ 
grade  the  portrait  of  a  man  to  the  low  level  of  a 
common  daub.  If  we  hesitate  to  acknowledge 
paintings  or  poems  whose  subjects  are  inanimate 
masses,  as  genuine  works  of  art,  (we  mean  of  the 
species  of  art  that  admits  of  the  conception  and 
realization  of  an  ideal),  it  follows  that  we  doubt 
the  possibility  of  treating  these  objects  agreeably 
to  the  characteristic  maxims  of  the  fine  arts. 
What  is  the  kind  of  artistic  character  with  which 
the  simple  exhibition  of  rural  nature  is  incompati¬ 
ble?  It  must  be  the  same  which  distinguishes 
the  fine  arts  from  those  which  are  simply  agree¬ 
able.  But  both  these  forms  of  art  have  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  freedom  in  common  ;  hence  a  work  ema¬ 
nating  from  the  sphere  of  the  agreeable,  if  it  is  at 
the  same  time  to  represent  a  form  of  beauty,  must 
be  characterized  by  the  inevitableness  of  truth. 

If  we  understand  by  poesy  the  art  of  “  exciting 
definite  emotions  through  the  free  action  of  our 
productive  imagination,”  (a  definition  of  poesy 
which  may  stand  together  with  so  many  others 
still  in  vogue,)  two  requirements  result  from  this 
definition,  which  no  poet  who  lays  a  claim  to  this 
appellation,  can  escape  from.  In  the  first  place, 
he  has  to  allow  our  imagination  freedom  of  play 
and  even  action  ;  in  the  second  place,  he  has 
nevertheless  to  be  sure  of  his  effect,  and  to  ex¬ 
cite  in  us  definite  emotions.  At  first  sight,  these 
requirements  seem  to  be  contradictory  ;  for,  by  the 
first  requirement,  our  imagination  should  rule  and 
obey  no  other  law  than  its  own  ;  by  the  second,  it 
should  be  subordinate  to  the  law  of  the  poet. 
How  does  the  poet  remove  this  contradiction  ? 
By  imposing  upon  our  imagination  the  very  course 
it  would  take,  if  it  obeyed  its  own  law  in  perfect 
freedom,  by  attaining  his  end  through  the  instru¬ 
mentality  of  natural  means,  and  converting  the 
external  requirement  into  a  necessity  of  the  inner 
nature.  Under  these  circumstances  it  will  be 
found  that  the  two  requirements  do  not  only  not 
neutralize,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  they  are 
identified  with  each  other  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  highest  liberty  only  becomes  possible  by  the 
most  positive  order  and  definiteness  of  form. 

Here  two  great  difficulties  meet  the  poet  on  his 
way.  It  is  well  known  that  the  imagination,  when 
acting  in  freedom,  follows  the  law  of  association 
of  ideas,  which  is  originally  founded  in  an  acci¬ 
dental  connection  of  our  ideas  in  space  and  time, 
hence,  in  experience.  Nevertheless,  a  poet  should 
know  how  to  calculate  the  empirical  effect  of  such 
association,  since  he  is  a  poet  only  in  so  far  as  he 
attains  his  object  by  means  of  the  independent 
action  of  our  imagination.  But,  in  order  to  cal¬ 
culate  this  effect,  he  must  be  able  to  discover  a 
regularity  in  its  manifestations,  and  to  trace  the 
empirical  connection  of  our  ideas  to  the  immuta¬ 
ble  order  of  the  mind.  But  our  ideas  cohere  ne~ 
cessarily  only  in  so  far  as  they  are  based  upon  our 
objective  connection  of  the  phenomena,  not  merely 
upon  a  subjective  and  arbitrary  play  of  the  mind. 
This  objective  connection  of  the  phenomena  is 
the  chief  domain  of  the  poet’s  genius ;  it  is  only 


606 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


after  having  carefully  separated  from  his  subject 
whatever  has  been  superadded  to  it  from  subjec¬ 
tive  and  accidental  sources  ;  after  having  become 
perfectly  certain  that  he  has  been  solely  influenced 
by  his  object  in  all  its  purity,  and  that  he  has 
subjected  himself  to  the  law  which  regulates  the 
course  of  the  imagination  in  all  individuals  ;  it  is 
then  only  that  he  can  be  assured  that  the  imagi¬ 
nation  of  his  readers  will  agree  in  perfect  freedom 
with  the  course  which  he  dictates  to  it. 

But  he  wants  to  make  a  definite  impression  upon 
the  imagination  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
he  wishes  to  produce  some  positive  effect  on  the 
heart.  However  difficult  the  first  task  may  have 
been  to  determine  the  play  of  the  imagination 
without  injuring  its  freedom,  the  second  task  is 
still  more  difficult  :  to  impart  a  definite  direction 
to  the  emotions  of  the  individual  through  the  me¬ 
dium  of  this  free  play  of  the  imagination.  It  is 
well  known  that  different  individuals  are  moved 
differently  on  the  same  occasion,  yea,  that  the 
same  person  may  experience  different  effects  from 
the  same  cause  acting  at  different  periods.  Not¬ 
withstanding  this  dependence  of  our  emotions 
upon  accidental  influences,  the  poet  has  to  deter¬ 
mine  our  emotional  state ;  hence  he  has  to  act 
upon  the  conditions  under  which  a  definite  emo¬ 
tion  must  necessarily  occur.  Considering  that  the 
characteristics  of  the  species  are  the  only  thing 
inevitable  in  the  individuality  of  the  subject,  a 
poet  can  determine  our  emotions  only  in  so  far  as 
they  are  common  to  our  species,  not  to  our  speci¬ 
fically  distinct  individuality.  In  order  to  make 
sure  that  he  addresses  the  character  of  the  species 
in  us,  it  behooves  him  first  to  extinguish  the  in¬ 
dividual  within  himself,  by  elevating  his  own  self¬ 
hood  to  that  of  the  race.  It  is  only  when  he  does 
not  experience  emotions  as  an  individual  swayed 
by  this  or  that  accidental  influence,  but  as  a  man, 
that  he  can  be  sure  to  carry  the  feelings  of  the 
world  along  with  him — at  any  rate,  he  has  as  good 
a  right  to  expect  this  effect  as  he  has  a  right  to 
expect  humanity  of  every  human  individual. 

Every  poetical  composition  should  possess  the 
following  two  qualities  as  indispensable  attributes  : 
first,  necessary  reference  to  the  object  (objective 
truth)  ;  second,  necessary  reference  of  this  object, 
or  its  description  to  the  sentient  faculty  (subjec¬ 
tive  universality).  In  a  poem,  every  thing  should 
be  true  to  nature,  for  the  imagination  obeys  no 
other  law,  and  bears  no  other  restraints  than  those 
which  the  nature  of  things  dictates  ;  but  there 
should  not  be  any  thing  historically  true  in  a 
poem,  for  the  actual  circumscribes  the  truth  of 
nature — more  or  less.  Every  individual  man  is  so 
much  less  a  man,  the  more  he  is  individualized  ; 
every  form  of  emotion  or  sensation  is  so  much  less 
purely  human,  the  more  it  is  characteristically  pe¬ 
culiar  to  certain  individuals.  Greatness  of  style 
depends  upon  the  casting  off  of  the  accidental, 
and  upon  the  unalloyed  expression  of  the  univer¬ 
sal  and  the  eternally  true. 

We  infer  from  these  remarks,  that  the  domain 
of  the  fine  arts,  properly  speaking,  only  extends  as 
far  as  we  are  able  to  discover  an  inevitable  law  of 
orderly  connection  in  the  series  of  phenomena. 
Beyond  these  limits  where  arbitrary  power  and 
chance  seem  to  rule,  there  neitner  exists  de¬ 


finiteness  nor  freedom  ;  for  as  soon  as  the  poet  is 
no  longer  able  to  govern  the  play  of  our  imagina¬ 
tion  by  its  own  inherent  law  of  harmonv,  he  has 
either  to  resort  to  external  means  of  control,  in 
which  case  the  effect  is  no  longer  our  own  ;  or  else 
he  will  exercise  no  control  at  all,  in  which  case  it 
is  no  longer  his  effect ;  yet  both  effects  have  to 
coexist  if  a  work  is  to  deserve  the  appellation  of 
poetic. 

This  may  be  the  reason  why,  among  the  ancients, 
poesy,  as  well  as  the  plastic  arts,  were  confined  to 
the  human  sphere  ;  it  was  only  in  the  phenomena 
peculiar  to  the  outer  or  inner  man,  that  this  or¬ 
derly  connection  and  development  were  discovered. 
More  enlightened  beings  than  we  are,  may  per¬ 
haps  be  able  to  discover  a  similar  order  among 
the  remaining  natural  beings  ;  it  has  not  as  yet 
become  apparent  to  our  own  observation,  and  a 
vast  field  is  here  as  yet  open  to  the  wild  rovings 
of  the  fancy.  The  empire  of  definite  forms  does 
not  extend  beyond  the  animal  body  and  the  human 
heart;  hence,  it  is  only  within  this  range  that  an 
ideal  can  be  conceived.  Above  man  (as  a  pheno¬ 
menon),  the  objective  range  is  closed  to  art;  here 
science  may  still  explore,  though  the  imagination 
cannot  transgress  these  boundaries.  Below  man, 
it  is  likewise  closed  ;  here  the  agreeable  arts  may 
claim  the  field,  for  here,  the  domain  of  inevitable 
order  is  bounded. 

If  the  principles  which  we  have  laid  down,  are 
correct  (concerning  which  intelligent  connoisseurs 
will  have  to  decide),  it  may  seem  at  first  sight  as 
though  little  could  be  said  in  favor  of  rural  poetry, 
and  as  though  the  conquest  of  this  vast  domain 
ought  to  be  regarded  as  a  doubtful  enlargement 
of  the  boundaries  of  the  fine  arts.  In  the  region 
where  the  painter  and  the  poet  of  rural  scenery 
chiefly  dwell,  the  definiteness  of  hues  and  forms 
is  already  much  less  distinct ;  not  only  the  out¬ 
lines  are  much  more  irregular,  and  appear  so  to 
the  senses,  but  in  combining  these  forms  chance 
acts  a  part  which  is  most  embarrassing  to  the 
artist.  Hence,  if  the  artist  places  definite  forms 
before  us,  in  a  definite  order,  he,  not  we,  adopts 
a  determining  principle,  for  there  is  no  objective 
order  in  which  the  free  imagination  of  the  spec¬ 
tator  could  coincide  with  the  artist’s  own  idea. 
We  receive  from  him  the  law  which  we  should 
lay  down  for  ourselves  ;  hence  the  poetical  nature 
of  the  impression  is  not  perfectly  pure,  because 
it  is  not  the  product  of  a  perfectly  independent 
action  of  our  imagination.  If  the  artist  intends 
to  leave  our  freedom  intact,  he  can  only  accom 
plish  this  result  by  abandoning  the  definiteness 
of  form,  and  hence  renouncing  true  beauty. 

Nevertheless  this  special  province  of  nature  is 
not  altogether  lost  to  the  fine  arts  ;  even  the  prin¬ 
ciples  which  we  have  laid  down,  entitle  the  artist 
who  selects  his  subject  from  this  domain,  to  a 
very  honorable  rank.  In  the  first  place  it  is  un¬ 
deniable  that  in  spite  of  the  irregularity  of  forms, 
this  region  of  natural  phenomena  is  governed  to  a 
great  extent  by  a  principle  of  unity  and  law 
which  may  guide  the  wise  artist  in  the  business 
of  imitation.  And  in  the  second  place  it  must 
be  admitted  that  although  the  forms  in  this  re¬ 
gion  of  art  are  much  less  definite  (because  the 
parts  disappear  in  the  whole  and  the  effect  is  de- 


CRITICAL. 


607 


termined  by  masses),  yet  the  combination  of  these 
forms  is  still  subject  to  essential  principles  of 
order,  as  is  clearly  shown  by  the  shades  and  hues 
of  a  painted  landscape. 

But  rural  nature  does  not  exhibit  this  rigid 
essentiality  of  order  in  all  her  parts,  and  in  spite 
of  the  deepest  study  of  her  forms,  the  artist  and 
poet  will  have  to  put  up  with  a  good  deal  that  is 
arbitrary  and  irregular,  and  that  will  therefore 
preclude  the  realization  of  the  highest  degree  of 
perfection.  The  essentiality  of  order  which  the 
true  artist  misses  in  the  arrangement  of  natural 
forms,  is  only  to  be  found  within  the  boundaries 
of  human  nature  ;  hence  he  will  not  rest  until  his 
genius  has  progressed  to  this  sphere  of  highest 
beauty.  He  will  indeed  elevate  the  character  of 
rural  nature  as  much  as  he  is  able,  and  will  en¬ 
deavor  to  show  that  the  evolution  of  her  phe¬ 
nomena  is  determined  by  essential  principles  of 
order  by  which  he  will  be  guided  in  his  own 
imitations  of  natural  scenery;  but  inasmuch  as  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  he  will  find  it  impossible  to 
reach  upon  this  road  the  perfect  order  upon  which 
the  human  world  is  founded,  he  will  represent 
nature  as  the  symbolic  expression  of  that  world, 
and  will  thus  secure  for  her  all  the  privileges 
which  belong  to  human  nature  as  the  legitimate 
world  of  art. 

In  what  manner  is  this  result  accomplished 
without  injuring  nature’s  truth  and  individuality? 
Every  true  artist  and  every  poet  who  works  in 
this  genre,  performs  such  an  operation,  in  most 
cases  most  probably  without  having  a  distinct 
consciousness  of  it.  There  are  two  ways  in  which 
inanimate  nature  may  become  a  symbol  of  the 
human,  either  as  the  symbolic  expression  of  emo¬ 
tions  or  of  ideas. 

Emotions,  it  is  true,  cannot  be  represented  to 
the  senses  as  essential  states;  but  as  embodied  in 
forms  they  admit  of  being  exhibited  phenome¬ 
nally  ;  indeed,  there  exists  a  universally  loved  and 
efficient  art  which  has  no  other  object  than  to 
express  forms  of  emotions.  This  art  is  music; 
hence,  in  so  far  as  rural  painting  or  poetry  pro¬ 
duces  a  musical  effect,  it  represents  emotions, 
consequently  imitates  human  nature.  Indeed,  we 
look  upon  every  painting  or  poem  as  a  sort  of 
musical  composition,  and  subject  them  in  part  to 
the  same  laws.  In  the  distribution  of  hues  we 
expect  to  find  harmony,  tone,  and  even  modula¬ 
tion.  In  every  poem  we  distinguish  unity  of 
thought  from  unity  of  emotion,  the  musical  ex¬ 
pression  from  the  logical  arrangement ;  in  short, 
we  claim  that  in  every  poem,  besides  the  ideas 
which  it  embodies,  the  form  should  imitate  and 
express  emotions,  and  should  affect  us  like  music. 
Of  the  painter  and  poet  of  rural  scenes  we  de¬ 
mand  this  iu  a  much  higher  degree,  and  with  a 
clearer  consciousness  of  a  right,  since  we  have  to 
favor  both  by  abating  a  little  of  the  claims  which 
we  generally  entertain  of  productions  of  the  fine 
arts. 

The  effect  of  music  (considered  as  a  beautiful, 
not  merely  as  an  agreeable  art)  consists  in  ac¬ 
companying  and  symbolizing  the  internal  move¬ 
ments  of  the  mind  by  analogous  external  move¬ 
ments.  Inasmuch  as  those  internal  movements 
(being  the  movements  of  human  nature),  take 


place  in  accordance  with  the  rigid  laws  of  an 
essential  necessity,  this  necessity  and  definiteness 
are  transmitted  to  the  external  movements  by 
means  of  which  those  of  the  inner  nature  are  ex¬ 
pressed  ;  and  thus  it  is  that  we  are  enabled  to 
comprehend  how  the  ordinary  phenomena  of 
sound  and  light  may  be  made  to  participate,  as 
symbolic  signs,  of  the  aesthetic  dignity  of  human 
nature.  By  penetrating  into  the  mystery  of  the 
laws  which  govern  the  movements  of  the  inner 
heart,  and  by  studying  the  analogy  existing  be¬ 
tween  these  emotions  and  certain  external  phe¬ 
nomena,  the  composer  and  the  landscape  painter, 
from  being  mere  delineators  of  ordinary  nature, 
become  true  painters  of  the  soul.  From  the 
sphere  of  irregularity  and  chance  they  ascend  to 
the  sphere  of  essential  principles,  where  they  may 
range  themselves  in  perfect  confidence,  if  not  on 
a  level  with  the  plastic  artist  who  makes  the  outer 
man  his  chief  subject,  but  side  by  side  with  the 
poet  whose  chief  subject  is  man’s  inner  nature. 

Rural  nature  may  likewise  be  drawn  within 
the  range  of  human  nature,  by  being  made  to 
represent  ideas.  We  do  not  mean  ideas  which 
are  awakened  in  the  mind  by  the  accident  of  asso¬ 
ciation,  for  this  operation  is  dependent  upon 
chance,  and  unworthy  of  art  we  allude  to  an 
awakening  of  ideas  which  is  the  necessary  result 
of  the  operations  of  a  symbolizing  imagination. 
In  active  minds  which  have,  become  conscious  of 
their  moral  dignity,  reason  never  looks  idly  upon 
the  play  of  the  imagination,  but  is  unceasingly 
endeavoring  to  harmonize  this  accidental  play 
with  her  own  course  of  proceedings.  If  there  is 
one  among  these  phenomena  that  can  be  treated 
in  accordance  with  her  own  practical  rules,  this 
phenomenon  appears  to  her  a  symbol  of  her  own 
operations;  the  dead  letter  of  nature  is  trans¬ 
formed  into  the  language  of  living  mind,  and  the 
eyes  of  mind  and  body  read  the  same  phenomenal 
signs  each  in  its  own  way.  The  lovely  harmony 
of  forms,  of  sounds,  and  light  which  ravishes  the 
aesthetic  sense,  now  likewise  qualifies  the  moral 
sense;  the  regular  and  continuous  mode  in 
which  the  lines  are  joined  in  space,  and  the 
sounds  in  time,  is  a  natural  symbol  of  the  mind’s 
accord  with  itself,  and  of  the  moral  connection 
of  actions  and  sentiments,  and  the  beautiful  tone 
of  a  painting  or  musical  composition  reveals  the 
still  more  beautiful  nature  of  a  morally-attuned 
soul. 

The  composer  and  landscape-painter  effect  this 
result  by  the  form  of  their  composition  and  simply 
dispose  the  mind  for  certain  emotions  and  ideas; 
but  they  leave  it  to  the  imagination  of  the  hearer 
and  beholder  to  supply  a  substantive  nature  for 
these  forms.  The  poet,  on  the  contrary,  enjoys 
an  additional  advantage,  which  is,  to  furnish  a 
text  for  these  emotions,  to  support  the  symbolic 
forms  of  the  imagination  by  adequately  interpret¬ 
ing  and  defining  their  meaning.  But  let  him  not 
forget  that  his  interference  in  this  matter  should 
have  its  limits.  He  may  indicate  the  ideas  and 
point  to  the  emotions,  but  he  must  not  present 
them  fully  expressed  ;  he  must  not  forestall  the 
reader’s  imagination.  Here  every  detailed  defi¬ 
nition  affects  the  mind  as  a  troublesome  barrier ; 
what  constitutes  the  peculiar  charm  of  such 


608 


MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS 


aesthetic  ideas  is  the  unfathomable  depth  which 
seems  to  characterize  their  meaning.  The  real 
and  expressed  meaning’  which  the  poet  affixes  to 
his  symbols,  operates  as  a  finite,  and  the  possible 
meaning  which  he  permits  us  to  attach  to  them, 
as  an  infinite  quantity. 

We  have  not  chosen  this  long  road  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  receding  from,  but  approaching  to  our 
poet.  The  three  requisites  of  rural  compositions 
which  we  have  just  named,  are  combined  by  Mr. 
M.  in  most  of  his  delineations.  They  please  us  by 
their  truthfulness  and  vividness  of  fancy;  they 
attract  us  by  their  musical  beauty;  they  occupy 
us  by  the  spirit  which  breathes  through  them. 

Simply  regarding  the  faithful  manner  in  which 
nature  is  imitated  in  his  landscapes,  we  cannot 
help  admiring  the  art  with  which  he  manages  to 
invite  our  imagination  to  co-operate  in  the  de¬ 
scription  of  natural  scenery  ;  he  directs  her  power 
without  interfering  with  her  freedom.  The  single 
parts  of  his  landscape-poems  seem  to  be  joined  in 
accordance  with  a  principle  of  essential  oneness  ; 
nothing  is  added  without  a  motive,  and  the  gene¬ 
ral  character  of  these  scenes  of  nature  is  con¬ 
ceived  in  the  happiest  manner.  For  this  reason 
our  imagination  finds  it  so  easy  to  follow  him  : 
we  fancy  we  are  beholding  nature  herself,  and  the 
impression  which  is  left  upon  our  minds,  is  like' 
the  recollection  of  scenes  that  we  had  witnessed 
in  the  past.  He  is  perfectly  conversant  with  the 
means  of  imparting  to  his  descriptions  life  and 
evidence ;  he  is  acquainted  with  the  advantages 
as  well  as  with  the  natural  limits  of  his  art.  In 
compositions  of  this  kind  the  poet  always  labors 
under  certain  disadvantages  toward  the  painter, 
because  a  considerable  portion  of  the  effect  de¬ 
pends  upon  the  simultaneous  impression  of  the 
whole  which  the  poet  is  compelled  to  present  to 
the  reader’s  imagination  as  a  successive  series  of 
parts.  His  business  is  not  only  to  exhibit  to  us 
that  which  is,  but  that  which  happens  ;  and  if  he 
understands  his  own  interest,  he  will  always 
manage,  to  select  for  his  compositions  such  por¬ 
tions  of  his  great  domain  as  admit  of  a  coherent 
and  logical  representation.  Rural  nature  being  a 
simultaneous  whole  of  phenomena,  it  is  more 
favorable  to  the  painter  on  this  account ;  but  being 
at  the  same  time  a  successive  whole  which  is  sub¬ 
ject  to  continual  changes,  it  is  on  this  account 
more  favorable  to  the  poet.  Mr.  M.  has  improved 
this  difference  in  his  compositions  with  *a  great 
deal  of  good  judgment.  His  object  is  to  present 
variety  in  time  rather  than  in  space,  to  exhibit 
nature  in  motion  rather  than  in  a  state  of  rest 
and  permanence.  An  ever-changing  evolution  of 
scenery  is  presented  to  our  eyes,  and  the  various 
features  of  his  landscapes  coalesce  into  an  unin¬ 
terrupted  and  enchanting  harmony.  What  ani¬ 
mation,  what  a  richness  of  motion  greet  us,  for 
instance,  in  the  lovely  moonshine  scene,  page  85: 

“  Der  Yollmond  schwebt  im  Osten, 

Am  alten  Geisterthurm 

Flimmt  blaulich  im  bemoosten 
Gestein  der  Feuerwurm. 

Der  Linde  schoner  Sylfe 
Streil't  schbn  in  Lunens  Glanz; 

Im  dunkeln  Uferschilfe 

Webt  leichter  Irrwischtanz. 


“  Die  Kirchenfenster  schimmem ;  * 

Im  Silber  wallt  das  Korn  ; 

Bewegte  Sternchen  Himmern 
Auf  Teich  und  Wiesenborn  ; 

Im  Lichte  wehn  die  Ranken 
Der  dden  Felsenkluft ; 

Den  Berg,  wo  Tannen  wanken 
Umschleiert  weiszer  Du  ft. 

“  Wie  schbn  der  Mond  die  Wellen 
Des  Erlenbachs  besaumt, 

Der  hier  durch  Binsenstellen, 

Dort  unter  Blumen  schaumt, 

Als  lodernde  Cascade 
Des  Dorfes  Miihle  treibt, 

Und  wild  vom  lauten  Rade 
In  Silberfunken  staubt,”  &c.  * 

Even  where  the  poet  designs  to  place  a  whons 
landscape  at  one  view  before  us,  he  renders  a 
comprehension  of  his  description  easy  and  natural 
by  the  continuousness  of  the  single  features  of  the 
tableau,  as  in  the  following,  page  54 : 

Die  Sonne  sinkt ;  ein  purpurfarbner  Duft 
Schwimmt  urn  Savoyens  dunkle  Tannenhtigel, 
Der  Alpen  Schnee  entgliiht  in  holier  Luft, 
Geneva  malt  sich  in  der  Fluten  Spiegel. ”f 

Although  these  scenes  are  presented  to  the 
imagination  in  successive  order,  yet  we  combine 
them  without  any  difficulty  in  one  idea,  because 
one  supports  the  other  and  all  seem  necessary  to 
each  other.  We  find  it  a  little  more  difficult  to 
execute  this  combination  in  the  next  stanza, 
where  this  continuous  connection  is  lesn  striking : 

*'*  We  subjoin  a  literal  translation  of  these  verses, 
which  we  have  found  it  impossible  to  r-ader  in  English 
verse  without  completely  altering  the  text,  rtnd  defeating 
the  object  of  the  reviewer. 

“The  fnll  moon  is  hovering  in  the  east, 

Around  the  old  ghost-tower; 

The  bluish  fire-fly  is  seen  glimmering 
Amid  the  moss-grown  walls. 

The  linden-tree's  beautiful  sylph 
Is  shyly  roving  in  Luna’s  light; 

In  the  dark  reed -grass  on  the  river- bank 
Evauescent  ignes  fatui  are  flickering. 

“We  see  the  church-windows  gleaming; 

The  silvery  corn-field  waving; 

Little  stars  twinkling  as  if  moving 
On  pools  and  meadow-springs. 

In  the  desert  ravine 

Creepers  are  agitated  in  the  moonlight, 

The  mountain  wreathed  with  firs 
Is  vailed  by  a  white  mist. 

“How  beautifully  the  moon’s  rays 

Are  reflected  by  the  stream  bordered  by  alders, 

Which  is  here  foaming  amid  rushes, 

And  yonder  amid  beds  of  flowers, 

Which,  as  a  sparkling  cascade, 

Propels  the  mill  of  the  village, 

And  noisily  rushing  over  the  wheel, 

Is  scattered  about  like  silvery  dust,”  &c. 

f  “The  sun  is  setting;  a  purple  vapor 

Is  floating  around  Savoy’s  dark  and  fir-wreathed  hills, 
The  snow  of  the  Alps  sparkles  as  from  fire  high  up  in 
the  air, 

Geneva  is  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  waves.” 


CRITICAL. 


609 


MIn  Gold  verflieszt  der  Berggeholze  Saum  ; 

Die  Wiesenflur,  besclineit  von  Bllitenflocken, 
Haucht  Wohlger'uche;  Zephyr  athmet  kaum  ; 

Yom  Jura  schallt  der  Klang  der  Heerden- 
glocken.* 

From  the  gilded  border  of  the  mountains  we 
cannot  get  to  the  blooming  and  fragrant  meadow 
without  leaping.  This  leap  requires  an  additional 
effort,  inasmuch  as  another  sense  is  called  into 
action  by  it.  But  now  again  what  a  beautiful 
consistency  is  embodied  in  the  following  stanza  : 

“  Der  Fischer  singt  im  Kahne,  der  gemach 

Im  rothen  Widerschein  zum  Ufer  gleitet, 

Wo  der  bemoosten  Eiche  Schattendach 

Die  netzumhangne  W ohnung  iiberbreitet.”f 

Tf  the  movements  of  nature  are  insufficient,  the 
poet  borrows  motion  from  his  own  imagination,  peo¬ 
pling  the  quiet  scenes  with  spirit-forms  that  are 
flitting  about  in  the  mist,  and  gamboling  in  the 
moonshine.  Or  memory  conjures  up  the  forms 
of  the  hoary  past,  mingling  artificial  life  with  the 
silence  of  the  scene.  Associations  of  this  charac¬ 
ter  are  not  the  offspring  of  a  lawless  fancy;  they 
are  suggested  by  the  local  character  of  the  land¬ 
scape  or  by  the  peculiar  emotions  which  the  land¬ 
scape  excites  in  his  heart.  It  is  true,  they  are 
the  property  of  his  subjective  intellect,  but  they 
are  conceived  in  such  a  universal  spirit  that  the 
poet  need  not  hesitate  to  invest  them  with  objec¬ 
tive  reality. 

Mr.  M.  is  no  less  successful  in  producing  the 
musical  effects  which  arise  from  a  happy  selection 
of  harmonious  images,  and  from  the  skillful  and 
melodious  arrangement  of  his  rhymes.  Who,  in 
reading  the  following  short  song,  does  not  expe¬ 
rience  an  impression  similar  to  that  which  a  beau¬ 
tiful  sonata  might  make  upon  him,  page  91  ? 

ABENDLANDSCIIAFT. 

Goldner.Schein 

Deckt  den  Hain  ; 

Mild  beleuchtet  Zauberschimmer 
Der  umblischten  Waldburg  Triimmer. 

Still  und  hehr 

Strahlt  das  Meer ; 

Heimwarts  gleiten,  sanft  wie  Schwane 
Fern  am  Eiland  Fischerkahne.  • 

Silbersand 

Blinkt  am  Strand ; 

Rother  schweben  hier,  dort  blasser, 
Wolkenbilder  im  Gewasser. 

*  “The  border  of  the  mountain-woods  disappears  in  the 
golden  twilight; 

The  meadow  white  with  budding  flowers, 

Exhales  fragrance;  the  zephyrs  are  scarcely  stirring; 

From  the  Jura  the  belis  of  the  herds  are  heard  re¬ 
sounding.” 

■}•  “The  fisherman  is  singing  in  his  boat  which  is  slowly 

Gliding  toward  the  bank  amid  the  purple  hues  of  the 
twilight, 

Where  the  shady  branches  of  the  moss-grown  oak 

Are  spread  over  the  cottage  from  which  a  net  is  sus¬ 
pended.” 

Vol.  II.— 39 


Bauschend  kranzt, 

Goldbeglanzt, 

Wankend  Ried  des  Vorland’s  Hiigel, 

Wild  umschwarmt  vom  Seegefliigel. 

Malerisch 
Im  Gebiisch 

Winkt  mit  Gartchen,  Laub  und  Quelle 
Die  bemooste  Klausnerzelle. 

Auf  der  Flut 
Stirbt  die  Glut , 

Schon  erblasst  der  Abendschimmer 
An  der  hohen  Waldburg  Triimmer. 

Vollmondschein 
Deckt  den  Hain ; 

Geisterlispel  wehn  im  Thale 

Uni  versuukne  Heldenmale.* 

We  do  not  mean  to  convey  the  idea  as  though 
it  were  the  happy  versification  that  imparts  such 
a  musical  character  to  this  song.  It  is  true  the 
effect  is  heightened  but  not  produced  by  the  eu¬ 
phonious  metre.  It  is  the  happy  combination 
of  images,  the  sweet  order  with  which  they  are 
successively  presented ;  it  is  the  modulation  and 
the  beautiful  tone  pervading  the  whole  composi¬ 
tion  which  makes  it  the  expression  of  a  definite 
class  of  emotions,  and  imparts  to  it  the  character 
of  a  soul-picture. 

A  similar  impression,  although  of  an  entirely 
different  quality,  is  awakened  by  the  “  Alpen- 
wanderer,”  p.  61,  and  by  the  “  Alpenreise,  p.  66, 
two  compositions  in  which  the  most  perfect  exhi¬ 
bition  of  nature  is  united  to  the  most  varied  ex¬ 
pression  of  emotions.  It  seems  as  though  we 

*  EVENING  LANDSCAPE. 

A  golden  shine 
Covers  the  grove  ; 

The  ruins  of  the  castle  in  the  midst  of  a  bushy  forest 
Are  illumined  by  a  mild  and  enchanting  twilight. 

Silently  and  sublimely 
The  sea  is  gleaming; 

Homeward  glide,  like  swans, 

The  fisher  boats  near  the  distant  island. 

A  silvery  sand 
Sparkles  on  the  shore; 

Cloudy  images  are  floating  in  the  water, 

With  purple  hues  here,  or  paler  yonder. 

Waving  reed 
Rustling  wreathes 

The  gold-crowned  hill  on  yonder  jutting  point  of  land, 
Round  which  sea-birds  wildly  swarm. 

Picturesque, 

In  the  grove, 

Is  beckoning  to  us  with  its  garden,  foliage,  and  spring, 
The  moss-grown  cell  of  the  eremite. 

On  the  water 
The  light  is  dying; 

By  the  ruins  of  the  forest-castle 
The  twilight  is  already  growing  paler. 

The  moonshine 
Is  spread  over  the  grove ; 
Spirit-voices  are  flitting  in  the  dale 
Round  the  decaying  monuments  of  heroes. 


610 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


heard  a  performer  who  is  endeavoring1  to  find  out 
what  power  he  possesses  over  our  feelings ;  for 
such  a  purpose  a  journey  through  the  Alps,  where 
the  great  and  the  beautiful,  the  awful,  and  the 
lovely  succeed  each  other  in  so  surprising  a  man¬ 
ner,  is  an  exceedingly  happy  selection. 

Some  of  these  landscape  pictures  touch  us  by 
the  spirit  or  the  ideas  which  they  embody  ;  the 
very  first,  for  instance,  entitled  “  Genfersee,”  in 
whose  magnificent  beginning  the  triumph  of  life 
over  inanimate  matter,  of  the  form  over  shapeless 
masses,  is  very  happily  presented  to  the  mind  in  a 
series  of  striking  and  beautiful  images.  The  poet 
opens  the  composition  with  a  glance  at  the  past, 
when  the  paradise  which  is  now  stretching  out  be¬ 
fore  him,  was  still  a  wilderness  : 

Da  walzte,  wo  im  Abendlichte  dort, 

Geneva,  deine  Zinnen  sich  erheben, 

Der  Rhodan  seine  Wogen  traurend  fort, 

Yon  schauervoller  Haiue  Nacht  umgeben. 

Da  horte  deine  Paradieses-Flur, 

Du  stilles  Thai  voll  blUhender  Gehege, 

Die  groszen  Harmonien  der  Wildniss  nur, 

Orkan  und  Thiergeheul  und  Donnerschlage. 

Als  senkte  sich  sein  zweifelhafter  Schein 
Auf  eines  Weltballs  ausgebrannte  Triimmer, 

So  goss  der  Mond  auf  diese  Wiistenein 
Toll  timber  Nebeldammrung  seine  Schimmer.* 

And  now  the  magnificent  landscape  discloses 
itself  to  his  view,  and  he  recognizes  the  locality 
of  those  picturesque  scenes  which  remind  him  of 
the  author  of  Heloise. 

0,  Clarens,  friedlieh  am  Gestad  erhoht ! 

Dein  Name  wird  im  Buch  der  Zeiten  leben. 

0,  Meillerie,  voll  rauher  Majestat ! 

Dein  Ruhm  wird  zu  den  Sternen  sich  erheben. 

Zu  deinen  Gipfeln,  wo  der  Adler  schwebt, 

Und  aus  Gewolk  erziirnte  Strome  fallen, 

Wird  oft,  von  siiszeu  Schauern  tief  durchbebt, 

An  der  Geliebten  Arm  der  Fremdling  wallen.f 

*  There,  where  yonder  in  the  evening-dusk, 

0  Geneva,  thy  spires  are  seen  rising, 

The  Rhodanus  rolled  its  waves  mournfully  onward, 
Wrapt  in  the  awful  night  of  the  forests. 

Then  thy  paradisiacal  region, 

Thou  silent  valley,  tilled  with  blooming  inclosures, 

Heard  nothing  but  the  great  harmonies  of  the  wilderness, 
Hurricanes,  the  howlings  of  beasts,  and  claps  of  thunder. 

As  though  some  dubious  light 

Had  descended  to  the  extinguished  ruins  of  a  universe, 
Thus  the  moon  poured  forth  her  pale  rays 
Upon  these  wildernesses  over  which  the  dim  gloom  of 
fogs  was  spread. 

t  0  Clarence,  peacefully  extended  on  the  high  bank  ! 

Thy  name  will  live  in  the  book  of  ages. 

0  Meillerie,  encircled  with  a  rude  majesty ! 

Thy  glory  will  reach  the  stars. 

To  thy  summits,  where  the  eagle  is  hovering, 

And  where  wild  torrents  rush  from  the  clouds, 

The  stranger  quivering  through  and  through  with  a  sweet 
shudder, 

Will  frequently  wander,  his  loved  one  leaning  upon  his 
arm. 


So  far  how  brilliantly  intellectual,  how  full  of 
feeling,  how  picturesque !  But  now  the  poet 
seems  anxious  to  do  better,  and  he  spoils  his 
work.  The  subsequent  stanzas,  which  are  very 
beautiful  in  themselves,  proceed  from  the  cold 
intellect,  not  from  the  abundance  of  a  sentiment 
wholly  given  up  to  its  subject.  If  the  poet’s  heart 
belongs  wholly  to  the  subject,  he  cannot  possibly 
tear  himself  away  from  it  in  order  to  transport 
himself  at  one  time  upon  the  Etna,  then  to  the 
Tibur,  then  to  the  Gulf  of  Naples,  and  so  forth, 
and  to  dwell  upon  these  scenes  instead  of  simply 
mentioning  them  in  a  passing  manner.  We  ad¬ 
mire  indeed  the  magnificence  of  his  pencil,  but  it 
dazzles  us  instead  of  quickening  the  heart,  a 
simple  description  would  have  produced  a  more 
powerful  effect.  So  many  changes  of  scenery 
finally  scatter  the  attention  to  such  an  extent  that 
our  interest  in  the  main  subject,  even  if  the  poet 
returns  to  it,  is  lost.  Instead  of  re-awakening  it, 
he  weakens  it  still  more  by  a  considerable  descent 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  poem,  which  contrasts 
very  strikingly  with  the  soaring  flight  with  which 
he  commenced  the  poem,  and  which  he  sustained 
for  a  long  time.  This  is  the  third  time  that  Mr. 
M.  has  altered  this  poem  ;  but  we  fear  that  a 
fourth  '  alteration  has  been  rendered  so  much 
more  necessary  thereby.  The  various  emotions 
which  have  influenced  him  in  these  changes,  seem 
to  have  done  violence  to  the  spirit  which  origi¬ 
nally  dictated  it ;  by  endowing  it  too  profusely, 
it  has  lost  much  of  its  true  value  which  consists 
in  simplicity. 

In  representing  Mr.  M.  as  an  excellent  painter 
of  rural  scenes,  we  are  far  from  assigning  this 
sphere  to  him  as  the  boundaries  of  his  genius. 
Even  in  this  small  collection  his  poetical  talent 
shows  itself  with  equal  success  in  other  depart¬ 
ments  of  his  art.  He  has  made  successful  at¬ 
tempts  in  fictions  of  the  imagination,  and  has 
correctly  apprehended  the  spirit  that  should  per¬ 
vade  such  poems.  The  imagination  seems  totally 
unfettered,  and  yet  it  is  in  the  most  beautiful  ac¬ 
cord  w7ith  the  idea  that  is  to  be  expressed.  In  the 
song  entitled  “  Feenland”  (Fairyland),  the  poet 
derides  the  fantastic  revels  of  the  imagination 
with  a  great  deal  of  humor ;  this  composition  is 
as  checkered,  as  glittering  and  surcharged,  as 
grotesque  as  the  character  of  this  wild  genre  re¬ 
quires  ;  the  song  of  the  Elfs  seems  as  light,  as 
airy,  and  ethereal  as  all  the  forms  in  this  little 
moonshine-world  should  be.  A  blissful  and  un- 
solicitous  sensuality  breathes  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  neat  little  song  of  the  Faunes,  and 
with  a  great  deal  of  good-natured  frankness  the 
Gnomes  divulge  their  own  and  their  consorts’ 
secret ;  page  141. 

Des  Tagschein’s  Blendung  driickt, 

Nur  Finsterniss  begllickt ! 

Drum  hausen  wir  so  gern 
Tief  in  des  Erdball’s  Kern. 

Dort  oben,  wo  der  iEther  flaramt, 

Ward  alles  was  von  Adam  stammt, 

Zu  Licht  und  Glut  mit  Recht  verdammt.* 

*  The  dazzling  day  is  oppressive  to  us. 

Only  darkness  makes  happy  1 


CRITICAL. 


611 


Mr.  M.  is  a  happy  painter  of  emotions,  not 
only  by  the  manner  in  which  he  treats  rural 
scenery,  but  by  the  descriptions  he  has  furnished 
of  the  emotions  themselves.  It  might  be  expected 
that  a  poet  who  understands  so  well  how  to  enlist 
our  sympathy  for  inanimate  nature,  must  feel  at 
home  in  the  world  of  intelligence  which  offers  a 
much  richer  field.  We  may  even  define  before¬ 
hand  the  range  of  sentiment  where  a  muse  inspired 
with  the  beauties  of  nature,  will*  love  to  dwell. 
Not  in  the  tumult  of  the  great  world,  not  in  arti¬ 
ficial  relations, — in  the  solitude,  in  his  own  breast, 
in  the  simple  situations  of  a  primitive  state,  our 
poet  seeks  the  traces  of  a  genuine  humanity. 
Friendship,  love,  religious  sentiments,  recollec¬ 
tions  of  childhood,  the  happiness  of  rural  life,  con¬ 
stitute  the  staple  of  his  songs ;  all  of  them  sub¬ 
jects  which  are  in  close  relation  and  affinity  with 
rural  nature.  The  character  of  his  muse  is  a 
gentle  melancholy,  and  a  certain  contemplative 
enthusiasm,  to  which  solitude  and  a  beautiful  na¬ 
ture  are  so  apt  to  incline  a  sensitive  soul.  In  the 
tumult  of  a  busy  world,  one  image  of  the  fancy 
crowds  upon  the  other,  and  we  do  not  always  de¬ 
rive  advantage  from  a  variety  of  tastes  and  apti¬ 
tudes;  so  much  more  faithfully  the  emotions  are 
preserved  which  we  confide  to  the  bosom  of  simple 
and  unvarying  nature,  whose  imperishable  and 
harmonious  unity  never  fails  to  lead  us  to  unity 
and  peace.  Hence,  the  narrow  circle  in  which  our 
poet  revolves,  the  long  echo  of  his  impressions,  the 
frequent  recurrence  of  the  same  emotions.  Feel¬ 
ings  which  emanate  from  nature  as  their  source, 
are  monotonous  and  almost  contracted  ;  they  are 
the  elements  out  of  which  more  delicate  shades 
and  artistic  combinations  are  formed  in  the  com¬ 
plicated  play  of  the  world  ;  it  is  these  that  consti¬ 
tute  an  inexhaustible  subject  for  the  painter  of 
the  soul.  We  get  tired  of  the  former,  because 
they  occupy  us  too  little  ;  but  we  like  to  return  to 
them,  and  we  are  rejoiced  to  see  the  genuine  hu¬ 
manity  disembarrassed  from  those  artificial  man¬ 
ners  which  frequently  are  mere  degenerations. 
But,  if  this  return  to  the  Saturnine  age,  and  to 
the  simplicity  of  nature,  is  to  be  truly  serviceable 
to  the  cultivated  man,  this  simplicity  must  be  pre¬ 
sented  like  the  work  of  our  own  choice,  not  of 
a  necessity  of  our  being;  it  must  be  the  nature 
with  which  the  morally-developed  man  ends,  not 
with  which  the  physical  man  commences.  Hence, 

Therefore  we  love  to  dwell 

Deep  near  the  globe’s  centre. 

High  above  us,  where  the  ether  is  in  flames, 

Adam’s  descendants  all 

Have  been  justly  doomed  to  light  and  heat. 


if  the  poet  wants  to  lead  us  out  of  the  tumult  of 
the  world  into  his  solitude,  it  must  not  be  the  want 
of  relaxation,  but  the  desire  for  action,  not  a  long¬ 
ing  for  rest,  but  for  harmony  that  disgusts  him 
with  art,  and  makes  nature  appear  lovely  to  him  ; 
it  must  not  be,  because  the  moral  world  is  opposed 
to  his  theories,  but  to  his  practical  capacities, 
that  he  desires  to  cast  a  longing  glance  at  Tibur, 
and  to  retreat  to  the  bosom  of  inanimate  nature. 

This  requires  something  more  than  the  limited 
skill  of  contrasting  nature  with  art,  in  which  the 
whole  talent  of  the  idylist  frequently  consists.  It 
is  only  a  heart  familiar  with  the  highest  beauty 
that  can  preserve  the  simplicity  of  sentiment  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  influences  of  a  refined  culture, 
without  which  this  simplicity  has  no  dignity.  Such 
a  heart  betrays  itself  by  a  fullness  hidden  under 
the  garb  of  the  most  perfect  modesty  ;  by  a  noble¬ 
ness  which  is  impressed  even  upon  the  playfulness 
of  a  capricious  fancy ;  by  a  discipline  which  checks 
even  the  enthusiasm  of  the  most  glorious  triumph  ; 
and  by  a  never-desecrated  chastity  of  feeling  ;  it 
betrays  itself  by  the  irresistible  and  truly  magic 
power  with  which  it  attracts  and  holds  us,  and 
obliges  us,  as  it  were,  to  be  mindful  of  our  dignity 
while  we  are  doing  homage  to  its  own. 

Mr.  M.  has  evidenced  his  claim  to  this  title 
in  a  manner  that  must  prove  satisfactory  to  the 
severest  judge.  He  who  knows  how  to  com¬ 
pose  a  fancy-painting  like  his  “  Elysium,”  (p.  34), 
is  initiated  into  the  innermost  mysteries  of  poesy, 
and  has  shown  himself  the  disciple  of  true  beauty. 
Intimate  intercourse  with  nature  and  with  classic 
models,  has  nourished  his  mind,  purified  his  taste, 
preserved  his  moral  loveliness  and  beauty  ;  a  genu¬ 
ine  and  cheerful  humanity  animates  his  poems, 
and  pure  as  they  are  seen  in  the  mirror  of  the 
limpid  wave,  his  beautiful  tableaux  are  depicted 
in  the  quiet  brightness  of  his  mind.  Throughout 
his  works  we  observe  choice,  chastity,  severity 
toward  himself,  an  indefatigable  endeavor  to  reach 
the  acme  of  beauty.  He  has  accomplished  much, 
and  we  may  hope  that  he  has  not  yet  attained  his 
limits.  Having  tried  his  wings  in  a  rather  humble 
sphere,  it  now  devolves  upon  him  to  take  a  higher 
flight,  to  ingraft  a  deeper  meaning  upon  the  lovely 
forms  of  his  imagination,  and  the  music  of  his  Ian- 
guage,to  people  his  landscapes  with  living  figures, 
and  to  exhibit  an  active  humanity  upon  such  a 
ground.  A  modest  distrust  in  one’s  self,  is  always 
the  sign  of  true  talent,  but  courage  likewise  befits 
it  well ;  and  however  beautiful  it  may  seem  to  see 
the  conqueror  of  Python  exchange  the  terrible 
bow  for  the  lyre,  as  exalted  a  spectacle  is  afforded 
us,  if  the  greatness  of  a  hero  suddenly  flashes  from 
Achilles  among  a  group  of  Thessalian  maidens. 


THE  END 


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